Part 4 (2/2)

”As all that I have related is certain truth, I can more readily believe what our companion told us concerning the cause of Chrysostom's death; and therefore I advise you, sir, not to fail being to-morrow at his funeral, which will be very well worth seeing; for Chrysostom had a 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 pa.s.sion; 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 compa.s.sionate 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 ingrat.i.tude, 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 friends.h.i.+p; and also learn the end of those who run headlong in the path that delirious pa.s.sion 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 compa.s.sion, 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 ent.i.tled, ”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 a.s.sembled 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l'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 sh.o.r.es 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 hoa.r.s.e 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.

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