The History of Don Quixote, Vol. I, Complete - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
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"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.
CHAPTER XIV.
WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR
THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM
Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed,
The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance.
And as I strive to body forth the tale
Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,
Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.
Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,
But to a discord wrung by mad despair
Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness,
To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.
The lion's roar, the fierce wolf's savage howl,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,
The crow's ill-boding croak, the hollow moan
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,
The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,
The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,
The envied owl's sad note, the wail of woe
That rises from the dreary choir of Hell,
Commingled in one sound, confusing sense,
Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,
For pain like mine demands new modes of song.
No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks
Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,
And by a lifeless tongue in living words;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.
For, though it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world.
Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;
And deadly is the force of jealousy;
Long absence makes of life a dreary void;
No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot;
And death, inevitable, waits in hall.
But I, by some strange miracle, live on
A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain;
Racked by suspicion as by certainty;
Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom;
Nor do I look for it in my despair;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe,
All hope do I abjure for evermore.
Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well,
When far more certain are the grounds of fear?
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears?
Who would not give free access to distrust,
Seeing disdain unveiled, and--bitter change!--
All his suspicions turned to certainties,
And the fair truth transformed into a lie?
Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,
Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands,
And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.
But, woe is me! triumphant over all,
My sufferings drown the memory of you.
And now I die, and since there is no hope
Of happiness for me in life or death,
Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.
I'll say that he is wise who loveth well,
And that the soul most free is that most bound
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.
I'll say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind,
And that her coldness is but my desert,
And that by virtue of the pain he sends
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.
Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain,
I'll give this soul and body to the winds,
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.
Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,
As by this wounded bosom thou canst see
How willingly thy victim I become,
Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;
I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey;
But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival.
Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know
Thy glory gains by my untimely end.
And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss
Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus
Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus
With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,
And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;
And all into this breast transfer their pains,
And (if such tribute to despair be due)
Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate,
And all the monstrous progeny of hell,
The doleful concert join: a lover dead
Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.
Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone
Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.
The "Lay of Chrysostom" met with the approbation of the listeners, though
the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had heard of
Marcela's reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom complained in it of
jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the good name
and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who knew well his
friend's most secret thoughts, "Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell
you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela,
from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to try if absence would
act with him as it is wont; and as everything distresses and every fear
haunts the banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions,
dreaded as if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of
what report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with
her envy itself should not and cannot find any fault save that of being
cruel, somewhat haughty, and very scornful."
"That is true," said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another paper
of those he had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a marvellous
vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented itself to their
eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were digging the grave
there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty
exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed
upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed to see her
were not less amazed than those who had never seen her before. But the
instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest indignation:
"Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see if
in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched being
thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel work of
thy humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless Nero to look
down from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in embers; or in thy
arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the ungrateful daughter
trampled on her father Tarquin's? Tell us quickly for what thou art come,
or what it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the thoughts of
Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in life, I will make all these who
call themselves his friends obey thee, though he be dead."
"I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named," replied
Marcela, "but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all
those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom's death; and
therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for
will not take much time or many words to bring the truth home to persons
of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so that
in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and for the love
you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you. By that
natural understanding which God has given me I know that everything
beautiful attracts love, but I cannot see how, by reason of being loved,
that which is loved for its beauty is bound to love that which loves it;
besides, it may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be
ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, "I love
thee because thou art beautiful, thou must love me though I be ugly." But
supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the
inclinations must be therefore alike, for it is not every beauty that
excites love, some but pleasing the eye without winning the affection;
and if every sort of beauty excited love and won the heart, the will
would wander vaguely to and fro unable to make choice of any; for as
there is an infinity of beautiful objects there must be an infinity of
inclinations, and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and
must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to
be, why do you desire me to bend my will by force, for no other reason
but that you say you love me? Nay--tell me--had Heaven made me ugly, as it
has made me beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not
loving me? Moreover, you must remember that the beauty I possess was no
choice of mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me
without my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with
it, does not deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a
gift of nature, neither do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for
beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; the
one does not burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come too
near. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the
body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty
is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and
body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part with it to gratify
one who for his pleasure alone strives with all his might and energy to
rob her of it? I was born free, and that I might live in freedom I chose
the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the mountains I find society,
the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and
waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword
laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me,
I have by words undeceived, and if their longings live on hope--and I
have given none to Chrysostom or to any other--it cannot justly be said
that the death of any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy
than my cruelty that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me
that his wishes were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield
to them, I answer that when on this very spot where now his grave is made
he declared to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live
in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits
of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open
avowal, he chose to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what
wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I
had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I should
have acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was
persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated. Bethink
you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my
charge. Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way to
despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself
whom I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but let not him
call me cruel or homicide to whom I make no promise, upon whom I practise
no deception, whom I neither entice nor receive. It has not been so far
the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to expect me to love
by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my
suitors on his own account, and let it be understood from this time forth
that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for
she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any, and candour
is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and
basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious and evil; let him who calls
me ungrateful, withhold his service; who calls me wayward, seek not my
acquaintance; who calls me cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast,
this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of
desire to seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom's impatience
and violent passion killed him, why should my modest behaviour and
circumspection be blamed? If I preserve my purity in the society of the
trees, why should he who would have me preserve it among men, seek to rob
me of it? I have, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of
others; my taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I
neither love nor hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or
trifle with one or play with another. The modest converse of the shepherd
girls of these hamlets and the care of my goats are my recreations; my
desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they ever wander hence it
is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which the soul
travels to its primeval abode."
With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and passed
into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all who were
there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as of her beauty.
Some--those wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her bright
eyes--made as though they would follow her, heedless of the frank
declaration they had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting
occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels,
Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a
loud and distinct voice:
"Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the beautiful
Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation. She has shown by
clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no fault is to be found
with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also how far she is from
yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which reason, instead of
being followed and persecuted, she should in justice be honoured and
esteemed by all the good people of the world, for she shows that she is
the only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous resolution."