Chap­ter XVI: How Lazaro Decid­ed to Mar­ry Again begins with a glimpse into Lazaro’s renewed hope, sparked by an unex­pect­ed shift in his luck. After years of endur­ing hard­ship, he finds him­self no longer dri­ven sole­ly by sur­vival but by the idea that per­haps des­tiny has final­ly turned in his favor. He reflects on the ironies of life, where the unde­serv­ing seem to rise effort­less­ly while the thought­ful and cau­tious are often left with noth­ing. His belief that fate has wronged him repeat­ed­ly is a theme that con­tin­ues to shad­ow his choic­es, par­tic­u­lar­ly in this chap­ter where a new and ques­tion­able mar­i­tal oppor­tu­ni­ty presents itself.

The chap­ter takes a strange turn when Lazaro, going about his usu­al attempts to earn a meal, is sud­den­ly treat­ed with unusu­al warmth by women in a city home. Their friend­ly wel­come is based on a mis­tak­en iden­ti­ty, but once they real­ize who he tru­ly is—and more impor­tant­ly, that he was the last to be with Father Anselmo—the mood quick­ly shifts. Grief over­takes the room as the women, now revealed as Anselmo’s secret house­hold, con­front the painful news of his pass­ing. Lazaro is bewil­dered by their reac­tion and even more so when they express resent­ment over his posi­tion as the pre­sumed heir. With legal fears loom­ing and emo­tions run­ning high, he’s per­suad­ed to share what lit­tle inher­i­tance there is, unaware that his accep­tance marks the start of a deep­er trap.

In an effort to make peace and pos­si­bly secure some com­fort, Lazaro agrees to mar­ry the griev­ing wid­ow, encour­aged by her family’s insis­tence. How­ev­er, the sin­cer­i­ty of this pro­pos­al soon unrav­els into a string of mock cer­e­monies and half-heart­ed rit­u­als that resem­ble more of a cru­el prank than a union. As each phase of the sup­posed wed­ding unfolds, Lazaro becomes increas­ing­ly aware of the decep­tion but feels pow­er­less to with­draw. He’s mocked, mis­treat­ed, and even­tu­al­ly phys­i­cal­ly threat­ened, leav­ing him with no choice but to flee the far­ci­cal arrange­ment alto­geth­er. His escape is fran­tic and shame­ful, cul­mi­nat­ing in a chaot­ic scene at a local church where towns­peo­ple, see­ing his disheveled state, mis­take him for some­thing demon­ic or insane.

This moment of pub­lic dis­grace not only humil­i­ates Lazaro but also empha­sizes the broad­er theme of appear­ance ver­sus real­i­ty. The sanc­ti­ty of mar­riage, the respect for reli­gious fig­ures, and the reli­a­bil­i­ty of fam­i­ly ties are all ques­tioned through Lazaro’s ordeal. Despite his efforts to rise above his mis­for­tunes and seek a dig­ni­fied life, he is repeat­ed­ly pulled into absurd and often demean­ing sit­u­a­tions. His sto­ry invites read­ers to reflect on how eas­i­ly peo­ple are mis­led by social con­ven­tions and how insti­tu­tions like mar­riage can be manip­u­lat­ed for per­son­al gain. Even the idea of inheritance—a sym­bol of stability—is treat­ed as a tool for trick­ery and exploita­tion.

Lazaro’s resilience becomes the cen­tral focus as he nav­i­gates one blow after anoth­er. Rather than sur­ren­der com­plete­ly to despair, he per­sists in the hope that his dig­ni­ty might yet be restored. This resilience is not dri­ven by blind opti­mism but by a hard­ened accep­tance that life rarely offers fair­ness. His char­ac­ter embod­ies a type of endurance famil­iar to many—those who con­tin­ue despite set­backs, laugh when cry­ing feels eas­i­er, and car­ry on not because they expect bet­ter but because there is lit­tle alter­na­tive. Through satire and irony, this chap­ter reveals much about the human spir­it, espe­cial­ly when sur­vival depends more on wit and nerve than for­tune or jus­tice.

Adding his­tor­i­cal con­text, this chap­ter can also be read as a cri­tique of 16th-cen­tu­ry Span­ish soci­ety, where social mobil­i­ty was often gov­erned less by mer­it and more by manip­u­la­tion. Her­mits, sup­pos­ed­ly devot­ed to soli­tude and spir­i­tu­al reflec­tion, are shown to lead lives entan­gled with earth­ly desires and fam­i­ly dra­ma. Like­wise, mar­riage is not a sacred bond here but a the­atri­cal per­for­mance orches­trat­ed for inher­i­tance and sta­tus. The com­ic exag­ger­a­tion used by the author func­tions as a sharp com­men­tary on how insti­tu­tions that claim virtue are often cor­rupt­ed by human weak­ness. Read­ers today might see par­al­lels in how appear­ances can be deceiv­ing and how soci­etal roles some­times serve to dis­guise deep­er dys­func­tions.

In a mod­ern lens, Lazaro’s sto­ry echoes the time­less strug­gle of those caught between pover­ty and the illu­sion of social advance­ment. He’s a reminder that behind every act of des­per­a­tion lies a his­to­ry of dis­il­lu­sion­ment. Yet, despite being used, tricked, and shamed, he survives—not just phys­i­cal­ly, but with enough self-aware­ness to nar­rate his jour­ney with bit­ing wit. The chap­ter, while humor­ous on the sur­face, car­ries a dark­er under­cur­rent about the cost of sur­vival in a world ruled more by oppor­tunism than jus­tice. Read­ers are left with a last­ing impres­sion of Lazaro not as a fool, but as a mir­ror to society’s con­tra­dic­tions, where fol­ly often mas­quer­ades as wis­dom and cru­el­ty wears the mask of cus­tom.