It is certainly strange that in those days, when it was considered a part of a noble's duty to protect and patronise men of letters, that Cervantes should have been thus passed over. Some men join a sort of querulousness and snarling independence to considerable self-esteem, which renders it difficult to oblige them. But there was no trace of anything of the sort in Cervantes—no trace of any quarrel or complaint; nor, though himself obscure, was his book unknown. There is a story told of Philip III., that he was one day standing in the balcony of his palace at Madrid, overlooking the Manzanares, and he observed a student walking on the banks of the river, reading, and interrupting himself every now and then with strange gesticulations and bursts of laughter. The king exclaimed, "Either that man is mad, or he is reading "Don Quixote.'" The courtiers around, eager to confirm their sovereign's sagacity, started off to ascertain the fact, and found indeed that the book the student held was "Don Quixote;" yet not one among them remembered to remind their sovereign that the author of that delightful work lived poor and forgotten.
In the licence to print the "Second Part of Don Quixote," another story is told, showing how the Spaniards themselves regarded the obscurity in which they suffered the author to live: it is related by the licentiate, Francisco Marquez Torres, master of the pages to the archbishop of Toledo, to whom the censorship of the work was intrusted. He relates that in 1615, an ambassador arrived at Madrid from Paris, whose object being complimentary, he was followed by a numerous suite of nobles and gentlemen of rank and education. Among others, the ambassador visited the archbishop of Toledo. On the 25th February, 1615, the archbishop returned the visit, accompanied by various churchmen and chaplains, and, among others, by the licentiate, Marquez Torres, himself. While the archbishop paid his visit, those of his suite conversed with the French gentlemen present, and they discussed the merits of various works of talent then popular, and in particular of the "Second Part of Don Quixote," then about to appear. When the foreign cavaliers heard the name of Cervantes, they all began to speak at once, and to declare the estimation in which he was held in France. Their praises were such, that the licentiate Marquez Torres offered to take them to the house of the author, that they might see and know him—an offer accepted with delight, while a thousand questions were asked concerning the age, profession, rank, and situation of Cervantes. The licentiate was obliged to confess that he was a gentleman and a soldier, but old and poor; and his reply so moved one of his audience, that he exclaimed, "Is it possible that Spain does not maintain such a man, in honour and comfort from the public purse?" While another, with less warmth of heart, though equal admiration, exclaimed, "If necessity obliges him to write, may he never be rich! for, being poor, he by his works enriches the world;"—words to comfort, with the hope of fame, one whose life was clouded by penury and neglect.
1608.
Ætat.
61.
We cannot help observing that the court and the nobles did not form the whole world. Cervantes had many dear, many well-informed and valued friends, and among these he could forget the carelessness of those who considered all reputation and prosperity to be inclosed within their magic circle; while in the case of Cervantes, it is proved that though neglected by them, the whole world rung with his fame and praise.
For some years Cervantes published nothing more. In 1608 he brought out a corrected edition of the "First Part of Don Quixote." He was employed, meanwhile, in a variety of works which appeared afterwards in quick succession, on which he employed himself at the same time. His "Voyage to Parnassus" peculiarly engaged his attention, but he feared that the publication, with its gentle attack on the Argensolas, might displease his kind patron, the count of Lemos. He therefore brought out first his "Twelve Tales" ("Novelas Exemplares") which raised yet higher his character as an author. These tales are dedicated in a few respectful lines to the count of Lemos; the preface to them is very interesting. Cervantes has been accused unjustly of vanity and boasting: of this he is innocent; but he had something of that feeling, the inherent quality of authors, which led him to dwell on his own idea and fortunes (what could be nearer, or better known, or more deeply felt by him?) the same that led Rousseau to make his confessions, and which when indulged in with good faith and without querulousness, sits well on a writer, and interests us in him. "I should be well content," he says, "to be excused this preface, and to give instead my portrait, such as it was painted by the famous don Juan de Jauregui: with this my ambition would be satisfied; and the curiosity would be gratified of those who desire to know what the countenance and person is of him who has dared bring before the world so many inventions; and below the portrait I would place these words: 'He whom you here see with a face resembling an eagle's with chesnut brown hair, smooth and open brow, vivacious eyes, a hooked yet well-proportioned nose; with a beard now silver, but which twenty years ago was golden; thick mustachios and small mouth; ill-formed teeth, of which but few remain; a person between two extremes, neither tall nor short; of sanguine complexion, rather fair than dark; somewhat heavy about the shoulders, and not very light of foot;—this, I say, is the face of the author of 'Galatea,' and of 'Don Quixote de la Mancha,'—he who, in imitation of Cæsar Caporal, the Perugian, made a voyage to Parnassus, and wrote other works, which wander lost, even with their master's name. He is usually called Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. He was for many years a soldier, and a captive for more than five, where he learned to bear adversity with patience. In the naval battle of Lepanto he lost his left hand by a shot from an arquebuse, a wound which may appear a deformity, but which he considers a beauty, having received it on the most memorable and noble event which past ages ever saw, or those to come can hope to witness—fighting under the victorious banners of the son of that lustre of war, Charles V., of happy memory."
There is certainly nothing boastful nor ungraceful in this—rather are we glad to find how Cervantes, old and poor, could dwell with complacency on past adversity, and cast the halo of glory round his misfortunes.
1614.
Ætat.
67.
These tales established more firmly than ever the high reputation of Cervantes, and he now ventured to publish his "Voyage to Parnassus;" and after this the least successful of his publications, or, rather, that which is the only failure among them—his volume of "Comedias y Entremeses," which he composed according to the new school introduced by Lope de Vega, but which were never acted. In his preface to this work he gives some account of the origin of the Spanish drama, and the amelioration that be, in his younger days, introduced, which has already been quoted. He goes on to say, "Called away by other occupations, I laid aside my pen, and meanwhile Lope de Vega, that prodigy of nature, appeared, and raised himself to the sovereignty of the drama. He vanquished and reduced under his dominion all writers of plays: he filled the world with dramas, excellently written and well conceived, and that in so great number, that ten thousand sheets of paper would not contain them; and, what is surprising, he has seen them all acted, or known that they were acted. All those who have wished to share the glory of his labours, collectively, have not written the half of what he alone has given forth. And when," he continues, "I returned to the old employment of my leisure, fancying that the age which echoed my praises still endured, I began again to write plays, but I found no birds in the accustomed nest—I mean, I found no manager who asked for them, although he was informed that they were written; I threw them, therefore, into the corner of a trunk, and condemned them to eternal silence. A bookseller then told me that he would have bought them, if an author of reputation had not told him, that my prose was worth something; but nothing could be expected from my verse. To confess the truth, these words mortified me deeply; without doubt, I am either much changed, or the age has arrived at a higher degree of perfection, against the usual course of things, for I have always heard past times praised. I re-read my comedies, as well as some interludes I had mingled with them, and I found that they were not so bad, but that I might bring them out from what an author calls darkness, to what others may, perhaps, name day. I grew angry, and sold them to the bookseller who now publishes them. He gave me a reasonable price, and I received the money without caring for the rebuffs of the actors. I wish that they were the best ever written; and if, dear reader, you find any thing good in them, I wish when you meet this ill-natured author, you would tell him to repent, and not to judge them so severely, since, after all, they contain no incongruities nor striking faults."
Unfortunately, the author was right—the pieces are very bad; so bad, that when Blas de Nasano reprinted them a century afterwards, he could find nothing better to say of them, than that they were purposely written badly, in ridicule of the extravagant plays then in vogue.
1615.
Ætat.
68.