re exchanged between two knights errant, and one word leads to another, their anger rises, they turn their horses and ride off a good distance to the far ends of the field, and then, without further ado, they ride at full tilt toward each other, and in the middle of the charge they commend themselves to their ladies, and what usually happens after their encounter is that one falls from his horse, run through by his opponent's lance, and the same thing happens to the other as well, for unless he holds on to his horse's mane, he cannot help but fall to the ground, too. And I don't know how the one who is dead had time to commend himself to God in the course of so swift a combat. It would be better if the words he used during the charge to commend himself to his lady had been used instead to do what he ought to have done and was obliged to do as a Christian. Furthermore, I don't believe that all the knights errant have ladies to whom they can commend themselves because not all of them are in love."
"That cannot be," responded Don Quixote. "I mean, there cannot be a knight errant without a lady, because it is as fitting and natural for them to be in love as for the sky to have stars, and, just as certainly, you have never seen a history in which you find a knight errant without a love, for if he had none, he would not be deemed a legitimate knight but a bastard who entered the fortress of chivalry not through the door but over the walls, like a robber and a thief."
"Even so," said the traveler, "it seems to me that if I remember correctly, I have read that Don Galaor, brother of the valorous Amadis of Gaul, never had a specific lady to whom he could commend himself, and despite this he was not held in any less esteem, and was a very valiant and famous knight."
To which our Don Quixote responded:
"Senor, one swallow does not a summer make. Furthermore, I happen to know that this knight was secretly very much in love, even though his courting all the lovely ladies he found attractive was a natural inclination that he could not resist. However, it is clearly demonstrated that there was one lady whom he had made mistress of his will, and to her he commended himself very frequently and very secretly, because he prided himself on being a secretive knight."
"Well then, if it is essential that every knight errant has to be in love," said the traveler, "we most certainly can suppose that your grace is as well, since you are a member of the profession. And unless your grace prides himself on being as secretive as Don Galaor, I most earnestly implore you, in the name of all this company and on my own behalf, to tell us the name, the kingdom, the condition, and the beauty of your lady; for she would think herself fortunate if all the world knew she was loved and served by the sort of knight your grace appears to be."
Whereupon Don Quixote heaved a great sigh and said:
"I cannot declare whether my sweet enemy would be pleased or not if the world were to know that I serve her; I can only state, responding to what you so courteously ask, that her name is Dulcinea, her kingdom, Toboso, which is in La Mancha, her condition must be that of princess, at the very least, for she is my queen and lady, and her beauty is supernatural, for in it one finds the reality of all the impossible and chimerical aspects of beauty which poets attribute to their ladies: her tresses are gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows the arches of heaven, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her skin white as snow, and the parts that modesty hides from human eyes are such, or so I believe and understand, that the most discerning consideration can only praise them but not compare them."
"We would like to know her lineage, ancestry, and family," replied Vivaldo.
To which Don Quixote responded:
"She is not of the ancient Roman families of Curtius, Gaius, and Scipio, nor of the more modern Colonnas and Ursinos, nor of the Moncadas and Requesenes of Cataluna, nor even the Rebellas and Villanovas of Valencia, the Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Foces, and Gurreas of Aragon, the Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas, and Guzmanes of Castilla, the Alencastros, Pallas, and Meneses of Portugal; but she is of the family of Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage so fine, although modern, that it can give a generous beginning to the most illustrious families of centuries to come. And I shall brook no reply to this except under the conditions inscribed by Cervino beneath Orlando's victorious arms, which said:
Let no one move them
who cannot prove his worth against Roland."1
"Although my lineage is the Cachopines of Laredo," responded the traveler, "I won't dare compare it to that of Toboso of La Mancha, for, to tell the truth, that name has not reached my ears until now."
"Is it possible that so notable a thing has not reached them?" replied Don Quixote.
All the others had been listening with great attention to their conversation, and even the goatherds and shepherds realized that Don Quixote was not in his right mind. Only Sancho Panza, knowing who he was and having known him since he was born, thought that everything his master said was true, but he did have some doubts concerning the beauteous Dulcinea of Toboso, because he had never heard of that name or that princess, even though he lived so close to Toboso.
As they were conversing, they saw that coming down the pass formed by two high mountains were about twenty shepherds, all wearing black wool jackets and crowned with wreaths that, as they saw later, were made either of yew or cypress. Six were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of flowers and branches. When one of the goatherds saw this, he said:
"Those men there are carrying the body of Grisostomo, and the foot of that mountain is the place where he said he should be buried."
For this reason they hurried to reach the spot, which they did as the bearers were setting the bier on the ground, and, with sharp picks, four of them began digging the grave to one side of a rugged crag.
They exchanged courteous greetings, and then Don Quixote and those who had accompanied him began to look at the bier, and on it, covered with flowers, they saw a dead body, apparently thirty years of age, dressed as a shepherd, and although he was dead, he showed signs of having had a handsome face and a gallant disposition when he was alive. Around him on the bier were bound volumes and many papers, both opened and closed. And those who were watching, and the men who were digging the grave, and everyone else who was present maintained a wondrous silence, until one of those who had been carrying the dead man said to another:
"Look carefully, Ambrosio, to see if this is the place Grisostomo mentioned, since you want everything he asked for in his will to be carried out to the letter."
"It is," Ambrosio responded, "for here my unhappy friend often told me the history of his misfortune. Here, he said, he first saw that mortal enemy of the human race, and here was also where he first declared to her his desire, as honest as it was amorous, and here was where Marcela finally disillusioned and disdained him for the last time, putting an end to the tragedy of his wretched life. Here, in memory of so much affliction, he wanted to be consigned to the depths of eternal oblivion."
And turning to Don Quixote and the travelers, he went on to say:
"This body, Senores, that you look at with pitying eyes, was the depository of a soul in which heaven placed an infinite number of its gifts. This is the body of Grisostomo, who was unique in intelligence, unequaled in courtesy, inimitable in gallantry, peerless in friendship, faultless in generosity, serious without presumption, merry without vulgarity, and, finally, first in everything it means to be good and second to none in everything it means to be unfortunate. He loved deeply and was rejected; he adored and was scorned; he pleaded with a wild beast, importuned a piece of marble, pursued the wind, shouted in the desert, served ingratitude, and his reward was to fall victim to death in the middle of his life, which was ended by a shepherdess whom he attempted to immortalize so that she would live on in memory, which could have been clearly shown in those papers you see there if he had not ordered them committed to the fire when his body had been committed to the earth."
"You would use greater harshness and cruelty with them," said Vivaldo, "than their own master, for it is neither just nor correct to carry out the will of someone whose orders go against all reasonable thought. You would not think so highly of Caesar Augustus if he had agreed to carry out what the divine Mantuan had ordered in his will.2 And so, Senor Ambrosio, although you surrender your friend's body to the ground, do not surrender his writings to oblivion; if he gave the order as an aggrieved man, it is not proper for you to carry it out like a foolish one. Rather, by giving life to these papers, you can have Marcela's cruelty live on as an example to those who live in future days so that they can flee and run from similar dangers; I and my companions know the history of your loving and desperate friend, and the reason for his death, and what he ordered to be done when his life was over; from this lamentable history one can learn how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Grisostomo, and the steadfastness of your friendship, as well as the final destination of those who madly gallop along the path that heedless love places in front of them. Last night we learned of Grisostomo's death and that he would be buried in this place; and filled with curiosity and pity, we halted our journey and decided to come and see with our own eyes what had saddened us so much when we heard it. And as recompense for this sorrow, and the desire born in us to alleviate it if we could, we beg you--at least, I implore you--O most discreet Ambrosio, not to burn these papers, and to allow me to have some of them."
And not waiting for the shepherd to respond, he stretched out his hand and took some of the papers closest to him; seeing this, Ambrosio said:
"Out of courtesy I consent to your keeping, Senor, the ones you already have, but to think that I won't burn those that remain is to think vain thoughts."
Vivaldo, who wanted to see what the papers said, immediately opened one of them and saw that it had as a title "Song of Despair." When Ambrosio heard the title, he said:
"This is the last paper the unfortunate man wrote; and so that you may see, Senor, the lengths to which his misfortunes had driven him, read it aloud so that all may hear, for the time it will take to dig the grave will be more than enough time for you to read it."
"I will do that gladly," said Vivaldo.
And since all those present had the same desire, they came to stand around him, and Vivaldo, reading in a clear voice, saw that it said:
CHAPTER XIV
In which are found the desperate verses of the deceased shepherd, along with other unexpected occurrences
GRISOSTOMO'S SONG
Since you, most cruel, wish all tongues to proclaim,
all men to know the harsh power of your will,
I will have hell itself teach a mournful song
to my grieving breast; then add to that discord
with the stridency of this my tuneless voice.
And, companion to my desire as it strives
to tell of my sorrow and your heartless deeds,
that fearful voice will resound; worse torment,
it will carry pieces of my wretched heart.
Listen, then, to no harmonious song
but to the clangor rising from the depths
of my embittered breast, and borne by frenzy,
sounding to my delight and your displeasure.
The roar of the lion, the fearful howling
of the savage wolf, the terrible hisses
of the scaly serpent, the ghastly shrieks of
monsters, the portents of the raven's croak,
the din of winds battling unsettled seas,
the great bull's vengeful bellow in defeat,
the widowed turtledove's heartbroken call,
the grief-stricken hooting of the envied owl, and
the cries of all the souls in darkest hell,
let these join with my spirit in its grief,
blending in song, confounding all the senses,
for the merciless anguish I endure
demands new modes, new styles, for its recounting.
The wailing echoes of this dissonance
will not be heard on sands of Father Tajo,
or in the Andalusian olive groves:
my heartless agony will be carried by
a dead man's tongue, in words that will survive him,
to craggy heights, or bottomless ravines,
to darkened valleys, to some hostile shore
bare of human commerce, or to places where
the sunlight ne'er was seen, or to the hordes of
ravening toxic beasts that live and thrive
on the Libyan plain; for though in desert wastes
the hoarse, uncertain echoes of my ills
may sound with unmatched harshness, like your own,
as a privilege of my destiny cut short,
they will be carried all around the world.
Disdain can kill, suspicions true or false
can bring down patience; and jealousy slays
with grim ferocity; long absence can
confound a life; feared oblivion defeats
the surest hope for a life of happiness.
In all this, certain death cannot be fled;
but I--O wondrous miracle!--I live on
jealous, absent, disdained, and certain of
suspicions that fell me, forgotten by one
for whom I burn with ever hotter flame,
and in so much torment I can never see
even the shadow of hope that, in despair,
I do not attempt to find; rather, to carry
my woe to the furthest extreme, I vow
eternally to live bereft of hope.
Can one feel hope and at the same time fear,
or is it wise to do so when the reasons
for fear are so much stronger? Must I then
close these eyes when flint-hard jealousy
appears before them, only to watch it tear
a thousand open wounds deep in my soul?
Who would not open wide the door to despair
when he sees disdain undisguised, laid bare,
when he sees all his suspicions, oh bitter
transformation, converted into truths,
and honest truth transmuted into lies?
O jealousy, in the kingdom of love
a pitiless tyrant, place these my hands
in chains. And condemn me, disdain,
to be bound in twisted rope. But woe is me
when in your memory, O cruelest triumph,
my suffering is smothered and erased.
I die, I die; and so that I may never
hope for a good end in my death or life
I will be steadfast in my vagaries,
say that true love is bound to succeed, say
the soul most enslaved to the ancient tyranny
of love, lives most free. Say that my enemy
is beautiful in body and in soul, that
I bear the blame for her forgetting me,
that love inflicts these sorrows and these ills
to keep his realm in order and at peace.
With this thought and a merciless cruel scourge
I will slash and cut the brief time left to me
by your disdain, and offer to the winds
this soul and body, uncrowned by the palm
or laurel of future bliss and joy to come.
You, whose unreason shows the reason clear
that forces me to end this weary life
grown hateful to me, can see the patent signs
of the fatal wound that cuts this heart in two,
and how I bend, submissive, to your will,
and if, by chance, you learn that I deserve
to have clouds fill the fair sky of your eyes
when you hear of my death, forbid it, for I
want you unrepentant, without remorse, when
I hand to you the ruins of my soul.
And then your laughter at that grievous time
will show my end was cause for your rejoicing;
what lack of wit to caution you in this,
when I know your brightest glory lies in seeing
that my life draws so quickly to its close.
Come, it is time for Tantalus to rise
with all his thirst from the abysmal deeps;
let Sisyphus come, bearing the awful weight
of that dread stone; let Tityus bring the vultures,
let Ixion hasten on the remorseless wheel,
and the grim sisters ceaseless at their toil;
may they pass their mortal torments to my breast,
and in hushed voices let them sadly chant
--if one in despair deserves such obsequies--
songs to a body not yet in its shroud.
And the three-faced guardian of the gates
of hell, chimeras, monsters by the thousands,
let them intone the dolorous counterpoint;
for there can be no better funeral rite
than this, I think, for one who dies of love.
Song of despair, do not weep at leaving me;
since that will swell the joy of one who is
the reason for your birth and my misfortune,
do not grieve for me even in the grave.
Those who had listened to Grisostomo's song thought it was very good, though the one who read it said he did not think it conformed to the accounts he had heard of Marcela's virtue and modesty, because in it Grisostomo complained of jealousy, suspicions, and absence, all to the detriment of Marcela's good name and reputation. To which Ambrosio, as the one who knew best the most hidden thoughts of his friend, replied:
"Senor, so that you may free yourself of this doubt, you ought to know that when the unfortunate man wrote this song he was absent from Marcela; he had absented himself from her voluntarily, to see if absence would have its customary effects on him, and since there is nothing that does not vex the absent lover, and no fear that does not overwhelm him, Grisostomo was as vexed by the jealousy he imagined and the suspicions he feared as if they had been real. And with this the truth of Marcela's reputation for virtue remains unshaken; for aside from her being cruel, and somewhat arrogant, and very disdainful, envy itself cannot or should not find any fault in her."
"That is true," responded Vivaldo.
He wanted to read another of the papers he had rescued from the fire but was stopped by a marvelous vision--this is what it seemed to him--that suddenly appeared before his eyes; at the top of the crag where the grave was being dug, there came into view the shepherdess Marcela, whose beauty far surpassed her fame fo