admiration of her neighbors. But with all this greatness, which was
only the greatness of size, decay was present in the heart of the
Empire. Under Philip, the rot spread further.
Lust for gold, which poured into the country from her rich colonies,
and rage for dominion absorbed every wholesome passion in Spain, and
gradually she fell away from her position of domination. It is one of
the many instances which show how Imperial ambition and the worship
of force can bring about a country’s ruin. Men begin to boast about
the number of square miles and the number of million souls that come
under their flag. Their minds become occupied with material ends: the
Government pursues a policy of aggression and aggrandizement: and the
urgent needs of improvement in the social and economic condition of
the common people are neglected. To wring as much as possible from the
people at home and to acquire as much secret influence as possible in
the affairs of other nations was the rule of Philip’s conduct and the
object of his life.
There were wars without number, and Cervantes seems to have found a
fresh opportunity of serving his country as a soldier in Portugal,
but the evidence for this is doubtful. But, what is more important,
he now became more active with his pen, and wrote a number of poems
and plays. The most famous of these was “Galatea,” a poetical romance
which brought him to the front. Nevertheless, he found he could not
get enough money by writing to keep his home—in fact, to the end, his
life was a perpetual struggle with poverty.
At the age of thirty-seven he married a lady who rejoiced in the
high-sounding name of Doña Catalina de Palacios Salazan y Vezmediano.
Hardly anything is known of her, except the dowry which she brought
with her, which consisted amongst other things of plantations of
vines, household furniture, two linen sheets, three of cotton, a
cushion stuffed with wool, one good blanket and one worn, garments,
four beehives, forty-live hens and pullets and one cock. Her neighbors
considered that so rich a young woman was throwing herself away on the
obscure maimed soldier who was many years her senior. She survived her
husband by ten years.
Cervantes began now to work at his writing very seriously, but he was
quite unable to compete with the principal Spanish dramatist of the
time, Lope de Vega, who was a great popular favorite, and, though the
younger of the two, outstripped his rival easily in his powers of
production, which were prodigious. But he was known as “the universal
envier” of the applause given to others. In his lifetime Lope is said
to have written one thousand eight hundred plays, not to mention
innumerable poems and stories. He was a dissolute character, with great
energy, boundless invention, and considerable wit. But few of his
plays have survived, and outside Spain the name of Lope de Vega is but
little known to-day. The Spanish drama of this period was the model
copied by other countries. The bustling farce originated in Spain, and
Elizabethan and Jacobean writers took many of the plots for their plays
from Spanish dramatists.
But Cervantes could not make a living out of writing; unlike Lope, he
had no powerful and influential friends. He had therefore to look for
other employment. The Invincible Armada was just then being fitted up,
and he got a post as agent for collecting provisions, and afterwards
he was appointed to the very humble position of tax-collector—an
occupation he must have hated, as he got into trouble more than once,
having to pay the debts of people whom he had trusted too much. He
applied for a higher post in the Government service, but his petition
was dismissed and he was forced to continue the distasteful work at
a reduced salary, falling into such extreme poverty at one time that
he actually was in need of common cloth to cover his nakedness. His
unbusinesslike habits made people suspect his honesty. He drifted lower
and lower, until at last he was imprisoned in Seville for mistakes in
his accounts. From the court he could expect nothing. Philip was not
likely to be sympathetic to a struggling writer or even grateful to an
old soldier, and prayers from Cervantes were set aside unanswered. Nor
when Philip’s son, Philip III, succeeded to the throne did any crumb
of royal favor fall his way.
In the face of all these disadvantages and troubles the great work of
his genius was being conceived and written, and in 1605 the first part
of “Don Quixote” appeared. Although it was an immediate success with
the people, the Church of course expressed strong disapproval, and
literary men criticized it, Lope de Vega wrote: “No poet is as bad as
Cervantes nor so foolish as to praise ‘Don Quixote.’”
The books people read most of all in those days were romances of
chivalry, recording absurd adventures of wonderful knights-errant
who wandered about capturing princesses from castles and performing
great deeds of prowess—all written quite seriously. Cervantes wanted
to ridicule this sort of literature and show up its absurdity. But so
fertile was his imagination and so varied had been his own experiences
that at the same time, as I have already said, he succeeded in giving a
wonderfully graphic picture of Spanish life, bringing in all classes of
society and also recording many of his own adventures as a soldier.
Don Quixote himself, though a ridiculous figure in a way, is depicted
as a delightful gentleman filled with generous and high-minded
sentiments, courteous and kindly, a champion of the downtrodden,
and a protector of the weak. The word “quixotic,” which is used in
every language in the civilized world, conveys precisely the knight’s
character. It means a man with impossibly extravagant romantic and
chivalrous notions, but a man with high ambitions who is a champion and
reformer at heart. The book was not the work of a learned scholar or
professor; it was the outcome of natural genius which appealed directly
to all classes and all ages. The saying at the time was that “Children
turn its leaves, young people read it, grown men understand it, old
folks praise it.” The English were among the first to appreciate the
wonderful book of adventures and it was translated in 1612.
About the second part of “Don Quixote” there is a curious story. While
Cervantes was at work at it, some one who called himself Avellaneda
(some think it was his old enemy, Blanco de Paz) wrote and published a
second part, which was a sort of imitation rather cleverly done, but,
of course, without any of the merits of the original. It contains an
ill-natured prologue referring to the author of the first part as a
cripple, a backbiter, a malefactor, and a jailbird, and reproaching
him for having more tongue than hands (a reference to his maimed left
hand). Cervantes was naturally indignant at this attempt to spoil his
book. He hastened to issue his own second part, and thus completed his
great work, which, throughout, is of the same high quality. It is
possible that had it not been for the intrusion of this impertinent
interloper the second part of “Don Quixote” might never have been
finished.
The whole book was written at a time when the poor unfortunate author
was struggling sometimes actually for bread. But nowhere in it can be
found any trace of malice or bitterness. The second part was finished
as he was approaching the seventieth year of a life of toil, privation,
and disappointment. But his unfailing cheerfulness and good-humor never
left him. This is very remarkable, because so many authors who have
written satire have been unable to resist spiteful digs at other people.
It is a great pity there is no proper portrait of Cervantes. Velasquez,
the greatest Spanish painter, lived just a little too late, but his
master and father-in-law, Pacheco, painted a picture representing the
release of captives from Algiers, and a boatman in that picture is
supposed to represent Cervantes. There is also a doubtful portrait by a
painter called Jaurequi. But many portraits came out, one of which is
reproduced here, which were made up from his own description of himself:
He whom you see here of aquiline features with chestnut hair, a
smooth, unruffled forehead, with sparkling eyes and a nose arched
though well proportioned—a beard of silver which not twenty years
since was of gold—great mustaches, a small mouth, the teeth of no
account, for he has but six of them, and they in bad condition
and worse arranged, for they do not hold correspondence with one
another; the body between two extremes, neither great nor little; the
complexion bright, rather white than brown; somewhat heavy in the
shoulders—this, I say, is the aspect of the author of “Don Quixote de
la Mancha.”
He also tells us he had an infirmity of speech and was nearsighted.
The Archbishop of Toledo, who was one of the few people who befriended
him, was once questioned by some French visitors about him. “I found
myself compelled to say,” he confesses, “that he was an old man, a
soldier, a gentleman, and poor.” “If it is necessity that compels him
to write,” replied one of the strangers, “may God send he may never
have abundance, so that, poor himself, he may make the whole world
rich.”
Cervantes lived for some years in a very poor part of Valladolid. The
family, consisting of his wife, his daughter, his sister, a niece,
and a cousin, were more or less dependent on him, though the women by
their needlework helped to keep the household going. The sidelights
cast by scraps of evidence which have been collected about members of
his family do not give at all an attractive impression of his domestic
life. It was altogether rather squalid and wretched: he lived cooped up
in hugger-mugger fashion, doing odds and ends of work for business men
into whose characters he could not afford to pry too curiously. But
Cervantes’ mind was in no way poisoned by his surroundings.
Even if “Don Quixote” had never been written, the stories called
“Novelas Examplares” would have entitled Cervantes to the foremost
place among Spanish novelists.
Sir Walter Scott admired them greatly, and declared that they had first
inspired him with the ambition of excelling in fiction. Cervantes went
on writing to the very end of his life. An anecdote he tells in one of
his last writings shows the sort of cheerful way in which he looked
upon failing health, old age, and death. He relates how a student
overtook him as a companion on the road one day, and hearing the name
of Miguel de Cervantes, at once alighted from his ass and (to put it in
his own words)—
made for me and hastily seized me by the left hand, cried “Yes,
yes; it is he of the crippled hand, sure enough, the all-famous,
the merry writer, and indeed the joy of the Muses!” To me, who in
these brief terms saw of my praises the grand compass, it seemed
to be discourteous not to respond to them, so, embracing him round
the neck, whereby I made entire havoc of his collar, I said: “This
is a mistake in which many friends from ignorance have fallen. I,
sir, am Cervantes; but not the joy of the Muses, nor any of the fine
things your worship has said. Regain your ass and mount, and let us
travel together in pleasant talk for the rest of our short journey.”
The polite student did so, we reduced our speed a little, and at
a leisurely pace pursued our journey, in the course of which my
infirmity was touched upon. The good student checked my mirth in a
moment: “This malady is the dropsy, which not all the water of the
ocean, let it be ever so sweet drinking, can cure. Let your worship
set bounds to your drink, not forgetting to eat, for so without other
medicine you will do well.” “That many have told me,” answered I.
“but I can no more give up drinking for pleasure than I had been born
for nothing else. My life is slipping away, and by the diary my pulse
is keeping, which at the latest will end its reckoning this coming
Sunday, I have to close my life’s account. Your worship has come to
know me in a rude moment, since there is no time for me to show my
gratitude for the good-will you have shown me.”
He ends his narrative with the words:
Good-by, humors; good-by, pleasant fancies; good-by, merry friends;
for I perceive I am dying, in the wish to see you happy in the other
life.
Cervantes died on April 19, 1616, at Madrid, and was buried without any
ceremony. No stone or inscription even marked his grave. When, thirty
years later, Lope de Vega died, grandees bore his coffin and bishops
officiated at the funeral ceremonies, which lasted nine days.
Look out for people about whom a tremendous fuss is made, and remember
that loud applause is not necessarily the accompaniment of real merit.
No wise man expects to get immediate credit for his achievements. He
does not work for personal renown, but for the love of his art or
the attainment of his ideals. Fame is cheaply won by many who little
deserve it. But to leave so rich a legacy to mankind as Cervantes did,
and a name so highly honored for all time, is the privilege of very few.
A. P.
V
GIORDANO BRUNO
1548–1600
I have fought: that is much—victory is in the hands of fate. Be that
as it may with me, this at least future ages will not deny of me, be
the victor who may—that I did not fear to die, yielded to none of my
fellows in constancy, and preferred a spirited death to a cowardly
life.
As the world grows older knowledge increases. From time to time men
have to correct and alter their opinions and beliefs. What at one
period is accepted as true may be proved at a later period to be false.
But we do not like abandoning our favorite beliefs, and we are apt to
get rather annoyed with a reformer, a discoverer, or an inventor who
comes along with new notions and upsets our ideas. Even to-day such a
man is often laughed at or abused. In mediæval times he was made to
suffer as an outcast and even sometimes as a criminal.
You will read many books about heroes who have displayed courage and
endurance in battle, exploration, and adventure. But men who have had
to overcome prejudices and to stand by their opinions in spite of
almost universal opposition have also played an important part in the
world’s history, though you may hear less about them. Moral courage is
more rare than physical courage. To display physical courage may make a
man a popular hero. If he fails he is stamped as a coward. To display
moral courage more often than not makes a man unpopular. There is no
audience to applaud and it is quite easy to be a moral coward without
any one, even intimate friends, finding it out. It is far simpler to
say “Yes” when every one else is saying “Yes.” He who rows against the
stream cannot hope to carry many with him, and his progress must be
slow.
Nothing can have upset men’s calculations more than the first great
discoveries of astronomy. No doubt people scoffed when Pythagoras told
them the earth was round and not flat, as they supposed. But it was
a still more disturbing idea to be told that the earth was not the
center of the universe, with the sun and moon and stars revolving round
it. Most men firmly believed this to be the case up to the fifteenth
century. And when Copernicus first elaborated in a book, between 1506
and 1512, the heliocentric theory, that is to say the theory that
the sun was the center round which the earth and the other planets
revolved, it was a long time before any one would treat such an idea
seriously. We may laugh at the ignorance of our forefathers, and we may
declare glibly that of course the earth goes round the sun, but there
are not many of us who would be ready to explain scientifically
why we know this to be a fact. We, too, have to accept a great deal
on other people’s authority because _we are told_ it is true, and
not because _we know_ it is true. And to us again the new idea often
appears unwelcome and disturbs our most cherished beliefs.
[Illustration: GIORDANO BRUNO]
But, anyhow, we know now that a man’s deeds and his loyalty to his own
convictions are far more important than any declaration he may make of
his beliefs, especially when such a declaration is forced from him or
made to please others. Some people find it very difficult to believe
things of which they cannot see the clear explanation. Other people,
with very little effort, can believe almost anything they are told.
They are like the White Queen in “Alice Through the Looking Glass,”
who, when Alice said she could not believe impossible things, replied,
“I dare say you haven’t had much practice. When I was your age I always
did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I believed as many as six
impossible things before breakfast.”
In the sixteenth century doubt and disbelief in any of the
hard-and-fast rules and dogmas of the Church was not tolerated.
Any one who was bold enough to refuse to say he believed what he
conscientiously knew he could not believe was liable to be punished
with the utmost severity.
In the Campo dei Fiori, the largest open space in Rome, a vast
concourse of people assembled on February 17th in the year 1600. In
the center of the place stood a huge pile of faggots: from the midst
of its logs and branches there rose a stake. On many of the eager and
expectant faces which crowded round might have been seen an expression
of malignant triumph. The Church was taking revenge on a heretic who
had refused to accept all the doctrines laid down by its authority, a
heretic who actually taught that the earth moved round the sun.
Soldiers clear the way for the procession which advances solemnly to
the spot. A small, thin man with a black beard, clothed in the garb of
a condemned victim of the Inquisition—a sulphur-colored cloak painted
with flames and devils—is led up to the pile. The priests even now, at
the last moment, argue with him and attempt to make him acknowledge
his error. With a look of melancholy but unconquerable determination
he refuses to listen to them or to receive any consolation from them.
A jeer rises from the multitude. He is taken and chained to the stake.
Will he not at the last moment recant? Will he not utter the words
that will save him from such cruel torture? Will he not pray for
mercy? They wait a moment, but he remains silent, calm, and obdurate.
The faggots are lit, the branches crackle; flames leap up; the victim
writhes, but not a single cry escapes him. Amid frantic shouts from
the crowd the smoke envelops him. In a few moments all that remains
is a pile of ashes, which are scattered to the winds.... This was the
end of Giordano Bruno, the Italian philosopher and poet, who refused
to consent to what he thought was false and refused to deny what he
thought was true.
It has been said that men resemble the earth which bears them. The
volcanic slope of Mount Vesuvius was the birthplace of this fiery and
unconquerable fighter. He was born in 1548 at Nola, and was the son
of a soldier. Not only does he seem in his early youth to have had a
great love of learning, but he was able to get the very best tuition
in Naples, where he lodged with an uncle who was a weaver of velvet.
His knowledge of science, mathematics, and the classics, as well as
of poetry and music, was astonishing even when he was quite young.
Besides Italian, he spoke Latin and Spanish fluently and knew something
of Greek. In spite of his ardent nature, his first step was to shut
himself up as a Dominican monk at the age of fourteen. He remained for
thirteen years in monastic seclusion, and was duly promoted to holy
orders and to the priesthood. He pursued his studies all this time
with the greatest diligence. He laid in stores of learning which were
the foundation of his independent views and writings in after-life.
But it was impossible that a man of such fire and energy should tamely
settle down to a quiet life of prayer and contemplation. The Church
was in a pitiable state of ignorance and corruption. Young Giordano’s
keen intelligence, strengthened by study and roused by his restless
energy, soon drove him into conflict with his superiors. This was
the first of a series of conflicts in which he combated the forces
of authority wherever he went all his life through. He was accused
of impiety because of the broad views he expressed about some of the
principal doctrines of the Church. His position became intolerable, so
he cast off his monkish robe and fled to Genoese territory, where he
remained a few months supporting himself by teaching grammar to boys
and occupying his leisure in reading astronomy. In this latter science
he at once accepted the views of Copernicus. “The earth,” he said,
“moves; it turns on its own axis and moves round the sun.” But what is
now taught to every school child was thought then a dangerous doctrine,
contrary to the teaching of Aristotle, which the Church supported.
He also went further than any of his predecessors in suggesting that
there were other worlds which were inhabited. The revival of learning
which had been going on during the previous hundred years, while it
had encouraged the more educated and cultured few to pursue their
studies and think out new ideas, had also had the effect of making the
many who mistrusted reform and were frightened of change much more
particular and severe about the opinions and beliefs which men should
be allowed to hold. The new ideas ultimately prevailed, but only after
a desperate struggle. Had the school of thought which Bruno represented
been allowed to develop without hindrance, the advance of enlightenment
in Europe would have been far more rapid than was actually the case.
Giordano Bruno wandered over Europe alone like a knight-errant of
truth. Persecuted in one country, he fled to another, everywhere
stirring up dispute and controversy, urging men to _think_, and
denouncing the fanatical and pretended beliefs which were making
them thoughtless and cruel. Geneva, Lyons, Paris, London, Oxford,
Wittenberg, Helmstedt, and Venice—these were some of the places he
visited, the centers of the world’s active thought, where he could meet
the leading men of the day.
Now, we cannot enter into the very difficult question of religious
belief as it was understood in those days. Nor, indeed, would such a
study be very profitable to any one. The wrangling of theologians has
very little to do with true religion. Bruno knew this. While he was
opposed to the Roman Catholic Church, of which he had been accepted as
a member in his youth, he hated just as much at the other extreme the
narrow intolerance of the followers of Calvin, the French Reformers,
who also treated those who disagreed with them with great harshness
and cruelty. Besides, there was almost as much stupid wrangling and
brutal intolerance between Calvinists and Lutherans as there was
between Catholics and Protestants. Bruno therefore did not stay
long in Geneva, which was the headquarters of the Calvinists. Even
in Wittenberg, where he was very well received, while admiring the
attitude of the great Reformer Luther, who a few years before had been
the foremost figure in the great struggle with the Roman Catholic
Church, known as the Reformation, he by no means sympathized with
the teaching of Protestantism. On the contrary, he referred to the
German Reformers, when he was before the Inquisition in Venice, in the
following way: “I regard them as more ignorant than I am; I despise
them and their doctrine. They do not deserve the name of theologians
but of pedants.”