This extract is taken from Don Quixote de la Mancha, to celebrate the life of Cervantes, who died on 22 April, 1616 – four hundred years ago.
In a village of La Mancha,* the name of which I purposely omit,
there lived not long ago, one of those gentlemen, who usually keep a
lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound for
coursing. A dish of boiled meat, consisting of somewhat more beef
than mutton, the fragments served up cold on most nights, an
omelet* on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a small pigeon by way
of addition on Sundays, consumed three-fourths of his income. The
rest was laid out in a surtout of fine black cloth, a pair of velvet
breeches for holidays, with slippers of the same; and on week-days
he prided himself in the very best of his own homespun cloth. His
family consisted of a housekeeper somewhat above forty, a niece not
quite twenty, and a lad for the field and the market, who both saddled
the horse and handled the pruning-hook. The age of our gentleman
bordered upon fifty years. He was of a robust constitution, sparebodied,
of a meagre visage; a very early riser, and a keen sportsman.
It is said his surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for in this there is
some difference among the authors who have written upon this subject),
though by probable conjectures it may be gathered that he was
called Quixana.* But this is of little importance to our story; let it
suffice that in relating we do not swerve a jot from the truth.
You must know then, that this gentleman aforesaid, at times when
he was idle, which was most part of the year, gave himself up to the
reading of books of chivalry, with so much attachment and relish,
that he almost forgot all the sports of the field, and even the management
of his domestic affairs; and his curiosity and extravagant
fondness herein arrived to that pitch, that he sold many acres of
arable land to purchase books of Knight-errantry, and carried home
all he could lay hands on of that kind. But, among them all, none
pleased him so much as those composed by the famous Feliciano de
Silva: for the glaringness of his prose, and the intricacy of his style,
seemed to him so many pearls; and especially when he came to
peruse those love-speeches and challenges, wherein in several places
he found written: ‘The reason of the unreasonable treatment of my
reason enfeebles my reason in such wise, that with reason I complain
of your beauty’:* and also when he read—’The high heavens that
with your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, making you
meritorious of the merit merited by your greatness’.
With this kind of language the poor gentleman lost his wits, and
distracted himself to comprehend and unravel their meaning; which
was more than Aristotle himself could do, were he to rise again from
the dead for that purpose alone. He had some doubt as to the dreadful
wounds which Don Belianis* gave and received; for he imagined,
that notwithstanding the most expert surgeons had cured him, his
face and whole body must still be full of seams and scars. Nevertheless
he commended in his author the concluding his book with a
promise of that unfinishable adventure: and he often had it in his
thoughts to take pen in hand, and finish it himself, precisely as it is
there promised: which he had certainly performed, and successfully
too, if other greater and continual cogitations had not diverted him.
He had frequent disputes with the priest of his village (who was a
learned person, and had taken his degrees in Sigiienza*) which of
the two was the better knight, Palmerin of England,* or Amadis de
Gaul.* But master Nicholas, barber-surgeon of the same town,
affirmed, that none ever came up to the Knight of the Sun,* and that
if any one could be compared to him, it was Don Galaor, brother of
Amadis de Gaul; for he was of a disposition fit for everything, no
finical gentleman, nor such a whimperer as his brother; and as to
courage, he was by no means inferior to him. In short, he so bewildered
himself in this kind of study, that he passed the nights in
reading from sunset to sunrise, and the days from sunrise to sunset:
and thus, through little sleep and much reading, his brain was dried
up in such a manner, that he came at last to lose his wits.
His imagination was full of all that he read in his books, to wit, enchantments,
battles, single combats, challenges, wounds, courtships,
amours, tempests, and impossible absurdities. And so firmly was he
persuaded that the whole system of chimeras he read of was true,
that he thought no history in the world was more to-be depended
upon. The Cid Ruy Diaz,* he was wont to say, was a very good
knight, but not comparable to the Knight of the Burning Sword,*
who with a single back-stroke cleft asunder two fierce and monstrous
giants. He was better pleased with Bernardo del Carpio for putting
Orlando the Enchanted to death in Roncesvalles, by means of the
same stratagem which Hercules used, when he suffocated Anteus,
son of the Earth, by squeezing him between his arms.* He spoke
mighty well of the giant Morgante;* for, though he was of that
monstrous brood who are always proud and insolent, he alone was
affable and well-bred: but, above all, he was charmed with Reynaldos
de Montalvan,* especially when he saw him sallying out of his castle
and plundering all he met; and when abroad he seized that image of
Mahomet, which was all of massive gold, as his history records. He
would have given his housekeeper, and niece to boot, for a fair
opportunity of handsomely kicking the traitor Galalon.*
Feature Image: Don Quixote by Gustave Doré. Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons
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