This week, we make bold to examine an ‘empirical evidence’ of one of the works of the Enlightenment Age in Literature, a novel – Don Quixote by the Spanish writer, Miguel de Cervantes. Although first published in two parts in 1605 and 1615, you must recollect that while the rest of Europe was already being weaned from the Renaissance, England was still in it.
If you remember, the Renaissance started in southern Europe, in Florence, Italy, precisely, and spread to other parts of the continent. The Age of Enlightenment began in France and spread to other European countries. So, the periods of influence of various intellectual movements differ from nation to nation. England somehow catches fevers late (laughs).
This book is plotted around the escapades of a Spanish noble man named Don Quixano who hails from a place called La Mancha. In his quest to revive courtliness or chivalry, he embarks on reading so many chivalric romances that he loses his mind. Thereafter, he sets out on a quest to serve his country and revive polite behaviours or courtliness or chivalry under the name of Don Quixote, which is of course a very courtly name.
The author, Miguel de Cervantes in a statement, says he wrote Don Quixote practically for his readers’ entertainment; in order to “undermine the influence of those vain and empty books on chivalry.’ However, the novel presents a message that individuals can be right, while a nation can be in error! Although in Cervantes’ time, this message was radical.
This novel gave the world the word and meaning of quixotic which used to mean the impractical pursuit of idealistic goals.
Don Quixote is considered the first modern novel and the most important book of all time. No wonder it takes the second place after the Bible in being mostly read and mostly translated. It can be found in over 140 languages and dialects.
Here are excerpts from the novel:
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
Loving reader, thou wilt believe me, I trust, without an oath, when I tell thee it was my earnest desire that this offspring of my brain should be as beautiful, ingenious, and sprightly as it is possible to imagine; but, alas! I have not been able to control that order in nature’s works whereby all things produce their like; and, therefore, what could be expected from a mind sterile and uncultivated like mine, but a dry, meagre, fantastical thing, full of strange conceits, and that might well be engendered in a prison – the dreadful abode of care, where nothing is heard but sounds of wretchedness! Leisure, an agreeable residence, pleasant fields, siren skies, murmuring streams, and tranquility of mind – by these the most barren muse may become fruitful, and produce that which will delight and astonish the world.
Some parents are so hoodwinked by their excessive fondness, that they see not the imperfections of their children, and mistake their folly and impertinence for sprightliness and wit; but I, who, though seemingly the parent, am in truth only the step-father of Don Quixote, will not yield to this prevailing infirmity; almost with tears in my eyes, to pardon or conceal the fault that mayest discover in this brat of mine.
Besides thou art neither its kinsman nor friend; thou art in possession of thine own soul, and of a will as free and absolute as the best; and art, moreover, in thine own house, being as much the lord and master of it as is the monarch of his revenue; knowing also the common saying – “Under my cloak, a fig for a king;” wherefore, I say, thou art absolved and liberated from every restraint or obligation, and mayest freely avow thy opinion on my performance, without fear or reproach for the evil, or hope of the reward for the good, thou shalt say of it.
Fain, indeed, would I have given it to thee naked as it was born, without the decoration of a preface, or that numerous train of sonnets, epigrams, and other eulogies, now commonly placed at the beginning of every book; for I confess that, although mine cost me some labour in composing, I found no part of it so difficult as this same Preface which thou art now reading; yes, many a time have I taken up my pen, and as often laid it down again – not knowing what to write.
Happening one day, when in this perplexity, to be sitting with the paper before me, pen behind my ear, my elbow on the table, and my cheek resting on my hand, deeply pondering on what I should say, a lively and intelligent friend unexpectedly entered; and seeing me in that posture, he enquired what made me so thoughtful.
I told him I was musing on a preface for Don Quixote, and frankly confessed I had been so teased and harassed by it that I felt disposed to give up the attempt, and trouble myself no further either with the preface or the book, but rather leave the achievements of that noble knight unpublished.
“For shall I not be confounded,” said I, “with the taunts of that old lawmaker, the Vulgar, when, after so long a silence, I now, forsooth, come out, at this time of day, with a legend as dry as a rush, destitute of invention, in a wretched style, poor in conception, void of learning, and without either quotations in the margin, or annotations at the end: while all other books, whether fabulous or profane, are so stuffed with sentences from Aristotle, Plato, and the whole tribe of philosophers, that the world is amazed at the extensive reading, deep learning, and extraordinary eloquence of their authors! Truly when these wiseacres quote the Holy Scriptures, you would take them for so many St. Thomases, or doctors of the church!
And so observant are they of the rules of decorum, that in one line they will cite you the ravings of a lover, and in the next some pious homily – to the delight of every reader. In all these matters my book will be wholly efficient; for, Heaven knows, I have nothing either to quote or make notes upon; nor do I know what authors I have followed, and therefore cannot display their names, as usual, in alphabetical succession, beginning with Aristotle, and ending with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis – the one a painter, the other slanderous critic. It will also be ungraced by commendatory sonnets from the pens of dukes, marquises, earls, bishops, ladies of quality, or other illustrious poets; though, were I to request them of two or three humblier friends, I know they will supply me with such as many of higher name amongst us could not equal.
In short, my friend,” continued I, “it is plain that Signor Don Quixote must lie buried amongst the musty record of La Mancha, till Heaven shall send some abler hand to fit him out in a manner suitable to his high deserts; since I find it impossible to perform that duty myself, not only from a want of competence talents, but because I am naturally too lazy in hunting after authors to enable me to say what I can say as well without them. These are the considerations that made me so thoughtful when you entered; and you must allow that it was not without sufficient cause.”
On hearing this tale of distress, my friend struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, and, bursting into a loud laugh, said, “I now see I have been in error ever since I have known you; I always took you for a discrete and sensible man, but now it appears you are as far from being so as heaven is from earth.
What! Is it possible that a thing of such little moment should have power to embarrass and confound a genius like yours, formed to overcome and trample under foot the greatest obstacles! – By my faith, this is not incapacity, but sheer idleness; and if you would be convinced that what I say is true, attend to me, and in the twinkling of an eye you shall see me put those difficulties to the rout which you say prevent your introducing to the world the history of the renowned Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight-errantry.”
Columnist’s Note: you may continue the Preface from the book if you may (smiles).
CHAPTER ONE
The Adventures of Don Quixote
Which treats of the quality and manner of life of our renowned hero.
Down in the village of La Mancha, *the name of which I have no desire to recollect, there lived, not long ago, one of these gentlemen who usually keep a lance upon a rack, an old buckler, a lean horse, and a coursing greyhound. Soup, composed of somewhat more mutton than beef, the fragments served up cold on most nights, lentils on Fridays, pains and breaking on Saturdays, and a pigeon, by way of addition, on Sundays, consumed three-fourths of his income; the reminder of it supplied him with a cloak of fine cloth, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same holidays, and a suit of the best home-spun, in which he adorned himself on week-days.
His family consisted of a house-keeper above forty, a niece not quite twenty, and a lad who served him both in the field and at home, who could saddle the horse or handle the pruning-hook. The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years; he was of a strong constitution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage, a very early riser, and a lover of the chase.
Some pretended to say that his surname was Quixada, or Quesada, for on this point his historians differ; though, from very probable conjectures, we may conclude that his name was Quixana. This is however, of little importance to our history; let it suffice that, in relating it, we do not swerve a jot from the truth.
Be it known then, that the afore-mentioned gentleman, in his leisure moments, which composed the greater part of the year, gave himself up with so much ardour to perusal of books of chivalry, that he almost wholly neglected the exercise of the chase, and even the regulation of his domestic affairs; indeed, so extravagant was his zeal in this pursuit, that he sold many acres of arable land to purchase books of knight-errantry; collecting as many he could possibly obtain.
Among them all none pleased him so much as those written by the famous Feliciano de Silva, whose brilliant prose and intricate style were, in his opinion, infinitely precious; especially those amorous speeches and challenges in which they so abound; such as: “The reason of the unreasonable treatment of my reason so enfeebles my reason, that with reason I complain of your beauty.”
And again: “The high heavens that, with your divinity, divinely fortify you with the stars rendering you meritorious of the merit merited by your greatness.” These and similar rhapsodies distracted the poor gentleman, for he laboured to comprehend and unravel their meaning, which was more than Aristotle himself could do, were he to rise from the dead expressly for that purpose.
* Partly in the kingdom of Arragon, and partly in castle.
Columnist’s Note: you may continue from the book if you may (smiles).