If you haven’t heard of Miguel de Cervantes, you need to get yourself down to the library. If you have heard of the Spanish novelist, you will know that the man is one of the greats; possibly the greatest ever. Certainly in Spain where he was born in a hot city east of Madrid. The greatest in Spain, maybe, although possibly not the greatest ever if you ask around the tea rooms of Stratford-upon-Avon.
Cervantes was born somewhere around late September 1547; a time when Spanish records, like their approach to issuing mortgages at the peak of the housing bubble, was all a little slapdash. That said if you are in Alcala de Henares with time to comb through the church register, you might suggest that he popped into the world on the 29th. His father, Rodrigo, was a butcher-surgeon. An all-singing, all-dancing profession that offered a one stop shop for anything involving a sharp knife: from a short back and sides, to a half-hour amputation of a limb. Physicians in the middle of the 16th Century, it appears, rarely did any surgery; instead they chose to sit quietly in the corner barking instructions and eyeing up the nurse. They also worked in Universities, or as live-in GPs for the rich and famous. What they didn’t do, was blood. Cervantes mother, Leonor, was born into nobility, but her father lost all his money and, one presumes after the family silver and coastal time-share, sold his daughter into matrimony. Hence, it was a somewhat awkward marriage and Rodrigo was well known in the bars across town. Anyway.
Not much is known about Cervantes’ early years. Were Michael Aspel be looking to build a red book of Cervantes life he would have had little to go on. What is known, is that as a young man he left Spain for Rome: possibly to avoid an arrest warrant after taking the ear off another young man in a duel, possibly not. Whatever the reason he found himself in Rome where he soaked himself in Renaissance art, architecture and poetry. He later enlisted in the Spanish Navy Marines, fought some wars and then, when sailing back to Barcelona, was kidnapped by Ottoman pirates. He spent five years in captivity, chalking up four failed, late-night attempts to vault the back fence. His parents finally bought him back – bought as in: bag of pesos; not brought as in: piggy back. He then worked as a buyer for the Spanish navy, spent some time in prison, and later chased people down the street working as a tax collector for the Crown. He also wrote.
His first major work La Galatea received little interest. He also wrote some plays but they, too, failed. He then turned to poetry, penning poem after poem, the most ambitious of which – Viage del Parnaso – poked fun at contemporary poets. Questionable move. Cervantes quickly realised, that poetry wasn’t really his wicket and it was in prison – or so it is believed – that he first started to think about writing a book about real life. About manners; about polished brogues and honour. He also thought about bringing it to life by inserting everyday speech into the text. He started to write and when it was finally published, the public loved it. His novel, for those still fumbling with the bookmark in their Jilly Cooper, was called Don Quixote; and has been translated into more languages than any other book bar the Bible. What the publisher might tell you over lunch, to be something of a ‘commercial success’.
The story follows the adventures of one Alonso Quixano, who reads so many romantic novels that he loses his sanity and decides to become a knight. So far, so good. He buys a horse, finds an old rusty suit of armour and then rides around under the name of Don Quixote de la Mancha, looking to do good. He persuades a farmer, Sancho Panza, to join him as his squire – which Panza does – and the two get into a lot of scrapes. In the course of their travels they meet innkeepers, goat-herders, soldiers, priests, escaped convicts and a steady run of prostitutes; all of whom share their tales of life. Quixote also has a taste for violence, often intervening in bar brawls and domestic spats and as a result, frequently gets his backside handed to him. Panza too. There are many adventures; one involving a dead body, another a group of galley slaves. There is also a fight with a bunch of pilgrims. They too beat him and Panza into a bloody pulp and Quixote eventually returns home.
Now, there are two parts to the book. The second part was written ten years later. Whilst part one is mostly a complete farce, part two is more serious and philosophical, rinsed with the theme of deception. That said, the novel was largely seen as a comic novel. Later it was assumed to be more of a social commentary of the time. Others, those who perhaps drink too much gin before dinner, read the book as a tragedy; in which Quixote’s idealism and nobility are viewed as insane. After more gin, the same glum faces would mutter it to be a sad reflection of the decaying fabric of society, and broader loss of chivalric principles. Today though, the novel is widely appreciated, amongst those who know about these things, to be a piece of work that is part of the foundations of modern literature. Said publisher, would be pleased.
Sigmund Freud was supposedly quite taken by Cervantes, apparently deciding to learn Spanish just so that he could read his books. Indeed “El coloquio de los perros” – a book in which two dogs talk about their experiences with human masters, passing comment on such matters as greed, gypsies, dishonesty and witchcraft – has been called the origin of psychoanalysis. For some reason, Freud would later sign more than fifty letters in the name of the dog, Cipion. Perhaps to friends, perhaps to bemused bank managers. Who knows.
Cervantes died in Madrid on 22nd April 1616.
Hepburnsays 