Chapter - 74 | Don Quixote

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, per-
suaded 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 weep-
ing 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 ex-
claimed, "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 mo-
ment 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 be-
ing 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 con-
fessor 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 al-
ready quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so devout, and so ra-
tional, 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 house-
keeper, 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 disposi-
tion 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 govern-

ment 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 disen-
chanted, as ﬁne as ﬁne can be. If it be that you are dying of vexation at hav-
ing 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 dis-
bursement 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 infor-
mation 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 pro-
voked 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 lamenta-
tions 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 vil-
lage 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 contend-
ed for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece and housekeeper
are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; Samson Car-
rasco, however, put the following lines:
{verse

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.
{verse
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 presumptu-
ous 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:
{verse
Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!
Adventure it let none,
For this emprise, my lord the king,
Was meant for me alone.
{verse
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 enjoy-
ment 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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