Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote
great many friends, and it is not half a league hence to the place of
interment appointed by himself."
"I will certainly be there," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you for the
pleasure you have given me by the recital of so entertaining a story."
Morning scarcely had dawned through the balconies of the east, when five
of the six goatherds got up and went to awake Don Quixote, whom they
asked whether he continued in his resolution of going to see the famous
interment of Chrysostom, for, if so, they would bear him company. Don
Quixote, who desired nothing more, arose, and ordered Sancho to saddle
and pannel immediately, which he did with great expedition; and with the
same dispatch they all set out on their journey.
They had not gone a quarter of a league, when upon crossing a pathway,
they saw six shepherds advancing towards them, clad in jackets of black
sheepskin, with garlands of cypress and bitter rosemary on their heads;
each of them having in his hand a thick holly club. There came also with
them two gentlemen on horseback, well equipped for travelling, who were
attended by three lackeys on foot. When the two parties met they
courteously saluted each other, and finding upon inquiry that all were
proceeding to the place of burial, they continued their journey
together.
Proceeding on, they discerned through a cleft between two high mountains
about twenty shepherds coming down, all clad in jerkins of black wool,
and crowned with garlands, some of which were of yew, and some of
cypress. Six of them carried a bier covered with various flowers and
boughs. One of the goatherds said: "Those who come hither are bearing
the corpse of Chrysostom, and at the foot of yonder mountain is the
place where he desired to be interred." Four of them, with sharp
pickaxes, were making the grave by the side of a sharp rock. Upon the
bier lay a dead body, strewed with flowers, in the dress of a shepherd,
apparently about thirty years of age; and though dead, it was evident
that his countenance had been beautiful and his figure elegant. Several
books and a great number of papers, some open and some folded, lay round
him on the bier. All that were present, spectators as well as those who
were opening the grave, kept a marvellous silence, until one said to
another: "Observe carefully, Ambrosio, whether this be the place which
Chrysostom mentioned since you wish to be so exact in executing his
will."
"It is here," answered Ambrosio; "for in this very place my unhappy
friend often told me of his woe. Here it was, he told me, that he first
beheld that mortal enemy of the human race; here it was that he declared
to her his no less honorable than ardent passion; here it was that
Marcela finally undeceived and treated him with such disdain that she
put an end to the tragedy of his miserable life; and here, in memory of
so many misfortunes, he desired to be deposited in the bowels of eternal
oblivion."
Then, addressing himself to Don Quixote and the travellers, he thus
continued: "This body, sirs, which you are regarding with compassionate
eyes, was the receptacle of a soul upon which Heaven had bestowed an
infinite portion of its treasures; this is the body of Chrysostom, who
was a man of rare genius, matchless courtesy, and unbounded kindness; he
was a phoenix in friendship, magnificent without ostentation, grave
without arrogance, cheerful without meanness; in short, the first in all
that was good, and second to none in all that was unfortunate. He loved,
and was abhorred; he adored, and was scorned; he courted a savage; he
solicited a statue; he pursued the wind; he called aloud to the desert;
he was the slave of ingratitude, whose recompense was to leave him, in
the middle of his career of life, a prey to death, inflicted by a
certain shepherdess, whom he endeavored to render immortal in the
memories of men; as these papers you are looking at would sufficiently
demonstrate, had he not ordered me to commit them to the flames at the
same time that his body was deposited in the earth."
"You would then be more rigorous and cruel to them," said Vivaldo, "than
their master himself.
"It is neither just nor wise to fulfil the will of him who commands what
is utterly unreasonable.
"Augustus Caesar deemed it wrong to consent to the execution of what the
divine Mantuan commanded in his will; therefore, Signor Ambrosio,
although you commit your friend's body to the earth, do not commit his
writings also to oblivion; and if he has ordained like a man aggrieved,
do not you fulfil like one without discretion, but rather preserve those
papers, in order that the cruelty of Marcela may be still remembered,
and serve for an example to those who shall live in times to come, that
they may avoid falling down the like precipices; for I am acquainted, as
well as my companions here, with the story of this your enamored and
despairing friend; we know also your friendship, and the occasion of
his death, and what he ordered on his deathbed; from which lamentable
history we may conclude how great has been the cruelty of Marcela, the
love of Chrysostom, and the sincerity of your friendship; and also learn
the end of those who run headlong in the path that delirious passion
presents to their view. Last night we heard of Chrysostom's death, and
that he was to be interred in this place; led, therefore, by curiosity
and compassion, we turned out of our way, and determined to behold with
our eyes what had interested us so much in the recital; and, in return
for our pity, and our desire to give aid, had it been possible, we
beseech you, oh wise Ambrosio--at least I request it on my own
behalf--that you will not burn the papers, but allow me to take some of
them."
Then, without waiting for the shepherd's reply, he stretched out his
hand and took some of those that were nearest to him: upon which
Ambrosio said: "Out of civility, signor, I will consent to your keeping
those you have taken; but if you expect that I shall forbear burning
those that remain, you are deceived."
Vivaldo, desirous of seeing what the papers contained, immediately
opened one of them, and found that it was entitled, "The Song of
Despair." Ambrosio, hearing it, said: "This is the last thing which the
unhappy man wrote; and that all present may conceive, signor, to what a
state of misery he was reduced, read it aloud; for you will have time
enough while they are digging the grave."
"That I will do with all my heart," said Vivaldo; and, as all the
bystanders had the same desire, they assembled around him, and he read
in an audible voice as follows:--
CHRYSOSTOM'S SONG.
I.
Since, cruel maid, you force me to proclaim
From clime to clime, the triumph of your scorn,
Let hell itself inspire my tortured breast
With mournful numbers, and untune my voice;
Whilst the sad pieces of my broken heart
Mix with the doleful accents of my tongue,
At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits,
Hear, then, and listen with attentive ear--
Not to harmonious sounds, but echoing groans,
Fetched from the bottom of my laboring breast,
To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart.
II.
The lion's roar, the howl of midnight wolves,
The scaly serpent's hiss, the raven's croak,
The burst of fighting winds that vex the main,
The widowed owl and turtle's plaintive moan,
With all the din of hell's infernal crew,
From my grieved soul forth issue in one sound--
Leaving my senses all confused and lost.
For ah! no common language can express
The cruel pains that torture my sad heart.
III.
Yet let not Echo bear the mournful sounds
To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands,
Or Betis, crowned with olives, pours his flood,
But here, 'midst rocks and precipices deep,
Or to obscure and silent vales removed,
On shores by human footsteps never trod,
Where the gay sun ne'er lifts his radiant orb,
Or with the envenomed face of savage beasts
That range the howling wilderness for food,
Will I proclaim the story of my woes--
Poor privilege of grief!--while echoes hoarse
Catch the sad tale, and spread it round the world.
IV.
Disdain gives death; suspicions, true or false,
O'erturn the impatient mind: with surer stroke
Fell jealousy destroys; the pangs of absence
No lover can support; nor firmest hope
Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect;
Yet I, strange fate! though jealous, though disdained,
Absent, and sure of cold neglect, still live.
And amidst the various torments I endure,
No ray of hope e'er darted on my soul,
Nor would I hope; rather in deep despair
Will I sit down, and, brooding o'er my griefs,
Vow everlasting absence from her sight.
V.
Can hope and fear at once the soul possess,
Or hope subsist with surer cause of fear?
Shall I, to shut out frightful jealousy,
Close my sad eyes, when every pang I feel
Presents the hideous phantom to my view?
What wretch so credulous but must embrace
Distrust with open arms, when he beholds
Disdain avowed, suspicions realized,
And truth itself converted to a lie?
Oh, cruel tyrant of the realm of love,
Fierce Jealousy, arm with a sword this hand,
Or thou, Disdain, a twisted cord bestow!
VI.
Let me not blame my fate; but, dying, think
The man most blest who loves, the soul most free
That love has most enthralled. Still to my thoughts
Let fancy paint the tyrant of my heart
Beauteous in mind as face, and in myself
Still let me find the source of her disdain,
Content to suffer, since imperial Love
By lover's woes maintains his sovereign state.
With this persuasion, and the fatal noose,
I hasten to the doom her scorn demands,
And, dying, offer up my breathless corse,
Uncrowned with garlands, to the whistling winds.
VII.
Oh thou, whose unrelenting rigor's force
First drove me to despair, and now to death;
When the sad tale of my untimely fall
Shall reach thy ear, though it deserve a sigh,
Veil not the heaven of those bright eyes in grief,
Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the world
At length my death has triumphed o'er thy scorn:
But dress thy face in smiles, and celebrate
With laughter and each circumstance of joy
The festival of my disastrous end.
Ah! need I bid thee smile? too well I know
My death's thy utmost glory and thy pride.
VIII.
Come, all ye phantoms of the dark abyss:
Bring, Tantalus, thy unextinguished thirst,
And Sisyphus, thy still returning stone;
Come, Tityus, with the vulture at thy heart;
And thou, Ixion, bring thy giddy wheel;
Nor let the toiling sisters stay behind.
Pour your united griefs into this breast,
And in low murmurs sing sad obsequies
(If a despairing wretch such rites may claim)
O'er my cold limbs, denied a winding sheet.
And let the triple porter of the shades,
The sister Furies, and chimeras dire,
With notes of woe the mournful chorus join.
Such funeral pomp alone befits the wretch
By beauty sent untimely to the grave.
IX.
And thou, my song, sad child of my despair,
Complain no more; but since thy wretched fate
Improves her happier lot who gave thee birth,
Be all thy sorrows buried in my tomb.
None of the shepherds departed until, the grave being made and the
papers burnt, the body of Chrysostom was interred, not without many
tears from the spectators. They closed the sepulchre with a large
fragment of a rock until a tombstone was finished, which Ambrosio said
it was his intention to provide, and to inscribe upon it the following
epitaph:--
CHRYSOSTOM'S EPITAPH.
The body of a wretched swain,
Killed by a cruel maid's disdain,
In this cold bed neglected lies.
He lived, fond, hapless youth! to prove
Th' inhuman tyranny of love,