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堂吉诃德|Don Quixote

Part 1 第13章|Part 1 Chapter 13

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 塞万提斯] 阅读：[44429]
《堂吉诃德》是一部幽默诙谐、滑稽可笑、充满了奇思妙想的长篇文学巨著。此书主要描写了一个有趣、可敬、可悲、喜欢自欺欺人的没落贵族堂吉诃德，他痴狂地迷恋古代骑士小说，以至于放弃家业，用破甲驽马装扮成古代骑士的样子，再雇佣农民桑乔作侍从，三次出征周游全国，去创建所谓的扶弱锄强的骑士业绩。他们在征险的生涯中闹出了许多笑话，到处碰壁受辱，堂吉诃德多次被打成重伤，有一次还被当成疯子关在笼子里遣送回乡。最后，他因征战不利郁郁寡欢而与世长辞，临终前他那一番貌似悔悟的话语让人匪夷所思又哭笑不得。
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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曙光刚刚从东方露头，五六个牧羊人便起了床。他们又叫醒了唐吉诃德，问他是否准备去看克里索斯托莫的隆重葬礼，如果去，他们陪他一起去。唐吉诃德也没有别的事，便起来叫桑乔马上套马备鞍。桑乔麻利地备好马，大家一起上了路。走了不远，穿过一条小路时，他们看到迎面来了六个牧羊人，都穿着黑皮袄，头上戴着用柏枝和苦夹竹桃枝扎成的冠，手里还拿着一根冬青木棍。同他们一起还有两个骑马的英俊男子，行装齐备，旁边是三个徒步的仆人。碰到一起时，大家都彬彬有礼地相互问候，一打听才知道都是去参加葬礼的。于是大家一起赶路。这时，一个骑马的人对他的伙伴说：

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“比瓦尔多大人，咱们宁可晚点走，也要去看看这场隆重的葬礼，我觉得这样做得很对。按照这些牧人的讲法，无论那个死去的牧人还是那个害死人的牧羊姑娘，都是新鲜事。这番葬礼一定很引人注目。”

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“我也这样认为，”比瓦尔多说，“我觉得别说是晚走一天，就是晚走四天，也应该去看看。”

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唐吉诃德问他们听说了什么有关马塞拉和克里索斯托莫的情况。一个人说，那天早晨，他们遇到了这几个牧人，看到牧人们穿着丧服，就问其缘由。有个牧人告诉他们，一个叫马塞拉的牧羊姑娘如何漂亮，很多人对她爱慕倾倒，还有克里索斯托莫之死，几个牧人就是去参加他的葬礼等等。总之，把佩德罗对唐吉德讲的事情又叙述了一遍。

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此事谈完又转了话题。那个叫比瓦尔多的人问唐吉诃德，在这块如此和平的土地上行走为何这般装束。唐吉诃德答道：

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“我从事的职业不允许我有其他装束。安逸、享受和休养是为那些怯懦的朝臣们准备的，而辛劳、忧虑和武器则是为世界上那些被称为游侠骑士的人创造的。我就是个游侠骑士，虽然很惭愧，我只是个微不足道的游侠骑士。”

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一听这话，大家就知道他精神不正常。为了看看他到底不正常到什么程度，比瓦尔多又问他，游侠骑士是什么意思。

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“诸位没有读过英国的编年史和历史吗？”唐吉诃德说，“里面谈到了亚瑟王，我们罗马语系西班牙语称之为亚图斯国王的著名业绩。人们广泛传说，英国那个国王并没有死，而是被魔法变成了一只乌鸦。随着时间的推移，他还会恢复他的王国和王位，重新统治他的王国。从那时起到现在，没有一个英国人打死过一只乌鸦，这难道还不能证明这一点吗？在这位优秀国王当政时期，建立了著名的圆桌骑士党，而且也确实发生了兰萨罗特·德尔拉戈同西内夫拉女王的恋情。那是由很正派的女管家金塔尼奥娜牵线联系的，由此产生了那桩世人皆知的罗曼史，而且在我们西班牙广为传唱：

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自古从无骑士，

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幸如兰萨罗特。

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只身来自英国，

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却得佳丽眷顾。

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歌谣把他们的坚定爱情叙述得娓娓动听。就从那时开始，骑士道开始逐步发展起来，一直扩展到世界各地。其中有以其英勇行为著称的高卢的阿马迪斯以及他的子子孙孙，直到第五代；有伊卡尔尼亚的猛将费利克斯马尔特；应该得到最高赞誉的白骑士蒂兰特，还有希腊的骑士、天下无敌的贝利亚尼斯，似乎现在我们还可以看到他，听到他说话，与他沟通。诸位大人，这就是游侠骑士，而我说的就是侠游骑士道。就像我说过的那样，我虽然也是罪人，可我从事的就是我刚才说的那些骑士所从事的职业。因此，我才来到这人烟稀少的偏远地区征险，以高昂的热情将我的臂膀和我本人投入到命运交给我的这个危险事业中，扶弱济贫。”

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听了这番话，那几个旅客终于明白了，唐吉诃德已经精神失常，是个疯子，不由得感到一阵惊讶，就像其他人每次遇到疯子时一样。那个比瓦尔多生性机敏，又很活跃，听说离山上的安葬地点还有一段路，为了解闷，便想让唐吉诃德继续胡言乱语，于是他说：

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“游侠骑士大人，我觉得您从事了世界上最孤寂的职业。

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依我看，即使卡尔特苦修会的僧侣也不会这么孤寂。”

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“很可能一样孤寂，”唐吉诃德说，“不过，它却是世界上不可缺少的职业，我对此深信不疑。说实话，士兵执行的不过是长官发布给他的命令。我是说，僧侣们与世无争，只求老天保佑人世太平。可我们战士和骑士是在实现他们向老天祈求的事情，用我们的臂膀的力量和刀剑的锋刃去保护它，不过不是在室内，而是在野外，迎着夏天难以忍受的烈日和冬天的冰霜。我们是上帝在人间的使者，是他在人间主持正义的助手。

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“凡是战斗和与战斗有关的事情，都必须付出汗水、苦力和劳动才能实现。所以从事这个职业的人必然要比那些平平安安祈求上帝扶弱济贫的人要付出更多的气力。我并不是说，也从未想过，要求游侠骑士的生活条件同那些隐居的宗教信徒们一样好。我只是想说，根据我遭受的经历，游侠骑士必然更勤劳、更辛苦，常常忍饥受渴，衣衫褴褛，蓬头垢面。毫无疑问，游侠骑士一生要经历许多艰难险阻。如果有的人靠自己臂膀的力量当上了皇帝，那么他也一定付出了不少血汗。不过，即使他们爬到了那么高的地位，如果没有魔法师和贤人帮助，他们也会壮志难酬，希望落空。”

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“我也这么认为，”那旅客说，“不过我认为游侠骑士有一点很不好，那就是每当从事一项巨大的冒险行动，很有可能失去性命的时候，他们从不想起祈求上帝保佑，而是祈求他们的夫人保佑，而且十分虔诚，仿佛她们就是上帝。我觉得这有点像异教的做法。”

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“大人，”唐吉诃德说，“这也是不得已的事情，否则游侠骑士的情况就更糟了。这在游侠骑士道已经成了惯例，就是每当游侠骑士准备进行大的战斗时，都要有夫人在前，让她眼睛朝后，目光柔情似水，仿佛恳求她在可能的关键时刻保佑自己。即使没有人听见，嘴里也必须嘟哝几句话，请求她真心实意地保护自己。这种例子在历史上举不胜举。不要因此就以为他们不祈求上帝保佑了。在战斗中只要有时间，有地方，他们也会祈求上帝保佑的。”

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“即使这样，”那旅客说，“我还是有一点不明白，那就是有很多次我从书上读到，两个游侠骑士没说几句话就动了火，各自掉转马头，奔跑一阵，然后什么也不说，掉过头来往回冲，边跑边祈求他们的夫人保佑，结果碰到一起后，一个被对方扎了个穿心透，掉下马去；另一个要不是抓住了马鬃，也得掉下马来。我不知道，那个死去的骑士在这么短暂的战斗里怎么可能有时间祈求上帝保佑。倒不如把在奔跑中祈求夫人保佑的那些话用于基督徒应尽的本分呢。而且我觉得，也不见得所有游侠骑士都有夫人呀，并不是所有人都谈恋爱嘛。”

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“这不可能，”唐吉诃德说，“我说骑士不可能没有夫人，因为他们恋爱是很自然的事情，就像天上有星星一样。历史上还从来没有出现过没有爱情生活的骑士呢。如果骑士没有爱情生活，那么他一定是个杂牌货。他进入游侠骑士的城堡时，就不是从大门进去，而是从墙头进去，像个盗贼似的。”

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“尽管如此，”旅客说，“我觉得，如果我没有记错的话，我曾经在书里读到过，高卢的英勇的阿马迪斯的兄弟加劳尔从来都不向某个夫人祈求保佑，而且也并没有因此受到歧视。

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他是位有名的勇武骑士。”

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唐吉诃德答道：

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“大人，‘一只燕子不算夏’。而且据我所知，这位骑士私下是很多情的，并且喜爱所有他觉得漂亮的女人。这也是人之常情，谁都管不了。不过一句话，很清楚，他的意中人只有一个，而且他经常极其秘密地祈求她保佑，因为他自诩是个秘密骑士。”

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“如果所有游侠骑士真的都得恋爱，”旅客说，“那么，您既然干这行，也肯定是如此了。如果您不像加劳尔那样自诩是秘密骑士，我以我们这一行人以及我个人的名义恳求您，把您夫人的名字、祖籍、身份及美貌告诉我们吧。她一定会为大家都知道她受到一位像您这样的骑士尊宠而感到荣幸。”

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唐吉诃德深深叹了口气，说：

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“我还不能肯定我那位可爱的冤家是否愿意让别人知道我尊宠她。既然你如此谦恭地问我，我只能说她的名字叫杜尔西内亚，祖籍托博索，那是曼查的一个地方。她的身份至少是一位公主，她是我的女王、女主人。她美貌超群，所有诗人赞美他们的意中人的种种难以想象的美貌特征，都在她身上体现出来：头发是金色的，前额如极乐净土，眉如彩虹，眼似太阳，玫瑰色的面颊，珊瑚色的嘴唇，珍珠般的牙齿，雪白的脖颈，大理石色的胸脯，象牙色的双手，白皙若雪，至于那隐秘部分，依我看，只能赞叹，不可比喻。”

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“我们还想知道她的门第、血统和家世。”比瓦尔多说。唐吉诃德答道：“她既不属于古代罗马的库尔西奥、加约、埃西皮翁家族，也不属于现代罗马的科洛纳、乌西诺家族，更别提巴伦西亚的雷韦利亚、比利亚诺瓦家族了；她不是阿拉贡的乌雷亚、福塞斯、古雷亚家族，也不是葡萄牙的阿伦卡斯特罗、帕拉斯、梅内塞斯家族；她属于曼查的托博索家族，虽然门第有点新，但说不定会在未来几个世纪里发家，成为豪门望族。如果不具备塞维诺从前为奥兰多兵器战利品写的那个条件，就不要对此持异议吧。他写的那个条件就是：

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不敌奥兰多，

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莫动此处兵戈。”

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“虽然我出自拉雷多的卡乔平家族，”旅客说，“不敢同曼查的托博索家族相提并论，可是说老实话，这个姓氏我至今还从未听说过呢。”

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“怎么会没有听说过呢！”唐吉诃德说。

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其他人边走边仔细听这两个人的对话，就连牧羊人也听得出来，唐吉诃德已经深中疯魔。只有桑乔·潘萨认为唐吉诃德说的都是实情，因为他知道唐吉诃德是谁，而且生来就认识唐吉诃德。他有点怀疑的是那位美丽的杜尔西内亚。虽然他就住在托博索附近，却从未听说过这个名字和这位公主。

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他们正说着话，就看到两座高山之间的山谷里下来了大约二十个牧人，个个穿着黑羊皮袄，头上戴着花环，后来才看清有的是用紫杉枝做的，有的是用柏树枝做的。其中六个人抬着一个棺材，上面盖满了花环和树枝。一个牧羊人看到了，说：

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“来的那几个人抬的是克里索斯托莫的遗体，那个山脚就是克里索斯托莫吩咐埋葬他的地方。”

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他们立刻跑过去，正好看到那几个人把棺材放到地上，其中四个人拿着尖嘴镐，正在一块坚石旁挖坑。

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彼此问候之后，唐吉诃德以及和他一起来的几个人就去看那个棺材。棺材里一具尸体身着牧人服，上面盖满了鲜花。死者约三十岁。人虽然死了，却仍能看出，他活着的时候，面孔很漂亮，身体也很匀称。在棺材里，尸体周围摆着几本书，有的打开，有的合着，还有很多手稿。旁观的人、挖坟的人以及所有其他人都沉默不语。后来，才有一个抬棺材来的人对另一个人说：

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“安布罗西奥，你既然要完全按照克里索斯托莫的遗嘱办，那么你看看，这是不是他指定的那个地方？”

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“是的，”安布罗西奥回答，“我那不幸的朋友曾几次在这儿向我讲述他的伤心史。他说就是在这儿第一次向她倾诉衷肠，最后一次也是在这儿，马塞拉拒绝了他，并且蔑视他。因此，他才悲惨地结束了自己可怜的生命。在这里，为了纪念如此多的不幸，他希望人们把他安置在永久的忘却中。”

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他又转向唐吉诃德和几位旅客说：

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“各位大人，在你们用怜悯的目光注视的这个身体里，寄寓过一个上苍曾赋予无限天赋的灵魂。这是克里索斯托莫的身体。他聪颖过人，温文尔雅，慷慨大度，友遍四方，尊贵无上；他深沉而不狂妄，随和而不卑贱，总之，他的优秀品德堪称世界第一，而他的不幸也举世无双。他想爱，却受到厌弃；他崇拜，却遭到睥睨；他向母兽恳求，他与顽石缠绵，他逐风奔跑，他在孤独中咆哮，他向负心人传情，换来的却是生命中途的一具尸体。一个牧羊姑娘结束了他的生命，而他曾想让那牧羊姑娘在人们的记忆中永存。你们看到的这些手稿完全可以证明这一切。他曾嘱咐我，埋葬了他的尸体之后，就把这些手稿付之一炬。”

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“你若是如此对待这些手稿，”比瓦尔多说，“那就比手稿的主人对待它们的做法还冷酷。如果死者对你的吩咐超出了人之常情，就不应该按照他的吩咐办。奥古斯都大帝如果同意执行曼图亚诗圣①的遗嘱，那就不对了。所以，安布罗西奥大人，他是伤心至极才如此吩咐的。你既然把你的朋友安葬在此，不愿意让他的手稿被人遗忘，那就最好不要草率地照办。你还是把这些手稿保留起来，让人们永远记得马塞拉的冷酷吧，把它作为例证，避免活着的人们今后重蹈覆辙。我和在场的诸位已经了解了你这位痴情而又绝望的朋友的故事，了解了你们的友谊、他的死因以及他结束自己生命时留下的遗嘱。从这个可悲的故事里，可以了解到马塞拉的残酷、克里索斯托莫的痴心、你们之间友谊的真诚以及在爱情的迷途上执迷不悟的人的结局。昨天晚上，我们听说了克里索斯托莫之死，还有要在这个地方安葬他的消息。出于好奇和怜悯，我们商定绕路到此观看这件让我们惋惜的事情。

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①曼图亚诗圣指维吉尔，因为他是曼图亚人。他曾遗命把史诗《埃涅阿斯纪》烧毁，古罗马皇帝奥古斯都没有照办。

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“出于我们要对这一悲剧尽力作出补偿的愿望，我们请求你，至少我以个人的名义恳求你，精明的安布罗西奥，不要烧掉这些手稿，让我带走一部分吧。”

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不等安布罗西奥同意，他就顺手拿起了一些手稿。安布罗西奥见此说道：

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“出于礼貌，我同意您留下您拿到的那些手稿，可是剩下的那些，您别想不让我烧掉。”

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比瓦尔多急于看手稿里说了什么，就翻开一页，看到上面的标题是《绝望的歌》。

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安布罗西奥听到这个标题后说：

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“这是那个不幸者写下的最后一份手稿，大人，你从上面可以看到，他的悲伤达到了什么程度。请你念一下吧，让大家都听听。坟墓还没有挖好，你有充分的时间。”

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“我很愿意念。”比瓦尔多说。

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其他在场的人也想听，就围成了一圈。比瓦尔多字句清楚地朗读起来。

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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.

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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.”

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“So I think too,” replied Vivaldo, “and I would delay not to say a day, but four, for the sake of seeing it.”

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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“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 —

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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.”

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“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.”

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“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.”

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“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.”

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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.”

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“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.”

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“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.”

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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.”

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“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.”

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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.”

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

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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,

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‘These let none move Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.’”

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“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.”

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

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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.”

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“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.”

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“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.”

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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.”

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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.”

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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.”

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“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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