Cervantes published another slight work in this year. The custom of poetic games (giustas poeticas) was still preserved in Spain, which had been instituted even from the time of John II. Pope Paul V. having, in 1614, canonised the famous Saint Theresa, her apotheosis was given as the subject for competition. Lope de Vega was named one of the judges. Cervantes entered the lists, and sent in an ode; it did not receive the prize, but it is published among those selected as the best, in the account written of the feasts which all Spain celebrated in honour of a native and illustrious saint.
Two works employed Cervantes at this time—"Persiles and Sigismunda," and the "Second Part of Don Quixote." He appears to have intended to bring out the former first, but the publication of Avellanada's "Don Quixote" caused him to hasten the appearance of the latter.
The name of the real author of this book is unknown; he assumed that of the licentiate Alonzo Fernandez de Avellanada, a native of Tordesillas. No plagiarism is more impudent and inexcusable. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza were the offspring and the property of Cervantes: to take these original and unparalleled creations out of his hands—to make them speak and act according to the fancy of another, and that while he was alive, and still occupied in adorning them with fresh deeds and thoughts, all his own, is a sort of theft no talent could excuse. Avellanada's "Don Quixote" is not destitute of talent; but it is impossible to read it—the mind of the reader is tormented by finding another knight, and another esquire, whom he is called to look upon as the same, but who are very different. The adventures are clever enough; but the soul of the actors is gone. Don Quixote is no longer the perfect gentleman, with feelings so noble, pure, and imaginative, and Sancho is a lout, whose talk is folly, without the salt of wit. Cervantes, heartily disgusted, and highly indignant, hastened to publish his continuation. In dedicating his comedies to the count of Lemos, at the commencement of 1615, he says, "Don Quixote has buckled oh his spurs, and is hastening to kiss the feet of your excellency. I am afraid he will arrive a little out of humour, because he lest his way, and was ill-treated at Tarragona: nevertheless, he has proved, upon examination, that he is not the hero of that story, but another who wished to look like him, but did not succeed."
In his dedication of the Second Part to the count of Lemos, he says, in not ungraceful allusion to the extent of his fame, while at the same time he covertly alludes to his expectation of being invited to Naples, "Many have told me to hurry it, to get rid for them of the disgust caused by another Quixote, who, under the name of the Second Part, has wandered through the world. And he who has shown himself most impatient is the great emperor of China, who a month ago wrote me a letter in Chinese, asking, or rather entreating me to send it for he was desirous of founding a college for the study of the Castilian language, and he wished "Don Quixote" to be the book read in it; at the same time, offering that I should be rector of the college: but I replied that I had not health to undertake so long a journey; and besides being ill, I was poor; and emperor for emperor, and monarch for monarch, there was the great count of Lemos at Naples, who assisted me as much as I wished, though he did not found colleges nor rectorships."
This was the last work that Cervantes published. He had finished "Persiles and Sigismunda," and meditated the "Second Part of Galatea," and two other works, whose subjects we cannot guess, though he has mentioned the titles ("Bernardo" and "Las Semanas del Jardin"); but of these no trace remains. He published the "Second Part of Don Quixote" at the end of 1615, and being then sixty-eight years of age, he was attacked by the malady which not long after caused his death. 1616.
Ætat.
69. Hoping to find relief in the air of the country during spring, on the 2d of the following April he made an excursion to Esquivias, but, getting worse, he was obliged to return to Madrid. He narrates his journey back in his preface to "Persiles and Sigismunda:" and in this we find the only account we possess of his illness. "It happened; dear reader; that as two friends and I were returning from Esquivias—a place famous on many accounts;—in the first place for its illustrious families; and secondly for its excellent wines;—being arrived near Madrid, we heard, behind, a man on horseback, who was spurring his animal to its speed, and appeared to wish to get up to us, of which he gave proof soon after, calling out and begging us to stop; on which we reined up, and saw arrive a country-bred student, mounted on an ass, dressed in grey, with gaiters and round shoes, a sword and scabbard, and a smooth ruff with strings; true it is, that of these he had but two, so that his ruff was always falling on one side, and he was at great trouble to put it right. When he reached us, he said, 'Without doubt your Honours are seeking some office or pretend at court, from the archbishop of Toledo or the king, neither more nor less, to judge by the speed you make; for truly my ass has been counted the winner of the course more than once.' One of my companions replied, 'The horse of señor Miguel de Cervantes is the cause—he steps out so well.' Scarcely had the student heard the name of Cervantes than he threw himself off his ass, so that his bag and portmanteau fell to right and left—for he travelled with all this luggage—and rushing towards me, and seizing my left arm, exclaimed, 'Yes, yes! this is the able hand, the famous being, the delightful writer, and, finally, the joy of the muses!' As for me, hearing him accumulate praises so rapidly, I thought myself obliged in politeness to reply, and taking him round the neck in a manner which caused his ruff to fall off altogether, I said, f I am indeed Cervantes, sir; but I am not the joy of the muses, nor any of the fine things you say: but go back to your ass, mount again, and let us converse, for the short distance we have before us." The good student did as I desired; we reined in a little, and continued our journey at a more moderate pace. Meanwhile, my illness was mentioned, and the good student soon gave me over, saying, 'This is a dropsy, which not all the water of the ocean, could you turn it fresh and drink it, would cure. Señor Cervantes, drink moderately, and do not forget to eat, for thus you will be cured without the aid of other medicine.' 'Many others have told me the same thing,' replied; 'but I can no more leave off drinking till I am satisfied, than if I were born for this end only. My life is drawing to its close; and, if I may judge by the quickness of my pulse, it will cease to beat by next Sunday, and I shall cease to live. You have begun your acquaintance with me in an evil hour, since I have not time left to show my gratitude for the kindness you have displayed.' At this moment we arrived at the bridge of Toledo, by which I entered the town, while he followed the road of the bridge of Segovia. What after that happened to me fame will recount: my friends will publish it, and I shall be desirous to hear. I embraced him again; he made me offers of service, and, spurring his ass, left me as ill, as he was well disposed to pursue his journey. Nevertheless, he gave me an excellent subject for pleasantry; but all times are not alike. Perhaps the hour may come when I can join again this broken thread; and shall be able to say what here I leave out, and which I ought to say. Now, farewell pleasure! farewell joy! farewell, my many friends! I am about to die; and I leave you, desirous of meeting you soon again, happy, in another life."
Such is Cervantes's adieu to the world; self-possessed, and animated by that resigned and cheerful spirit which accompanied him through life. He wrote another farewell to his protector, the count of Lemos, in his dedication of this same work: it is dated 19th April, 1616. "I should be glad," he says, "not to apply to myself, as I must, the old verses which men formerly celebrated, that begin 'the foot already in the stirrup;' for with little alteration, I can say, that with my foot in the stirrup, and feeling the agonies of death, I write you, great lord, this letter. Yesterday extreme unction was administered me; to-day, I take up my pen; my time is short; my pains increase; my hopes fail; yet I wish to live to see you again in Spain; and perhaps the joy I should then feel would restore me to life. However, if I must less it, the will of heaven be done; but let your excellency at least be aware of my wish, and learn that you had in me an affectionate servant, who desired to show his service even beyond death." Four days after writing this dedication, Cervantes died, on the 23d of April, 1616, aged sixty-nine. In his will, he named his wife, and his neighbour, the licentiate Francisco Nuñez, his executors. He ordered that he should be buried in a convent of nuns of Trinity, founded four years before, in the Calle del Humilladero, where his daughter donna Isabel had a short time before taken the vows. No doubt this last wish of Cervantes was complied with; but in 1633, the nuns left the Calle del Humilladero, and went to inhabit another convent in the Calle de Cantaranas, and the place of his interment is thus forgotten; no stone, no tomb, no inscription marks the spot. We have to regret also the loss of his two portraits, painted by his friends Jauregui and Pacheco: the one we have is a copy made in the reign of Philip IV., and attributed to various painters; it resembles the description before quoted, which Cervantes gives of himself.
In calling to mind all the events of this great man's life, we are struck by the equanimity of temper preserved throughout. As a soldier, he showed courage; as a captive, fortitude and daring; as a man struggling with adversity, honesty, perseverance, and contentment. He speaks of himself as poor, but he never repines. In all the knowledge of the world displayed in "Don Quixote," there is no querulousness, no causticity, no bitterness: a noble enthusiasm animated him to his end. Despite his ridicule of books of chivalry, romantic in his own tastes, his last work, Persiles and Sigismunda, is more romantic than all. His genius, his imagination, his wit, his natural good spirits and affectionate heart, did, we must hope, stand in lieu of more worldly blessings, and rendered him as internally happy as they have rendered him admirable and praiseworthy to all men to the end of time.[70]
His life has been drawn to such a length, that there is no space for a very detailed account of his works; still something more must be said. His first publication, "Galatea," is beautiful in its spirit, interesting and pleasing in its details, but not original: as a work it is cast in the same mould as other pastorals that went before. Nor was Cervantes a poet. Many men have imagination, and can write verses, without being poets. Coleridge gives an admirable definition: "Good prose consists in good words in good places; poetry, in the best words in the best places," Cervantes had imagination and invention: the Spanish language offered great facility, and he wrote it always with purity; so that here and there we find lines and stanzas that are poetry, but, on the whole, there is a want of that concentration, severe taste, and perfect ear for harmony that form poetry.
Yet when we recur to the "Numantia," we find this sentence unjust, for there is poetry of conception and passion in the "Numantia" of the highest order; nor is it wanting in that of language. It has been mentioned that of the twenty or thirty plays which Cervantes says he wrote, soon after his marriage, "Numantia" and "El Trato de Argel" (Life in Algiers) alone remain. They are written on the simplest plan, though not on the Greek; they are without choruses, without entanglement of plot, sustained only by impassioned dialogue and situations of high-wrought interest. The "Numantia" is founded on the siege of that city, under Scipio Africanus, when the unfortunate inhabitants destroyed themselves, their wives and children, and their property, rather than fall, and let them fall into the conquerors' hands. It is divided into four acts: the first two are the least impressive, though containing scenes of extreme pathos, and well calculated to raise by degrees the interest of the reader to the horrors that ensue. Scipio, desirous of sparing the lives of his men, resolves to assault the city no more, but, digging a trench round it on all sides, except where the river flows, means to reduce it by famine. The Numantines determine to endure all to the last. They consult the gods, and dark auguries repel every hope: the dreadful pains of hunger creep about the city; and when two betrothed meet, and the lover asks the maiden but to stay awhile that he may gaze on her, he exclaims—
"What now? what stand'st thou mutely thinking,
Thou of my thought the only treasure?
Lira. I'm thinking how thy dream of pleasure
And mine so fast away are sinking;
It will not fall beneath the hand
Of him who wastes our native land.
For long, or e'er the war be o'er,
My hapless life shall be no more.
Morandro. Joy of my soul, what has thou said?
Lira. That I am worn with hunger so,
That quickly will th' o'erpowering woe
For ever break my vital thread.
What bridal rapture dost thou dream,
From one at such a sad extreme?
For, trust me, ere an hour be past,
I fear I shall have breathed my last.
My brother fainted yesterday,
By wasting hunger overborne;
And then my mother, all out-worn
By hunger, slowly sunk away.
And if my health can struggle yet
With hunger's cruel power, in truth
It is because my stronger youth
Its wasting force hath better mat.
But now so many a day hath pass'd,
Since aught I've had its powers to strengthen;
It can no more the conflict lengthen,
But it must faint and fail at last.
Morandro. Lira, dry thy weeping eyes;
But ah! let mine, my love, the more
Their overflowing rivers pour,
Wailing thy wretched agonies.
But though thou still art held in strife
With hunger thus incessantly;
Of hunger still thou shalt not die.
So long as I retain my life.
I offer here from you high wall,
To leap o'er ditch and battlement;
Thy death one instant to prevent,
I fear not on mine own to fall.
The bread the Roman eateth now,
I'll snatch away and bear to thee;
For, oh! 'tis worse than death to see,
Lady, thy dreadful state of woe."[71]