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VOLUME[ PART 2  ]  

CHAPTER[ LXXIV. OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED

As nothing that is man's can last for ever, but all tends ever downwards

from its beginning to its end, and above all man's life, and as Don

Quixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay its course,

its end and close came when he least looked for it. For-whether it was of

the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or of heaven's will

that so ordered it--a fever settled upon him and kept him in his bed for

six days, during which he was often visited by his friends the curate,

the bachelor, and the barber, while his good squire Sancho Panza never

quitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it was grief at finding himself

vanquished, and the object of his heart, the liberation and

disenchantment of Dulcinea, unattained, that kept him in this state,

strove by all the means in their power to cheer him up; the bachelor

bidding him take heart and get up to begin his pastoral life, for which

he himself, he said, had already composed an eclogue that would take the

shine out of all Sannazaro had ever written, and had bought with his own

money two famous dogs to guard the flock, one called Barcino and the

other Butron, which a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His friends

called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well satisfied

with it, and said that in any case it would be well for him to attend to

the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad way. Don Quixote

heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire,

who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him lying dead before them. The

doctor's opinion was that melancholy and depression were bringing him to

his end. Don Quixote begged them to leave him to himself, as he had a

wish to sleep a little. They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as the

saying is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought

he was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke up,

and in a loud voice exclaimed, "Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown me

such goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the sins of men

can neither limit them nor keep them back!"

The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they struck

her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least during his

illness, so she asked, "What are you saying, senor? Has anything strange

occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you talking of?"

"The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has this

moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to

them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of

ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books of

chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and

deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my illusions

has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some amends by reading

other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece, I feel myself at the

point of death, and I would fain meet it in such a way as to show that my

life has not been so ill that I should leave behind me the name of a

madman; for though I have been one, I would not that the fact should be

made plainer at my death. Call in to me, my dear, my good friends the

curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for

I wish to confess and make my will." But his niece was saved the trouble

by the entrance of the three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he

exclaimed, "Good news for you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote

of La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name

of Good. Now am I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless

troop of his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of

knight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which

reading them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my right

senses, I loathe them."

When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whatever

that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said Samson, "What?

Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady Dulcinea

being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now, just as we are on the

point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like princes, are

you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven's sake, be rational and

let's have no more nonsense."

"All that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "that until now has been a reality

to my hurt, my death will, with heaven's help, turn to my good. I feel,

sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to jesting; let me

have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make my will; for in

extremities like this, man must not trifle with his soul; and while the

curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go for the notary."

They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but, though

uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the signs by

which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so sudden and

complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to the words

already quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so devout, and so

rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he was sound of

mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone with him confessed

him. The bachelor went for the notary and returned shortly afterwards

with him and with Sancho, who, having already learned from the bachelor

the condition his master was in, and finding the housekeeper and niece

weeping, began to blubber and shed tears.

The confession over, the curate came out saying, "Alonso Quixano the Good

is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go in to him

while he makes his will."

This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the

housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears

burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of a

truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso Quixano

the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a

gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was beloved,

not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew him.

The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the had

been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with all the

devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests, he said,

"Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the hands of Sancho

Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch as between him and

me there have been certain accounts and debits and credits, no claim be

made against him, nor any account demanded of him in respect of them; but

that if anything remain over and above, after he has paid himself what I

owe him, the balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and much

good may it do him; and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him

the government of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give

him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his

character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then, turning

to Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as

mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell into,

that there were and still are knights-errant in the world."

"Ah!" said Sancho weeping, "don't die, master, but take my advice and

live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is to

let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, or

any hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come, don't be lazy, but

get up from your bed and let us take to the fields in shepherd's trim as

we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the lady Dulcinea

disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are dying of

vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on me, and say you were

overthrown because I had girthed Rocinante badly; besides you must have

seen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to

upset one another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror

tomorrow."

"Very true," said Samson, "and good Sancho Panza's view of these cases is

quite right."

"Sirs, not so fast," said Don Quixote, "'in last year's nests there are

no birds this year.' I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was Don Quixote

of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may my

repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for

me; and now let Master Notary proceed.

"Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece,

here present, after all has been deducted from the most available portion

of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I have made. And the

first disbursement I desire to be made is the payment of the wages I owe

for the time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty ducats, over and

above, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, now

present, I appoint my executors.

"Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to marry,

she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all ascertained by

information taken that he does not know what books of chivalry are; and

if it should be proved that he does, and if, in spite of this, my niece

insists upon marrying him, and does marry him, then that she shall

forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which my executors shall

devote to works of charity as they please.

"Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if any happy

chance should lead them to discover the author who is said to have

written a history now going about under the title of 'Second Part of the

Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,' they beg of him on my behalf

as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been, without intending

it, the cause of his writing so many and such monstrous absurdities as he

has written in it; for I am leaving the world with a feeling of

compunction at having provoked him to write them."

With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him he

stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter

and made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived after

that on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The house was

all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the housekeeper drank and

Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting property wipes out or

softens down in the heir the feeling of grief the dead man might be

expected to leave behind him.

At last Don Quixote's end came, after he had received all the sacraments,

and had in full and forcible terms expressed his detestation of books of

chivalry. The notary was there at the time, and he said that in no book

of chivalry had he ever read of any knight-errant dying in his bed so

calmly and so like a Christian as Don Quixote, who amid the tears and

lamentations of all present yielded up his spirit, that is to say died.

On perceiving it the curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso

Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed

away from this present life, and died naturally; and said he desired this

testimony in order to remove the possibility of any other author save

Cide Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making

interminable stories out of his achievements.

Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village

Cide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave all the towns

and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves for the right to

adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of Greece contended

for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece and housekeeper are

omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; Samson Carrasco,

however, put the following lines:

A doughty gentleman lies here;

A stranger all his life to fear;

Nor in his death could Death prevail,

In that last hour, to make him quail.

He for the world but little cared;

And at his feats the world was scared;

A crazy man his life he passed,

But in his senses died at last.

And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest here, hung up by this

brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or clumsy

cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence, unless

presumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to profane thee.

But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou canst, say to them:

Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!

  Adventure it let none,

For this emprise, my lord the king,

  Was meant for me alone.

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act, mine

to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in spite of

that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or would venture

with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to write the

achievements of my valiant knight;--no burden for his shoulders, nor

subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou shouldst come to know

him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary mouldering

bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry him off, in opposition

to all the privileges of death, to Old Castile, making him rise from the

grave where in reality and truth he lies stretched at full length,

powerless to make any third expedition or new sally; for the two that he

has already made, so much to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to

whom they have become known, in this as well as in foreign countries, are

quite sufficient for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole of

those made by the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shalt

thou discharge thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one that

bears ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have

been the first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as

he could desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver over to

the detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of the books of

chivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote, are even now

tottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever. Farewell."

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