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

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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, señor? 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? Señor 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 someone, 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
will 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 to-morrow.”

“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.

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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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