Miguel Cervantes, the son of poor but gentle parents, was
born nobody quite knows where in Spain, in the year 1547. His
favourite amusement when a boy was the performance of
strolling players. He learned grammar and the humanities under
Lopez de Hoyos at Madrid, but did not, it seems, proceed to
the university. He was an early writer of sonnets, and tried
his hand on a pastoral poem before he had grown moustaches.
His first acquaintance with the world was acting as
chamberlain in the house of a cardinal, but this life he
presently abandoned for the more stirring career of a soldier.
After incredible sufferings and adventures, the poor private
soldier returned wounded to his family and began his career as
author. He soon established a reputation, and was able to
marry a quite adorable good lady with dowry sufficient for his
needs. However, it was not until late in life that he wrote
his immortal work "Don Quixote," which saw the light in 1604
or 1605. During the remainder of his life he was bitterly
assailed by the envious and malignant, was seldom out of
monetary difficulties, and very often in great pain from the
disease which finally ended his career at Madrid on April 23,
1616--the same day which saw the close of Shakespeare's.
_I.--The Knight-Errant of La Mancha_
In a certain village of La Mancha, there lived one of those
old-fashioned gentlemen who keep a lance in the rack, an ancient target,
a lean horse, and a greyhound for coursing. His family consisted of a
housekeeper turned forty, a niece not twenty, and a man who could saddle
a horse, handle the pruning-hook, and also serve in the house. The
master himself was nigh fifty years of age, lean-bodied and thin-faced,
an early riser, and a great lover of hunting. His surname was Quixada,
or Quesada.
You must know now that when our gentleman had nothing to do--which was
almost all the year round--he read books on knight-errantry, and with
such delight that he almost left off his sports, and even sold acres of
land to buy these books. He would dispute with the curate of the parish,
and with the barber, as to the best knight in the world. At nights he
read these romances until it was day; a-day he would read until it was
night. Thus, by reading much and sleeping little, he lost the use of his
reason. His brain was full of nothing but enchantments, quarrels,
battles, challenges, wounds, amorous plaints, torments, and abundance of
impossible follies.
Having lost his wits, he stumbled on the oddest fancy that ever entered
madman's brain--to turn knight-errant, mount his steed, and, armed
_cap-à-pie_, ride through the world, redressing all manner of
grievances, and exposing himself to every danger, that he might purchase
everlasting honour and renown.
The first thing he did was to secure a suit of armour that had belonged
to his great-grandfather. Then he made himself a helmet, which his sword
demolished at the first stroke. After repairing this mischief, he went
to visit his horse, whose bones stuck out, but who appeared to his
master a finer beast than Alexander's Bucephalus. After four days of
thought, he decided to call his horse Rozinante, and when the title was
decided upon, he spent eight days more before he arrived at Don Quixote
as a name for himself.
And now he perceived that nothing was wanting save only a lady, on whom
he might bestow the empire of his heart. There lived close at hand a
hard-working country lass, Aldonza Lorenzo, on whom sometimes he had
cast an eye, but who was quite unmindful of the gentleman. Her he
selected for his peerless lady, and dubbed her with the sweet-sounding
name of Dulcinea del Toboso.
_II.--An Adventure in a Courtyard_
One morning, in the hottest part of July, with great secrecy, he armed
himself, mounted Rozinante, and rode out of his backyard into the open
fields. He was disturbed to think that the honour of knighthood had not
yet been conferred upon him, but determined to rectify this matter at an
early opportunity, and rode on soliloquising, after the manner of
knight-errants, as happy as a man might be.
Towards evening he arrived at a common inn, before whose door sat two
wenches, the companions of some carriers bound for Seville. Don Quixote
instantly imagined the inn to be a castle, and the wenches to be fair
ladies taking the air; and as a swine-herd, getting his hogs together in
a stubble-field near at hand, chanced at that moment to wind his horn,
our gentleman imagined that this was a signal of his approach, and rode
forward in the highest spirits.
The extravagant language in which he addressed them astonished the
wenches as much as his amazing appearance, and they first would have run
from him, but finally stayed to laugh. Don Quixote rebuked them, whereat
they laughed the more, and only the innkeeper's appearance prevented the
knight's indignation from carrying him to extremities. This man was for
peace, and welcomed the strange apparition to his inn with all civility,
marvelling much to find himself addressed as Sir Castellan. So the
knight sat down to supper with strange company, and discoursed of
chivalry to the bewilderment of all present, treating the inn as a
castle, the host as a noble gentleman, and the wenches as great ladies.
He presently sought the innkeeper alone in the stable, and, kneeling,
requested to be dubbed a knight, vowing that he would not move from that
place till 'twas done. The host guessed the distraction of his visitor
and complied, counselling Don Quixote--who had never read of such things
in books of chivalry--to provide himself henceforth with money and clean
shirts, and no longer to ride penniless. That night Don Quixote watched
his arms by moonlight, laying them upon the horse-trough in the yard of
the inn, while from a distance the innkeeper and his guests watched the
gaunt man, now leaning on his lance, and now walking to and fro, with
his target on his arm.
It chanced that a carrier came to water his mules, and was about to
remove the armour, when Don Quixote in a loud voice called him to
desist. The man took no notice, and Don Quixote, calling upon his
Dulcinea to assist him, lifted his lance and brought it down on the
carrier's pate, laying him flat. A second carrier came, and was treated
in like manner; but now all the company of them came, and with showers
of stones made a terrible assault upon the knight. It was only the
interference of the innkeeper that put an end to this battle, and by
careful words he was able to appease Don Quixote's wrath and get him out
of the inn.
On his way the now happy knight found a farmer beating a boy, and
bidding him desist, inquired the reason of this chastisement. The man,
afraid of the strange armoured figure, told how this boy did his work
badly in the field, and deserved his flogging; but the boy declared that
the farmer owed him wages, and that whenever he asked for them his
master flogged him. Sternly did the Don command the man to pay the lad's
wages, and when the fellow promised to do so directly he got home, and
the boy protested that he would surely never keep that promise, Don
Quixote threatened the farmer, saying, "I am the valorous Don Quixote of
La Mancha, righter of wrongs, revenger and redresser of grievances;
remember what you have promised and sworn, as you will answer the
contrary at your peril." Convinced that the man dare not disobey, he
rode forward, and the farmer very soon continued his flogging of the
boy.
A company of merchants approaching caused Don Quixote to halt in the
middle of the road, calling upon them to stand until they acknowledged
Dulcinea del Toboso to be the peerless beauty of the world. This
challenge was met with prevarication, which enraged Don Quixote, and
clapping spurs to Rozinante he bore down upon the company with his lance
couched.
A stumble of the horse threw him, and as he lay on the ground, unable to
move, one of the servants of the company came up and broke the lance
across Don Quixote's ribs. It was not until a countryman came by that
the Don was extricated, and then he had to ride back to his own village
on the ass of the poor labourer, being so stiff and sore as quite
incapable to mount Rozinante.
The curate and the barber, seeing now what havoc romances of chivalry
were making in the wits of this good gentleman, ran through his library
while he lay wounded in bed, burned all his noxious works, and, securely
locking the door, prepared the tale that enchantment had carried away
the books and the very chamber itself.
None of the entreaties of his niece, nor the remonstrances of his
housekeeper, could stay Don Quixote at home, and he soon prepared for a
second sally. He persuaded a good, honest country labourer, Sancho Panza
by name, to enter his service as squire, promising him for reward the
first island or empire which his lance should happen to conquer. Thus
did things happen in books of chivalry, and he did not doubt that thus
it would happen with him.
_III.--The Immortal Partnership_
So it came to pass that one night Don Quixote stole away from his home,
and Sancho Panza from his wife and children, and with the master on
Rozinante, the servant on his ass, Dapple, hastened away under cover of
darkness in search of adventures. As they travelled, "I beseech your
worship," quoth Sancho, "be sure you forget not your promise of the
island; for, I dare swear, I shall make shift to govern it, let it be
never so big." The knight, in a rhapsody, foreshadowed the day when
Sancho might be made even a king, for in romances of chivalry there is
no limit to the gifts made by valorous knights to their faithful
squires. But Sancho shook his head. "Though it rain kingdoms on the face
of the earth, not one of them would fit well upon the head of my wife;
for, I must needs tell you, she is not worth two brass-jacks to make a
queen of."
As they were thus discoursing they espied some thirty windmills in the
plain, which Don Quixote instantly took for giants. Nothing that Sancho
said could dissuade him, and he must needs clap spurs to his horse and
ride a-tilt at these great windmills, recommending himself to his lady
Dulcinea. As he ran his lance into the sail of the first mill, the wind
whirled about with such swiftness that the motion broke the lance into
shivers, and hurled away both knight and horse along with it. When
Sancho came upon his master the Don explained that some cursed
necromancer had converted those giants into windmills to deprive him of
the honour of victory.
When the knight was recovered they continued their way, and their next
adventure was to meet two monks on mules riding before a coach, with
four or five men on horseback, wherein sat a lady going to Seville to
meet her husband. Don Quixote rode forward, addressed the monks as
"cursed implements of hell," and bade them instantly release the lovely
princess in the coach. The monks flew for their lives as Don Quixote
charged down upon them, but Sancho was thrown down by the servants, who
tore his beard, trampled his stomach, beat and mauled him in every part
of his body, and then left him sprawling without breath or motion.
As for Don Quixote, he came off victor in this conflict, and only
desisted from slaying his assailant on the plea of the lady in the
coach, and on her promise that the conquered man should present himself
before the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso. The recovered Sancho was
surprised to find that his master had no island to bestow upon him after
this incredible victory, wherein he himself had suffered so
disastrously.
In a fierce encounter with some Yanguesian carriers, Don Quixote was
wounded almost to death, and he explained to Sancho that his defeat he
owed to fighting with common people, bidding Sancho in future to fight
himself against such common fellows.
"Sir," said Sancho, "I am a peaceful man, a quiet fellow, do you see; I
can make shift to forgive injuries as well as any man, as having a wife
to maintain, and children to bring up. I freely forgive all mankind,
high and low, lords and beggars, whatsoever wrongs they ever did or may
do me, without the least exception."
At the next inn they came upon Don Quixote, who was lying prone on
Sancho's ass, groaning in pain, vowed that here was a worthy castle.
Sancho swore 'twas an inn. Their dispute lasted till they reached the
door, where Sancho marched straight in, without troubling himself any
further in the matter. It was here that surprising adventures took
place. The knight, Sancho, and a carrier were obliged to share one
chamber. The maid of the inn, entering this apartment, was mistaken by
Don Quixote for the princess of the castle, and taking her in his arms,
he poured out a rhapsody to the virtues of Dulcinea del Toboso. The
carrier resented this, and in a moment the place was in an uproar. Such
a fight never took place before, and when it was over both the knight
and the squire were as near dead as men can be. To right himself, Don
Quixote concocted a balsam of which he had read, and drinking it off,
presently was so grievously ill that he was like to cast up his heart and
liver.
Being got to bed again, he felt sure that he was now invulnerable, and
he woke early next day, eager to sally forth. When the host asked for
his reckoning, "How! Is this an inn?" quoth the Don. "Yes, and one of
the best on the road." "How strangely have I been mistaken then! Upon my
honour, I took it for a castle, and a considerable one, too." Saying
which, he added that knights never yet paid for the honour they
conferred in lying at any man's house, and so rode away. But poor Sancho
Panza did not get off scot free, for they tossed him in a blanket in the
backyard, where the Don could see the torture over the wall, but could
by no means get to the rescue of his squire.
When they were together again, the gallant Don comforted poor Sancho
Panza with hopes of an island, and explained away all their sufferings
on the grounds of necromancy. All that had gone awry with them was the
work of some cursed enchanters.
Their next adventure was begun by a cloud of dust on the horizon, which
instantly made Don Quixote exclaim that a great battle was in progress.
A nearer view revealed that the dust rose from a huge flock of sheep;
but the knight's blood was up, and he rode forward as fast as poor
Rozinante could carry him, and did frightful slaughter among the sheep,
till the stones of the shepherd brought him to the earth. "Lord save
us!" cried Sancho, as he assisted the Don to his feet. "Your worship has
left on his lower side only two grinders, and on the upper not one."
Later, they came upon a company of priests, with lighted tapers,
carrying a corpse through the night. Don Quixote charged them, brought
one of the company to the ground, and scattered the rest. Sancho Panza,
whose stomach cried cupboard, filled his wallet with the rich provisions
of the priests, boasting to the wounded man that his master was the
redoubtable Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance. When the adventure was over, Don Quixote questioned
his squire on this name, and Sancho replied, "I have been staring upon
you this pretty while by the light of that unlucky priest's torch, and
may I never stir if ever I set eyes on a more dismal countenance in my
born days."
The next enterprise was with a barber, who carried his new brass basin
on his head, so that it suggested to Don Quixote the famous helmet of
Mambrino. Accordingly, he bore down upon the barber, put him to flight,
and possessed himself of the basin, which he wore as a helmet. More
serious was the following adventure, when Don Quixote released from the
king's officers a gang of galley slaves, because they assured him that
they travelled chained much against their will. So gallantly did the
knight behave, that he conquered the officers and left them all but
dead. Nevertheless, coming to an argument with the released convicts,
whom he would have sent to his lady Dulcinea, he himself, and Sancho,
too, were as mauled by the convicts as even those self-same officers.
It now came to Don Quixote that he must perform a penance in the
mountains, and sending Sancho with a letter to Dulcinea, he divested
himself of much of his armour and underwear, and performed the maddest
gambols and self-tortures ever witnessed under a blue sky.
However, it chanced that Sancho Panza soon fell in with the curate and
the barber of Don Quixote's village, and these good friends, by a
cunning subterfuge, in which a beautiful young lady played a part, got
Don Quixote safely home and into his own bed. The lady, affecting great
distress, made Don Quixote vow to enter upon no adventure until he had
righted a wrong done against herself; and one night, as they journeyed
on this mission, a great cage was made and placed over Don Quixote as he
slept, and thus, persuaded that necromancy was at work against, him, the
valiant knight was borne back a prisoner to his home.
_IV.--Sancho Governs His Island_
Nothing short of a prison cell could keep Don Quixote from his sallies,
and soon he was on the road again, accompanied by his faithful squire.
To Sancho, who believed his master mad, and whose chief aim in life was
filling his own stomach, these adventures of the Don had but one end,
the governorship of the promised island. While he thought the knight
mad, he believed in him; and while he was selfish, he loved his master,
as the tale tells.
It chanced that one day they came upon a frolicsome duke and duchess who
had heard of their adventures, and who instantly set themselves to enjoy
so rare a sport as that offered by the entertainment of the knight and
his squire. The Don was invited to the duke's castle as a mighty hero,
and there treated with all possible honour; but some tricks were played
upon him which were certainly unworthy of the duke's courtesy.
Nevertheless, this visit had the happiest culmination, since it was from
the hands of the duke that Sancho at last received his governorship.
Making pretence that a certain town on his estate, named Barataria, was
an island, the duke dispatched Sancho to govern it; and after an
affecting farewell with his master, who gave him the wisest possible
advice on the subject of statecraft, Sancho set out in a glittering
cavalcade to take up his governorship, with his beloved Dapple led
behind.
After a magnificent entry into the city, Sancho Panza was called upon to
give judgment in certain teasing disputes, and this he did with such wit
and such wholesome commonsense that he delighted all who heard him.
Well-pleased with himself, he sat down in a grand hall to a solitary
banquet, with a physician standing by his side. No sooner had Sancho
tasted a dish than the physician touched it with a wand, and a page bore
it swiftly away. At first Sancho was confounded by this interference
with his appetite, but presently he grew bold and expostulated;
whereupon the physician said that his mission was to overlook the
governor's health, and to see that he ate nothing which was prejudicial
to his physical well-being, since the happiness of the state depended
upon the health of its governor. Sancho bore it for some time, but at
length, starting up, he bade the physician avaunt, saying, "By the sun's
light, I'll get me a good cudgel, and beginning with your carcase, will
so belabour all the physic-mongers in the island, that I will not leave
one of the tribe. Let me eat, or let them take their government again;
for an office that will not afford a man his victuals is not worth two
horse beans."
At that moment there came a messenger from the duke, sweating, and with
concern in his looks, who pulled a packet from his bosom and presented
it to the governor. This message from the duke was to warn Sancho that a
furious enemy intended to attack his island, and that he must be on his
guard. "I have also the intelligence," wrote the duke, "from faithful
spies, that there are four men got into the town in disguise to murder
you, your abilities being regarded as a great obstacle to the enemy's
design. Take heed how you admit strangers to speak with you, and eat
nothing that is laid before you."
Sancho set out to inspect his defences; but with every step he took he
was confronted by some problem of government on which he was called upon
to adjudicate. Harassed by these appeals, and half famished, our
governor began to think that governorship was the sorriest trade on
earth, and before a week was over he addressed to Don Quixote a letter,
concluding, "Heaven preserve you from ill-minded enchanters, and send me
safe and sound out of this government." One night he was awakened by the
clanging of a great bell, and in came servants crying in affright that
the enemy was approaching. Sancho rose, and was adjured by his subjects
to lead them forth against their terrible foes. He asked for food, and
declared that he knew nothing of arms. They rebuked him, and bringing
him shields and a lance, proceeded to tie him up so tightly with shields
behind and shields before that he could scarcely move. Then they bade
him march, and lead on the army. "March!" quoth he. "These bonds stick
so plaguey close that I cannot so much as bend my knees!" "For shame!"
they answered. "It is fear and not armour that stiffens your legs." Thus
rebuked, Sancho endeavoured to move, but fell flat on the earth like a
great tortoise; while in the darkness the others made a clash with their
swords and shields, and trampled upon the prone governor, who quite gave
himself up for dead. But at break of day they raised a cry of "Victory!"
and, lifting Sancho up, told him that their enemies were driven off.
To this he said nothing save to ask for his old clothes. And when he was
dressed he went down to Dapple's stall, and embraced his faithful ass
with tears in his eyes. "Come hither, my friend and true companion,"
quoth he; "happy were my days, my months, and years, when with thee I
journeyed, and all my concern was to mend thy harness and find food for
thy little stomach! But now that I have climbed to the towers of
ambition, a thousand woes, a thousand torments, and four thousand
tribulations have haunted my soul!" While he spoke he fitted on the
pack-saddle, mounted his ass, bade farewell to the people, and departed
in peace and great humility.
_V.--The Death of Don Quixote_
Meanwhile, Don Quixote had been fooled to the top of his bent in the
duke's castle, and had endured tribulations from maids and men
sufficient to deject the finest fortitude. He was now in the mood to
forsake that great castle, and to embrace once more the life of the open
road, and so with Sancho Panza he started out to take up the threads of
his old life. After adventures so miraculous as to seem incredible, Don
Quixote was laid low in an encounter with a friend of his disguised as a
knight, and by this defeat was so broken and humiliated that he thought
to turn shepherd and to spend the remainder of his days in a pastoral
life. Sancho cheered him, and kept his heart as high as it would reach
in his misery, and together they turned their faces towards home,
leaving the future to the disposition of Providence.
As they entered the village, two boys fighting in a field attracted the
knight's attention, and he heard one of them cry, "Never fret yourself,
you shall never see her while you have breath in your body!" The knight
immediately applied these words to himself and Dulcinea, and nothing
that Sancho could say had power to cheer his spirits. Moreover, the boys
of the village, having seen them, raised a shout, and came laughing
about them, saying, "Oh, law! here is Gaffer Sancho Panza's donkey as
fine as a lady, and Don Quixote's beast thinner than ever!" The barber
and the curate then came upon the scene and saw their old friend, and
went with him to his house.
Here Don Quixote faithfully described his discomfiture in the encounter
with another knight, and declared his intention honourably to observe
the conditions laid upon him of being confined to his village for a
year.
Melancholy increased with the poor knight, and he was seized with a
violent fever. The physician and his friends conjectured that his
sickness arose from regret for his defeat and disappointment of
Dulcinea's disenchantment; they did all they could do to divert him, but
in vain. One day he desired them to leave him, and for six hours he
slept so profoundly that his niece thought he was dead. At the end of
this time he wakened, and cried with a loud voice, "Blessed be Almighty
God for this great benefit He has vouchsafed to me! His mercies are
infinite; greater are they than the sins of men."
These rational words surprised his niece, and she asked what he meant by
them. He answered that by God's mercy his judgment had returned, free
and clear. "The cloud of ignorance," said he, "is now removed, which
continuous reading of those noxious books of knight-errantry had laid
upon me." He said that his great grief now was the lateness with which
enlightenment had come, leaving him so little time to prepare his soul
for death.
The others coming in, Don Quixote made his confession, and one went to
fetch Sancho Panza. With tears in his eyes the squire sought his poor
master's side, and when in the first clause of his will Don Quixote made
mention of Sancho, saying afterwards, "Pardon me, my friend, that I
brought upon you the shame of my madness," Sancho cried out, "Woe's me,
your worship, do not die this bout; take my counsel, and live many a
good year. For it is the maddest trick a man can play in his whole life
to go out like the snuff of a candle, and die merely of the mulligrubs!"
The others admonished him in like spirit, but Don Quixote answered and
said, "Gently, sirs! do not look in last year's nests for the birds of
this year. I was mad, but now I have my reason. I was Don Quixote of La
Mancha; but to-day I am Alonso Quixano the Good. I hope that my
repentance and my sincerity will restore me to the esteem that once you
had for me. And now let Master Notary proceed." So he finished writing
his will, and then fell into a swooning fit, and lay full length in his
bed. But he lingered some days, and when he did give up the ghost, or to
speak more plainly, when he died, it was amidst the tears and
lamentations of his family, and after he had received the last
sacrament, and had expressed, in pathetic way, his horror at the books
of chivalry.
* * * * *