Argamasilla, where, in one of the side chapels, hangs a picture,
representing a lady and gentleman kneeling devoutly before a vision of
the Virgin. The gentleman has a typical Spanish caste of countenance,
with high cheek bones and lantern jaws, a dust complexion, wandering
eyes, and large moustachios. The inscription beneath the portraits
explains that the gentleman had been cured by Our Lady of a mental
affliction, and that the young, and not uncomely, lady by his side was
his niece. The donor of the picture, whose lineaments are portrayed
therein, was one, Rodrigo Pacheco, who was the owner of the house in the
_Casa de Medrano_ at the time that Cervantes sojourned in La Mancha. It
was probably by Pacheco’s order that Cervantes was lodged in the dungeon
beneath his house. Upon these traditional particulars the good people of
Argamasilla have based their legend, which identifies Cervantes with
their city, and makes one of their leading citizens the original of _Don
Quixote_. If the legend be true, and there would appear to be no
substantial reason for doubting it, we may dismiss the idea that the
author had departed from the principles he laid down as worthy of
adoption by all writers. Supposing that he selected this individual as
the victim of his satirical bent, we may learn from the affection with
which he develops the character of the afflicted knight, how little of
rancour and uncharitableness had place in his heart. It must be conceded
that he made merry at the expense of the Manchegans and their customs,
but he did it with so glad a humour, and such gentle sarcasm, that La
Mancha to-day is proud of the fame it has achieved in his immortal
pages, and reveres the memory of their adopted townsman as piously as if
he were their patron Saint. But if, as internal evidence gives some
excuse for believing, _Don Quixote_ was commenced before the death of
Philip II., this interesting and circumstantially-proved legend becomes
no more than a literary tradition, since that monarch had died before
Cervantes quitted Seville.
The only authenticated detail that we have of Cervantes’ career between
1598 and 1602 is this incident of his imprisonment at Argamasilla. When
next we hear of him, in 1603, he is among the unrewarded soldiers and
unrecognised men of letters who crowded the outer precincts of the Court
of Philip III., at Valladolid. The king, though priest-ridden, and
lacking in force of character, was not devoid of a kindly tolerance for
learning, but the crumbs of royal favour were distributed by the
ostentatious and uncultured Duke of Lerma, who despised literature, and
had his own ends to serve by the allocation of the kingly bounty. From
Lerma, as far as his biographers can discover, Cervantes received
nothing; but in the Duke of Béjar--a nobleman, distinguished in arms and
in poesy, and in his
[Illustration]
love of romances of chivalry, such as were still the vogue in Spain--he
found a patron. But the Duke might almost have been described as an
hereditary patron of works of chivalry, and when he learned the nature
and object of _Don Quixote_, for which the influence of his name had
been obtained, he withdrew his patronage. Cervantes prevailed upon the
Duke to listen to the reading of a chapter from the book before making
his decision absolute, and, according to Vicente de los Rios, who is
responsible for the story, his Grace was so delighted with the humour
and humanity of the history, that he reversed his verdict, and consented
to accept the dedication. The king’s printer, Francisco de Robles,
having secured a ten years’ copyright in the work, the privilege of
publication was granted on 26th September, 1604, and the book was issued
from the press of Juan de la Cuesta, at Madrid, in January, 1605.
The success of “the book of humanity,” as Sainte-Beuve has happily
described _Don Quixote_, was instantaneous and unprecedented, up to that
date, in the world of letters. Spain rang with admiration and plaudits
of this inspired story-teller and of the story, the like of which had
never before been told. In an age when readers were few, the book was
widely read, and in a country where the buying of books was a limited
indulgence, the book sold in its thousands. Mr. Watts estimates that no
fewer than 4,000 copies went into circulation in 1605. Copies of six
editions, published in that year, are extant--Madrid, Lisbon, and
Valencia each being responsible for two editions within a few months of
its first appearance. So competent an authority as Señor Gayangos is of
opinion that further impressions were printed at Barcelona, Pamplona,
and Zaragoza. Prior to the publication of _Don Quixote_, no masterpiece
of fiction had ever found so enthusiastic a public, or a sale so
enormous. It became in a flash the common-place book of the nation.
Cervantes tells us, through the mouth of the Bachelor Carrasco, in the
Second Part, which was not published until ten years later: “I do not in
the least doubt but at this day there have been published about 12,000
of it. Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have been printed,
can witness that, if there were occasion. It is said that it is also now
in the press at Antwerp. And I verily believe there is scarce a language
into which it is not to be translated.” In the same forty-fourth Chapter
of the Second Part, the rightly proud and complacent author speaks no
more than the literal truth when he says of it: “The author has made
everything so plain that there is nothing in that book but what anyone
may understand. Children handle it, youngsters read it, grown men
understand it, and old people applaud it. In short, it is universally so
thumbed, so gleaned, so studied, and so known, that if the people do but
see a lean horse, they presently cry, ‘There goes Rozinante.’ But no
[Illustration]
description of persons is so devoted to it as your pages; there is not a
nobleman’s ante-chamber in which you will not find a _Don Quixote_. If
one lays it down, another takes it up; while one is asking for it,
another one snatches it; in short, this history affords the most
pleasing and least prejudicial entertainment that ever was published,
for there is not so much as the appearance of an immodest word in it,
nor a thought that is not entirely catholic.”
Concerning the publication and popularity of _Don Quixote_, many stories
of varying degrees of improbability have sprung up, and are common to
most of the biographies of Cervantes. But the following incident,
showing that “even in his lifetime the author obtained the glory of
having his work receive a royal approbation,” is culled from an
anonymous “tract” published in 1853. The author does not quote any
authority for the narrative, which I have not encountered elsewhere. “As
Philip III.,” says this chronicler, “was standing in a balcony of his
palace at Madrid, viewing the country, he observed a student on the
banks of the river Manzanares reading in a book, and from time to time
breaking off and beating his forehead with extraordinary tokens of
pleasure and delight; upon which the king observed to those about him:
‘That scholar is either mad, or he is reading _Don Quixote_.’ The
biographer rounds up his story with the gratifying assurance that ‘the
latter proved to be the case.’”
It must not be supposed that, amid the almost universal applause which
welcomed the appearance of _Don Quixote_, some discordant notes were not
heard. People of fashion, whose chief literary recreation was the
reading of the very books of chivalry, which Cervantes so boldly and
humourously satirised, regarded it with cold displeasure; the clergy
frowned upon it, and rival authors professed to find it vulgar,
unbecoming, and absurd. But its popularity increased, despite, if not
even by reason of these captious criticisms, and the object of the
author in writing it gave rise to more speculation and disputings than
the interpretation of Ibsen has provoked in recent times. Cervantes
himself declared that he compiled his romance for the purpose of
“causing the false and silly books of chivalries to be abhorred by
mankind,” and in the attainment of this object he was wholly successful.
The publication of such romances suddenly ceased; the writing of them
was abandoned; the creation of these lovelorn shepherds and
shepherdesses, and of impossible cavaliers was arrested as if by magic.
And having marked the effect of the book, the public sought for some
hidden intention that was supposed to work behind the author’s pages,
and were content to find it in the character of the Knight of La Mancha.
They concluded that _Don Quixote_ was intended to satirise someone; but
whom? Was it the prosaic sovereign, Charles V., who was here held up to
ridicule, or the least romantic King Philip II., or that contemptuous
and unlettered disburser of royal
[Illustration]
favours, the Duke of Lerma? But the people who hazarded such wild
guesses must have failed to detect the subtle delicacy and nobility of
the knight’s nature, and the loving sympathy with which Cervantes dwells
upon the wisdom and sterling merit of his hero. Could a man satirise an
enemy with such gentleness and affection? Could a genius like Cervantes
so far overshoot his bolt as to make not only the other characters in
the book, but all the reading world, honour and love the figure that he
purposed to hold up to ridicule?
If Cervantes, in writing _Don Quixote_, was laughing away Spain’s
chivalry, as Lord Byron erroneously declared, then he was the target of
his own destructive cynicism, for the story of his career is that of a
man who practised a chivalry which was already extinct in Spain, and
maintained unswervingly a code of honour which had fallen into
desuetude. If Montesquieu’s similarly extravagant comment that “the
Spaniards have but one book--that which has made all the others
ridiculous” comes nearer to the truth, it must be conceded that the
romances which Cervantes exterminated were scarcely worth preserving.
But the book affords also another proof that truth surpasses fiction in
strangeness, since the popularity of _Don Quixote_, its effect, and its
immortality surprised no one so much as its author. Having disposed of
his rights in the publication to Francisco de Robles--the sum he
obtained for them is nowhere mentioned, but it may be surmised that it
was all too small for his need--Cervantes proceeded about his daily
task of providing bread for his family, and left this “child of his
sterile, ill-cultured wit” to its fate. He remained in Valladolid while
his book was being printed at Madrid, and the number of glaring and
absurd errors that marred the first edition is proof positive that he
did not see a single sheet. Many of these more palpable blunders were
absent from the 1608 edition which was revised by the author, who was
then resident in the capital.
Mr. Watts, who has evidently made a close and scholarly study of the old
romances of chivalry which _Don Quixote_ brought into such sudden
disfavour, has endeavoured, as I think, with much plausibility, to
demonstrate Cervantes’ precise attitude towards this class of
literature. Having traced the romantic vein from its genesis to the time
when the author of _Galatea_ employed it as his model, and eulogised in
high terms such examples of the genre as _Amadis of Gaul_ and _Palmerin
of England_, Mr. Watts points out that Cervantes carefully
differentiated between the romances of merit and the nautiating
imitations; that he was one of the most omniverious readers of such
books in that age, and the most deeply-imbued with their spirit. He
specially and enthusiastically praises the good volumes among the bad in
Don Quixote’s library; he praises again, through the mouth of the Canon
of Toledo, the feeling of romances of chivalry, and lays down the rules
on which such a history should be written. If he had
[Illustration]
any other object in composing _Don Quixote_ than to “write out of the
fulness of his own heart,” it was to check the perpetration of fatuous
and mischievous stories which were bringing into disrepute and ridicule
his old and well-loved stories of chivalry and romance. The secret of
the enduring success of _Don Quixote_, Mr. Watts concludes, is not to be
found in its motive, but in the fact that the romance was drawn from the
story of the author’s own life. “The hero himself, the enthusiast,
nursed on visions of chivalry, who is ever mocked by fortune; the
reviver of the old knighthood, who is buffeted by clowns and made sport
of by the baser sort; who, in spite of the frequent blows, jeers,
reverses, and indignities he receives, never ceases to command our love
and sympathy--who is he but the man of Lepanto himself, whose life is a
romance at least as various, eventful, and arduous; as full of
hardships, troubles, and sadness; as prolific of surprising adventures
and strange accidents as the immortal story he has written? This is the
key to _Don Quixote_, which, unless we use, we shall not reach the heart
of the mystery.”
Let us linger for awhile with Cervantes in the great square and broad
streets of Valladolid. To-day, Valladolid, “the Rich,” is a fallen city.
Here still stand the old Royal Palace, upon which Cervantes’ eyes must
so often have rested--a ruin. The great Cathedral, an imposing mass of
granite, which was begun in 1585, is still unfinished. Here still stand
the house in the Calle de Colon, in which Columbus died; and Cervantes’
own lodging at No. 14, Calle de Rastro; and the huge Plaza Major where,
on October 7th, 1559, Philip II. celebrated the first memorable Auto de
Fé, and which was, in Cervantes’ day, the meeting place of all the poets
and soldiers, the historians and savants, who haunted the Court of His
Most Religious Majesty. Here Cervantes remained while his work
circulated throughout the country, and overflowed into every country in
Europe.
Would you know the social conditions that prevailed in Spain in the
latter half of the sixteenth century? You can obtain the information in
“_The Life and Achievement of Don Quixote de la Mancha_.” If you would
have wit and wisdom, or if you would take humanity to be your study, you
have only to turn to this same work. If you seek to realise the
condition under which a man bore arms, or wielded a pen, under that
royal barbarian, Philip II., you must have resource to this history.
Would you understand Cervantes’ own experience in arms and in letters?
Turn to Chapter xxxi. of the First Part of _Don Quixote_. What higher
ideal ever had any man, both for the soldier and the writer? Listen to
the Don in what Cervantes assures his readers is his hero’s most
rational and logical humour: “Now the end and design of letters,” he
says, “is to regulate distributive justice, and give to every man his
due; to institute good laws, and cause
[Illustration]
them to be strictly observed; an end most certainly generous and
exalted, and worthy of high commendation; but not equal to that which is
annexed to the profession of arms, the object and end of which is peace,
the greatest blessing mortals can wish for in this wearisome life.”
The purpose of letters has never been placed on a higher standard, and
militarism is robbed of its sordidness in his definition of its aims.
Cervantes was a soldier and an author by trade, let us listen to his
verdict when, granting that the end of war is peace, and that in this it
has the advantage of the end proposed by letters, he weighs the labours
of the scholar against those of the warrior, and decides on which side
the balance turns.
“I say then,” he asserts, “that the hardships of the scholar are these:
in the first place poverty; not that they are all poor, but I would put
the case in the strongest manner possible; and when I have mentioned
that the scholar endures poverty, no more need be said to evince his
misery; for he that is poor is destitute of every good thing, he has to
contend with misery in all its forms, sometimes in hunger, sometimes in
cold, sometimes in nakedness, and sometimes in all these together. Yet
his necessity is not so great but that still he eats, though somewhat
later than usual, either by partaking of the rich man’s scraps and
leavings, or, which is his greatest misery, by going a sopping. Neither
does he always want the fireside or chimney-corner of some charitable
person, where, if he is not quite warmed, at least the extreme cold is
abated; and, lastly, at night he sleeps under cover. I will not mention
other trifles, such as want of linen, deficiency of shoes, his thin and
threadbare clothes, not the surfeits to which he is liable from
intemperance, when good fortune sets a plentiful table in his way. By
this path, rough and difficult as I have described it, now stumbling,
now falling, now rising, then falling and rising again, do scholars
arrive at last to the end of their wishes; which, being attained, we
have seen many who, having passed these Syrtes, these Scyllas, these
Charybdisis, buoyed up, as it were, by a favourable tide, have exercised
authority from a chair of state, and governed the world; their hunger
converted into satiety, their pinching cold into refreshing coolness,
their nakedness into embroidered raiment, and their bare mats to beds of
down, with furniture of fine holland and damask, a reward justly merited
by their virtues.
“But their hardships, when fairly brought together and compared, fall
short of those of the warrior, as I shall presently demonstrate. Since,
in speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty and its several
branches, let us see how it is with the soldier in that respect, and we
shall find that such is his lot poverty itself is not poorer, for he
depends on his wretched pay, which comes late, or perhaps never, or what
he can plunder, with great peril both of life and conscience. Sometimes
his want of clothing is
[Illustration]
such that his slashed buff doublet serves him both for doublet and for
shirt; and in the midst of Winter, being in the open field, he has
nothing but the breath of his mouth to warm him, which, issuing from an
empty stomach, must needs be cold, against all the rules of Nature. But
come, Night, and let us see whether bed will make amends for these
inconveniences. If it be not his own fault, it will never offend in
point of narrowness, for he may measure out as many feet of earth as he
pleases, and roll himself thereon at leisure, without fear of rumpling
the sheets.
“Suppose, again, the day and hour arrived of taking the degree of his
profession. I mean, suppose the day of battle come, wherein he is to put
in practice the exercise of his profession, and strike to gain some new
honour, then, as a mark of distinction, shall his head be dignified by a
cap made of lint, to stop a hole made by a bullet, or perhaps be carried
off maimed, at the expense of a leg or arm. And if this do not happen,
but that merciful Heaven preserve his life and limbs, it may fall out
that he shall remain as poor as before, and must run through many
encounters and battles, nay, always come off victorious, to obtain some
small preferment--and these miracles, too, are rare--but, I pray tell
me, if ever you made it your observation, how few are those who obtain
due rewards in war, in comparison of those numbers who perish? Doubtless
you will answer that there is no parity between them, that the dead
cannot be reckoned up; whereas those who live and are rewarded may be
numbered with three figures.
“It is quite otherwise with scholars, not only those who follow the
lead, but others also, who all either by hook or by crook get a
livelihood; so that though the soldier’s sufferings be much greater, yet
his reward is much less. To this it may be answered, that it is easier
to reward two thousand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers, because
the former are recompensed at the expense of the public, by giving them
employment, but the latter cannot be gratified but at the cost of the
master that employs them: yet this very difficulty makes good my
argument. Now for a man to attain to an eminent degree of learning costs
him time, watching, hunger, nakedness, dizziness in the head, weakness
in the stomach, and other inconveniences, which are the consequence of
those, of which I have already in part made mention. But the rising
gradually to be a good soldier is purchased at the whole expense of all
that is required for learning, and that in so surpassing a degree that
there is no comparison betwixt them, because he is every moment in
danger of his life. To what danger or distress can a scholar be reduced
equal to that of a soldier, who, being besieged in some strong place,
and at his post in some ravelin or bastion, perceives the enemy carrying
on a mine under him, and yet must upon no account remove from thence, or
shun the danger which threatens him? All he can do is to give notice to
his commander that he may countermine, but must himself stand still,
fearing and expecting when on a sudden he shall soar to the clouds
without wings, and be again cast down headlong against his will. If this
danger seems inconsiderable, let us see whether there be not greater
when two galleys shock one another with their prows in the midst of the
spacious sea. When they have thus grappled, and are clinging together,
the soldier is confined to the narrow gangway, being a board not above
two feet wide; and yet though he sees before him so many ministers of
death threatening, as there are pieces of cannon on the other side
pointing against him, and not half a pike’s length from his body; and
being sensible that the first slip of his feet sends him to the bottom
of Neptune’s dominions--still, for all this, inspired by honour, with an
undaunted heart, he stands a mark to so much fire, and endeavours to
make his way by that narrow passage into the enemy’s vessel. But what is
most to be admired is, that no sooner one falls, where he shall never
rise till the end of the world, than another steps into the same place;
and if he also drops into the sea, which lies in wait for him like an
enemy, another, and after him another, stills fills up the place,
without suffering any interval of time to separate their deaths, a
resolution and boldness scarce to be paralleled in any other trials of
war. Blessed be those happy ages that were strangers to the dreadful
fury of those devilish instruments of artillery which is the cause that
very often a cowardly, base hand takes away the life of the bravest
gentleman; and that in the midst of that vigour and resolution which
animates and inflames the bold, a chance bullet (shot perhaps by one
that fled, and was frightened at the very flash which the mischievous
piece gave when it went off) coming nobody knows how or from whence, in
a moment puts a period to the brave designs and the life of one that
deserved to have survived many years.”
I have quoted thus freely because the passage illustrates better than
pages of comment, the high ideals that inspired Cervantes both in the
tented field and in the long solitude of his poor study. He fought as he
wrote like a Christian gentleman; and if, in his lifetime, arms did not
bring him honours, nor letters riches, posterity is agreed to recognise
in him one of the truest soldiers and greatest writers of all times. It
was his persistent evil chance which, when he had abandoned the perilous
calling of a warrior, should dog his steps with sufferings from which
the writer is usually exempt. In June, 1605 within a month or two of the
publication of _Don Quixote_, a court gallant, Don Gaspar de Ezpeleta,
was suddenly assailed by two men, wounded and left for dead in the
street before Cervantes’ house. The author and his family hearing his
cries carried the stricken man into their lodging, where he died in a
few hours. Justice, in taking up the affair, clapped
[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA.
(OLDEST PLATE.)
_Paris, 1622._
_First Edition._]
Cervantes and his family in gaol, where they were detained until the
result of the inquiry exonerated them from playing anything but the
Samaritan’s part in the matter. This too, as Edmondo de Amicis reflects,
had to fall to the lot of the poor author of _Don Quixote_, so that he
could be said to have experienced every kind of trial.