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42
Exercise 7—Organic Molecules and Nutrition

Preparation Notes
1. Supply lists are based on a class size of 24 students. In situations where class size varies,
adjust supplies accordingly.
2. Asterisks (*) next to materials or supplies indicate a nonstandard or special order item.
Specific details for obtaining these items can be found in the “Ordering Information”
section for each exercise.
3. The times listed to complete activities are conservative estimates of the time required. In
our community college classes (with three hours of lab per week), we’re usually able to
complete all the activities in an exercise and still have time for short quizzes, introductory
remarks, and summarizing important concepts at the end of the class period.
Materials and Supplies
Equipment Quantity
metric rulers, small (about 15 cm) 24
grease marking pencils 24
test tubes (16 × 150 mm) 84
test tube racks 20
test tube holders 10
beakers, 1000 ml 6
pipettes, disposable (*) 24
hot plates (*) 6
squirt bottles (*) 12
petri plates (*) 10
glass stacking dishes, medium (*) 10
cartilage forceps (*) 10
dissecting microscopes 1–2
Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 42 19/03/15 10:59 pm

43
Chemicals Quantity
dropper bottles, Benedict’s solution 16
dropper bottles, iodine solution 16
dropper bottles, Sudan IV solution (*) 16
dropper bottles, Biuret solution (*) 16
dropper bottles, vegetable oil 16
dropper bottles, deionized water 16
squirt bottles, glucose solution 6
squirt bottles, starch solution 6
squirt bottles, albumin (*) 6
flasks, smooth peanut butter, liquified 6
flasks, tuna packed in oil, liquified 6
flasks, refried beans, liquified 6
flasks, whole milk or light cream 6
flasks, cooked hamburger, liquified 6
flasks, iceberg lettuce, liquified 6
Miscellaneous Supplies Quantity

small bag of peanuts in shells 1
filter paper circles, 9 cm diameter (*) 20
hair dryers, low power 8
blenders, kitchen model 6
water soluble marker 1
overhead, master chart (Results of Food Experiments) 1
overhead projector 1
Preparation Instructions
1. Food preparation (two setups).
Label twelve 250 ml ehrlenmeyer flasks (two sets of six flasks) as follows: lettuce, whole milk,
hamburger, refried beans, tuna, and peanut butter.
2. Pour whole milk into two labeled flasks and refrigerate until needed. Sometimes whole milk
doesn’t have enough fat to provide a satisfactory positive Sudan IV test, so a good substitute is
light cream.
3. Cook 50 grams of hamburger (microwave or boil). When thoroughly cooked, add to 500 ml of
deionized water and blend until liquified. Pour the blended hamburger into two labeled flasks
and refrigerate until needed.
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 43 19/03/15 10:59 pm

44
4. Wash the blender thoroughly. Drain one can of tuna packed in oil and add to 500 ml of d eionized
water. Blend until liquified. Pour the blended tuna into two labeled flasks and refrigerate until
needed.
5. Wash the blender thoroughly. Add two heaping tablespoons of smooth peanut butter to 500 ml of
deionized water. Blend until liquified. Pour the blended peanut butter into two labeled flasks and
refrigerate until needed.
6. Wash the blender thoroughly. Add two heaping tablespoons of canned refried beans to 500 ml
of deionized water. Blend until liquified. Pour the blended beans into two labeled flasks and
refrigerate until needed.
7. Wash the blender thoroughly. Tear about 1/8 of a head of iceberg lettuce into small pieces and
blend with 500 ml of deionized water until liquified. Pour the blended lettuce into two labeled
flasks and refrigerate until needed.
8. Refrigerate all food samples promptly after preparation. Liquified food samples must be stored
covered, in the refrigerator, when not in use.
Let the samples warm to room temperature before use in the classroom.
Setup Instructions
1. If possible, several sets of food samples available at different locations in the classroom will
facilitate rapid completion of these activities.
2. Test tube brushes, soapy water, and paper towels are needed for cleanup at the end of the class
period.
3. Remove the peanut from the shell. Separate the two halves. Place the half with the embryo
under the dissecting microscope. For convenience, you may wish to set up more than one
demonstration station in the classroom.
Ordering Information (*)
1. Electric hot plate—Equivalent to Corning, #PC-35 or Fisher, #11-500-7H
2. Disposable pipettes—Fisher, #13-711-7, transfer pipettes
3. Squirt bottles—Fisher, #03-409-16, 500 ml
4. Glass stacking dishes, medium—Carolina Biological, #74-1004, 4 1/2 inches diameter
5. Cartilage forceps—Carolina Biological, #14-W-0926, broad point, 5 inches long
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 44 19/03/15 10:59 pm

45
6. Petri plates, disposable—Fisher, #8-757-12, 100 × 15 mm
7. Filter paper circles, 9 cm diameter—Fisher, #09-795C
8. Biuret solution, ready mixed—Carolina Biological, #84-8213
9. Sudan IV solution, ready mixed—Carolina Biological, #89-2995
10. Albumin powder—Fisher, #A-388-500
11. Dextrose (d-glucose)—Fisher, #D-15-3
12. Starch, soluble—Fisher, #S-516-500
Note: Cornstarch works just as well and can be purchased inexpensively in a local supermarket.
Suggestions for Specific Activities
1. Activity 1: Positive and negative indicator tests
Because results of indicator tests aren’t quantified, exact measurements for samples to be
tested aren’t necessary. During the food testing activities, the students will measure and draw a
line on their test tubes and use that line as a guide to determine the appropriate amount of test
sample.
Starch tends to settle to the bottom of the stock container. Make sure the students shake the
container well before dispensing the starch solution.
The filter paper must be DRIED before the Sudan IV is applied. Students should use the low
heat setting on the hair dryer to avoid scorching the filter paper.
Save all control tests for use in Activity 2.
2. Activity 2: Testing food samples
The easiest way to dispense liquified food samples is by disposable pipette directly into
the marked test tube. For thicker food samples, cut the ends of the pipette to enlarge the
opening.
There isn’t usually enough time in a typical lab period for all groups of students to test all six
foods. We suggest dividing the students into groups, with each group testing two or three foods
for carbohydrates, proteins, and lipids.
In reference to the Sudan IV test, several spots can be done on the same filter paper as long as
the pencil circles are separated and labeled.
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 45 19/03/15 10:59 pm

46
To make determining the results of food tests easier:
Color changes are easier to see if you hold the test tube over a sheet of white paper.
Hold the control test tube next to the experimental tube for more accurate color comparisons.
Food samples that have dark colors (such as the hamburger and beans) may require additional
indicator solution to see color changes.
3. All groups should transfer their test results to the Master Chart. This chart of results can form
the basis for class discussion on the experiments.
4. Activity 4: Students should be encouraged to bring calculators for this activity.
Approximate Time to Complete Activities

Activity 1 25 minutes
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 46 19/03/15 10:59 pm

47
Answer Key to Questions
Activity 1
Benedict’s Test for Simple Sugars
3. Turquoise blue.
Comprehension Check
1. Tube 1 was positive for sugar, tube 2 was negative.
2. D. Simple sugars.
Iodine Test for Starch
2. Brown.
5. Tube 3 was positive for starch, tube 4 was negative.
6. The paper contains starch.
Biuret Test for Protein
4. Tube 5 was positive for protein, tube 6 was negative.
Sudan IV Test for Lipids
9. Oil circle—positive. Water circle—negative.
Comprehension Check
Table 7-1
Indicator Tests
Indicator Test Tests For Negative Results (Color) Positive Result (Color)
Benedict’s Solution simple sugars turquoise blue green through red
Iodine starch brown black
Sudan IV Test lipids pale pink dark pink or red
Biuret Test proteins light blue purple
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 47 19/03/15 10:59 pm

48
Activity 2
1. Hypotheses will vary.
6. Refer to the completed Table 7-3.
Table 7-3
Results Of Food Experiments
Food Simple Sugars Starch Protein Lipid
lettuce + − − −
hamburger − − + +
tuna − − + +
milk + − + +
refried beans + + + +
peanut butter + + + +
Comprehension Check
1. Peanut butter, refried beans, and milk.
2. Lettuce.
Simple sugar.
3. All except lettuce.
4. Milk.
5. Tuna and hamburger.
6. Starch is only produced by plants.
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49
Activity 3
2. Refer to completed diagram in Figure 7-1.
stored food
supply
leaves
embryo
root
Figure 7-1. Peanut Seed

Meg Caldwell Ryan
Comprehension Check
1. Various nuts, eggs, and seeds (such as sunflower seeds).
2. Peanut butter and beans.
3. Chicken eggs, sunflower seeds, coconut, and almonds.
All provide energy for developing embryos. Lipids are the highest energy source of all foods
(per gram), and so provide the best way to pack the maximum amount of energy possible into a
small space such as a seed or egg.
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 49 19/03/15 10:59 pm

50
Activity 4
Table 7-5
Dietary Calculations
Carbohydrate Carbohydrate Protein Protein Fat Fat
Food Eaten (g) (kcal) (g) (kcal) (g) (kcal)
double beef 54 216 51 204 60 540
hamburger
with cheese
fries (large order) 43 172 5 20 20 180
chocolate milk 49 196 9 36 10 90
shake
bag of peanuts 10 40 14 56 28 252
(2 ounces)
Column Totals 624 316 1062
3. Total kilocalories consumed = 2002
4. 624/2002 = 31.2% carbohydrates in the diet.

316/2002 = 15.8% protein in the diet.
1062/2002 = 53% fat in the diet.
5. No. Your diet was too high in fat (should be less than 30%), too low in carbohydrates (should be
55–60%), but fine in protein.
6. Good suggestions:
Bring an apple or orange for a snack instead of the peanuts.

Replace the fries with a baked potato.
Replace the milk shake with low fat milk or juice.
7. 502.
10,542.
Three pounds.
8. Answers will vary depending on the activity chosen by each student.
9. Length of time to lose one pound will vary, depending on the activity chosen by each student.
M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 50 19/03/15 10:59 pm

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as a theodicy, has brought about this juncture between the Indians and the
king. Only divine law is competent to rule.
Vitoria expands his thesis. There exists this same divine law—jus inter
gentes—between all States. The States are interdependent. There is a
societas naturalis, a natural Society of Nations. The link is God. Free to the
Spaniard to assume that God’s agent in the link be the king of Spain. The
world is one society: and between peoples of one society peaceful
intercourse may not be forbidden. France may not impede a Spaniard from
visiting France, even from settling in France, provided he violate no law
and cause no damage. If this is true between Frenchman and Spaniard, it is
true between American and European. Through the fact of their civil rights
in a society of nations the Indian cannot exclude the Spaniard. There exists
therefore jus communicationis: the right of immigration. There exists also
the freedom of the seas. Spain stands justified in her American penetration.
We are at the mere beginning of Vitoria’s subtle structure. Jus commercii
—the right of commerce—applies not only to the exchange of merchandise
between free peoples, but as well to the exchange of ideas. The Spaniard
has the right to preach the Gospel to the Indian. The Indian has the right to
preach heathenism to the Spaniard. Either may resist conversion (even as
either may decline to purchase proffered goods).
Since no State may prevent a stranger from settling on its lands, nor even
from becoming a lawful national, here are the Spaniards legally at home in
the Americas. But strong Powers must defend by arms the menaced liberties
of smaller States. That is a prerogative of a true society of nations. How
much more readily therefore shall strong Powers defend the menaced
liberties of individuals in every State! All States are “organs of human
justice.” Spain shall protect the innocent from “religious sacrifice” and
“from cannibalism in America.” If need be, to protect the innocent, a State
may subjugate wholly an unjust nation.
The theologian brings to Spain her “cosmic place” in the Americas as
Christ’s agent in the society of nations. But this is not enough. That she may
be at peace in Zion, she must be alone. So Vitoria evolves in 1500 the
modern theory of “spheres of influence.” Pope Alexander was divinely just
in submitting to Spain and Portugal, as God’s best tools, the mission of
Christianizing the Americas. But the Pope had no human right to partition
the property of the red man. Vitoria with all the Dominicans behind him
stands against Pope and king: declaring that “the Indian has as much right
to possess property as the Catholic peasant.” The Indians, he holds, are
potential equals of the Spaniards. They have the right to plebiscite. A
majority of their votes alone can justify America’s annexation to the empire
of Spain. Beyond the divine and human privileges that are general in a
society of nations, “Spain must commit no act in the New World, except by
treaty.”
The Dominican legists part company with the deeds of Spain. Already,
Isabel had been misled when her adventurous “tools”—the Conquistadores
—instead of saving the Indian, enslaved him. Now the followers of Vitoria
raise their voices against the behavior of Cortés and Pizarro. Bartolomé de
las Casas in his Brevissima relación de la destrucción de las Indias writes
pages that are good reading in our own epoch of a “Society of Nations.” But
the abstract logic of Vitoria was more useful to the State of Spain than the
ethical conclusions of Las Casas. That supreme apologia for villainy and
greed—International Law—is born and baptized under Christ.
Thus Vitoria: “War is justified when it is forced on a State in the rightful
pursuit of commerce, in the rightful propaganda of ideas—and if the
Spaniards have observed all precautions against taking their interests for
principles, and their avarice for duty.” What empire since has not “taken
these precautions?” Christianity had been theoretically pacifistic. Jesus was
reported to have declared against all violence and the resisting of evil.
Being the Son of God, of course, His words were not to be literally
construed. Yet such men as Tertullian, the Manichees, Saint Francis, Wyclif,
More, Erasmus, had declared unconditionally against warfare. Chiefly, that
prophetic Berber, Augustine, took war to be a usable weapon of the just.
Vitoria, his neighbor in race and land, leans on Saint Augustine. The
anarchic and endemic sin of war is lifted at last from Europe’s conscience.
Spain invents the Moral War.
“War,” says Vitoria, “is justified to right a wrong.” But Vitoria is careful:
“Difference of religion is no just cause for war.
“Aggrandizement of empire is no just cause for war.
“Principis gloria propria, aut aliud commodum, non est causa belli
justa. The Prince may not wage war to further either his glory or his own
interests. And the wrong to be righted by war must be commensurate with
the results of war itself (death, confiscation, rapine) ere a just war can be
induced to right it.”
The friar seems to be going too far. Hear him:
“The end of war must be, not evil to the foe, but good.
“And victory must be enjoyed in Christian moderation.
“The people shall not suffer through the faults of their princes.
“Finally, a treaty imposed by force—even after victory—is not valid.”
Modern International Law is after all no growth from these
uncomfortable precepts of a monk: it is a lapse and a decadence. The legal
dicta of Vitoria are of an old tradition: they are a birth of the old breaking
Synthesis of medieval Europe. International Law is the theoretic shred of
what was once a spiritual Body.
e. The Rogue
The Spain of Isabel and Ferdinand, of Carlos and Philip II—wherein is
she great? In her idea and Will. These prove the Globe and bind it: these in
their own way prove and make her one with God. But Spain, the body of
men living in towns and huertas, is indigent and disordered.
At her spiritual climax, under Isabel, Carlos and Philip II, Spain was
squalid. By contrast with the state of England, of France, of the German
towns and of the cities of Morocco, she was an economic laggard. Her
nobles with their retinues cut swathes of gold through the landsides. She
was full of heroes and of saints. But the land was arid with neglect. War had
razed her forests. Seven centuries of Reconquest, making labor despicable
beside the guerdons of battle, had sapped her burghers. What the long wars
began, the Inquisition and Expulsions carried on. Jews—a solid class of
craftsmen and middlemen—were expelled. The Granadan Moors—ablest of
Spain’s cultivators—were making homesick songs about their Andalusian
farms, in Fez and Marrakech. There were more vagabonds in Spain than
farmers, more soldiers than laborers. There were more hidalgos and
caballeros than artisans and merchants. There were seven million Spaniards
—and nine thousand convents!
Some men are poor because they are weak and dull: some are poor
because they are men of genius. Amsterdam and London grow rich, because
such is their will. Avila and Toledo remain dingy, because their will is
elsewhere. Spain is virile, brilliantly equipped. But Spain has resolved to be
a hero and a saint. Spain has no time to pave streets, who paves the way for
Christ beyond the sea. Spain has no time for natural science, for agriculture
and for the tricks of trade, who is so expert in theology.[22]
In the extremes of her life, none is wider than this between the Spirit of
Spain’s enterprise and the fact of her condition. The crass and earthly
elements of Spain are not destroyed nor repressed by her religious will: they
are engaged. They must serve in her armies, even though the fight be a
crusade. They must man her ships, even though the mariner’s compass be
divinely pointed. They are intensified indeed, like all the parts of Spain.
And like the other elements of her world, brutality and lust assume in a
particular form the wholeness of Spain’s will.
Spain is adventuring. Now the sheer impulse of adventure is embodied.
The pícaro is born. He has in him the aboriginal Spaniard: that unruly, lusty,
atomic man whom Rome encountered, whom the Cid personified. He is an
anarch, brutal as the Iberian of the north, shrewd and subtle as the
Phœnician of the south. He is this aboriginal, complex man of Spain shaped
by the Spanish will. The pícaro is not lawless: he is an outlaw. He reacts
from Spain’s social purpose, from Spain’s social structure, from the
mysticism and heroism of this later Spain. Like all reactive bodies, he
resembles his opponent. And it is this union in him—the direct issue from
the source of Spain and the direct response to Spanish culture—which
makes him so true an element in that culture.
The pícaro was long in coming. The Cid promised him in the twelfth
century, and the romancero on the eve of the age of Isabel. The genial Juan
Ruiz, archpriest of Hita, in 1300 came close to his spirit in the graphic form
... a mingled piety and license ... of his great Libro de buen amor. Fernando
de Rojas who began La Celestina in 1499 did not create the pícaro only
because he created something deeper. Like Don Quixote at the end of the
cycle, La Celestina ere its beginning transcends the pícaro and contains
him. Now come the Castilian versions of Amadís de Gaul. The spirit of
errant adventure waxes so strong that it invades the hagiographa: Spaniards
of the age of Carlos read histories of the saints fully as marvelous and
picaresque as the profaner tales in the library of Don Quixote. Finally, after
these ages of annunciation, the pícaro arrives, full-fleshed. His name is
Lazarillo de Tormes: his date is 1554: his author is unknown.
In this pattern of antithesis whose symphony is Spain, the response to
Santa Teresa is the procuress of Rojas, the Celestina, that most tender,
robustious, scoundrelly, womanly woman. The response to the flame-like
San Juan de la Cruz is Lazarillo. San Juan personifies Spain’s purpose,
which is divine. Lazarillo embodies Spain’s methods, which are brutal. San
Juan is not abstract: he is an embodiment of purpose. Lazarillo is not mere
flesh: in his trickeries and thefts, there is an inverted consciousness of Spain
which makes his path through Old and New Castile almost as luminous as
the path of the saint.
This consciousness is marked by irony: and irony is in the weave of
every picaresque design. For the Spanish rascal is no mere reaction from
heroic gesture. He is reversion as well. He is moved by the same energy that
has uprisen in the forms of asceticism and crusade. His antiphony is but a
subtle swerving back from the life he wars on, to Spain’s common base.
The pícaro has the resource, the intensity, the method, of conquistador and
crusader: he preys on his own land. He has the passionateness of the saint: it
is directed toward woman. He is a casuist like the Jesuit: his aim is to filch a
purse. He navigates uncharted wastes like Columbus: to fill his belly and to
save his skin. This continuous awareness of Spain’s noble world, this subtle
swerve transforming it into villainy and lust, make the ironic pattern. The
low tricks of the pícaro, weaving through the high fabric of his land, once
more limn Spain in her fullness.
Lazarillo is but the first of a long line. The book that tells of him has
scarce a hundred pages: yet it seems wide and deathless as the land from
Salamanca to Toledo which its hero crosses. Lazarillo is a lad born of poor
but unworthy parents. A blind beggar teaches him how to survive as a rascal
in a rascally world. The young virtuoso outdoes his master. He becomes the
servant of a starving, haughty knight, of a parsimonious churchman, of a
shrewd and lecherous canon with whom he makes a treaty which includes
the sharing of his wife.
Lazarillo encounters Spain; and the land grows alive at his touch.
Disorder, corruption, folly beneath the façade of splendor. But now, an
acute principle synthetizes the chaos: the pícaro like a wistful agent of
intelligence, envelops Spain and makes Spain one with pity. This pity is of a
new order, among the emotions of art. It is neither mystical nor sentimental.
It is the child of a modern autonomy: it is the pity of reason.
The author of Lazarillo does not insist. He has created an engine so
revealing that he can afford to rest within his quiet prose. He writes a tiny
book: plastic portraiture, tender and bitter humor, sweet spirit, dark flesh—
all Spain indeed is in it, as is the tree in the seed. Lazarillo is a seed, from
which has sprung a forest. In Spain, the picaresque merges quickly with
profounder worlds; loses its æsthetic sharpness, and has its share in the birth
of a book which is a Scripture: Don Quixote. The true form shrinks to
formula. The symbol of the rogue, preying on society and so divulging it, is
exploited by minds more analytic than creative. In the hands of such
masters as Quevedo, the pícaro becomes a concept of pessimism: a chemic
force with which to test and to destroy the world. The pícaro voyages to
France. But in Le Sage and Marivaux (to name but the greatest), the
physical and intellectual movements of the rogue are stressed. France veers
backward toward Scapin—toward the scamp of the classic comedy—whose
essential difference is great. England borrows more deeply. The pícaro’s
animal joyousness, social revelation, bitterness turned sentimental come
back to life in Smollett, Fielding, Sterne. But they unite in no one work
comparable with Lazarillo. Even De Foe wants the luminous poetic
atmosphere whereby the crass materials of the tale have their dimension.
No master outside Spain can recreate the pícaro entire. For the Spanish
rogue is sterile without the aspirational afflatus of his race, in which he
adventures, from which he reacts, and which he embodies in ironic contrast.
That is why the greatest heirs of the pícaro of Spain are not his direct sons
in eighteenth-century France and England. They are his collateral and
remote descendants of a modern world in which once again energy has
become aspirant and religious. They are the heroes of Stendhal. Above all,
they appear in Russia—that other extreme of Europe which touches Spain
in the domain of spirit: they are the hero of Dead Souls of Gogol, the mystic
criminals of Dostoievski....
f. Velázquez
Antithesis even within the personal will of Isabel and her king. Isabel
looks to Africa and the west. Mysterious horizons claim her. Africa is the
home of Origen and Augustine—Berber Christians and true Spanish minds.
America casts a parabola of search alluring to her mystic appetite. But
Isabel is wedded to a man who looks toward Europe. The Aragonese king
comes from the most assimilated part of Spain. In him, as in his realm, lives
the spirit of Catalan, of European Trader. His hungers strain toward Italy
and France. And this dichotomy within the will of the monarchs—Europe
and the south, politics in Europe and high adventures across the western sea
—is stamped upon the classic will of Spain. The concept of the State which
Isabel and Ferdinand adapt is Europe. Louis XI and Machiavelli would
have hailed it. The purpose of that State would have been better pleasing to
Mohammed or Saint Paul. The spirit is Isabel’s and is accepted by her
husband. But the form is Ferdinand’s and here his wife is disciple.
Now, of this division within the will of Spain, that term which is Europe
finds a canon. Velázquez, better than the policy of the kings, better than the
victories of their captains in Sicily and France, incarnates Spain’s desire to
be Europe.
But here, too, irony is at work. Velázquez is the favorite painter at the
Court of Philip IV. He lives at the Palace; he is sent on diplomatic missions.
His career corresponds almost literally with the reign of his king. And this
reign marks the rapid ebb of Spain’s affairs in Europe. Her will toward
Europe has flung her power high into the north and clear across the Latin
Sea. Now, while Velázquez molds that will into organic form, his king loses
Portugal, loses the Netherlands, loses the Roussillon, half the Pyrenees, and
faces insurrection in Barcelona, Spain’s European port.
The will of Velázquez’ art is objective form. Bodily substance becomes
real. Man’s moods and passions in themselves suffice. They have their
value not in some rapt design beyond man’s body or in employing it to
mystic ends: the world of appearance is the world. Velázquez’ traits are
traits of modern Europe. Mysticism disappears, both in immanent and
transcendental form. The beauty of spiritual strain, so eloquent in Ribera, is
replaced by the beauty of physical poise. The hot fluidity of El Greco which
recalls the Prophets, the creative incompleteness of the Byzantines,
becomes a static peace. In El Greco, as in all mystic art, the moving
materials reach the immobility of form only through the focus of a world
beyond them. But in Velázquez, there are no colors save those of face and
fabric; there are no forms save those of the body. Velázquez is a realist in
the restricted modern European sense. He is impressionistic and he is
mechanistic. The vast autonomy of the subjective vision is renounced in
him. He makes his eye a literal receiver of impressions: whereas the mystic
eye (and the Spanish eye) has ever been a creator of expression.
This type of æsthetic will which, from the Renaissance to Courbet, is to
reign in Europe wins perhaps its highest triumph in the alien Velázquez.
What tribute to the energy of Spain! For this is not Spain, this is but a
fragment. The vision yearning to become complete, the mystic marriage,
the parabolic search, the lyric plaint, the ceaseless cante hondo, the
arabesque which transforms words to body—these, too, are Spain: these are
the virtues which create El Greco, Calderón, Lope, Ribera, Cervantes.
Velázquez will have none of them. Velázquez will be wholly European.
Europe, accepting the world of appearance as the entire world, pours all its
energy to the creating of the immense material universe which is our
shambles of the machine and applied science. Spain does not follow. But
Velázquez leads.[23]
Velázquez was a great lover of El Greco. Manuel Cossío tells us that in
his private chambers at the Palace, the court painter had works of the great
mystic. His love and study of his antithesis helped to confine him within his
own domain. In his religious subjects, Velázquez shows the direct influence
—chiefly in composition—of El Greco. And in these works, the graphic
might of Velázquez fades: they are the least of his pictures. Where
Velázquez is great, El Greco is excluded: the younger man seems willfully
to avoid what he must have felt should denature his æsthetic. And in this
response, Velázquez achieves once more the miracle of Spain: the infusing
of a part with an intensity and essence of the Whole. El Greco is Spain of
Africa and of the Semites, Spain the High Priest of Rome, the mystic Spain.
And Velázquez is Spain of Europe: the land of analytic grace, of luxuriant
elaborations, of immense exclusions.
Spain’s craft goes far, when Spain resolves to be “efficient.” Study Las
Hilanderas, Mercurio y Argos, the portrait of Margarita de Austria. This
grace is the ecstasy of cool and obvious metals. It suggests the modern
æsthetic of the Machine. Modeling and texture are composed of immediate
masses which are self-sufficient. Neither in part nor in whole are they
transmuted into the subjective. Or take the portrait of Mariana de Austria,
Philip’s second wife. Of the woman there is naught save the weak face and
the flat hands. But the black and silver gown is volumnear. Its fringes and
its lace hold power that appears almost to be a symbol of this Court—this
Court of Spain striving to hold a world within its forces.
The will of Velázquez, at least, does not falter. Las Meninas is forever a
shut and earthly room. No glimpse here of the arcana of the soul, of the
soul’s subtle modeling of arm and face. Think what El Greco would have
done with that group: the royal family, the painter, the dwarf, the dog. How
they would have flamed; how heaven and hell would have come in and
metabolized these bodies!
. . . . . .
In the palace of the king of Spain, there were simpletons and dwarfs.
They formed part of the Court and Velázquez painted them. He painted
them so well because they were part of himself.
The forces which aspire beyond the body, beyond the domain of sense,
died not in Velázquez. His æsthetic will allowed them no immediate word.
This explains the cramped discomfort of his religious pictures. Here within
him were these instincts, these intuitions, unable to speak, unable to die.
And here were the twisted courtiers of the king. A good court painter could
portray them; for they were of the palace. And since they were pitiful
victims of Nature’s law, the despised and dispossessed, an artist’s soul could
use them as a symbol.
In the world there lives a spirit whose name is Christ and his saints.
When the world denies, that spirit ceases to be Christ: it becomes a dwarf
and a madman. Velázquez has discovered this: he sets down his dark
confession after all. Here is a record of the grotesque and the pitiful world,
born of his deep denials.
What a page it is! El Bobo de Coria: the simplicity of the inane issuing
from the breakdown of complex power: sweetness, candor, poetry and grace
surviving in the death of idiocy. El Primo: a little man beside a gigantic
book; pathos, tenderness, pride—the song of frustration. Don Sebastián de
Mora: a huge body squats, the head empty, the outstretched legs short as a
child’s—so eloquent, so helpless. And the Niño de Vallecas, most poignant
of all, for he bespeaks fecundity without intelligence: he is the lush plasm
of life, purposeless, spiritually bereft.
This is the confession of Velázquez, enacting Spain’s will to be Europe.
This is a prophecy of Europe, whose life of mechanical perfection has
turned the Christ and saints of its soul into such twisted creatures.
CHAPTER IX
THE WILL OF DON QUIXOTE

a. The Birth of the Hero
b. The Career of the Hero
c. The Book of the Hero
a. The Birth of the Hero

Cervantes was born in a Europe more than three centuries beyond the
noon of chivalry. Knighthood north of Spain begot great books. The
Chanson de Roland in the form which we possess is earlier than 1100. In
the last years of the twelfth century Chrétien de Troies—first master in an
unbroken line that perhaps closed with Anatole France—put into gracious
and fleet form the Arthurian cycle. A bit later, a profounder German,
Wolfram von Eschenbach, composed from French materials the
transfiguring masterwork of chivalry, the Poem of Parzival. Joinville’s
portrait of Saint Louis and of his two Crusades was written about 1290.
Thereafter Europe, north of Spain, begins the great decline into the modern
era.
The last historic synthesis of western man lies in that Middle Age. It rose
from the chaotic impact of the Roman Empire and the Teuton with
Alexandria and Judah. Already ere the ancient world had fallen its
architects were building. Origen, Tertullian, Jerome, Anthony, Gregory,
Charlemagne—such were its foundation-makers. It reaches heights in
Abélard, Aquinas, Francis, Dante: in the creators of the Gothic, in the great
weavers of polyphonic music, in men of action—Godefroi de Bouillon and
Saint Louis. And already, at this hey-day, from the disintegrant north come
threats of dissolution in such figures as Roger Bacon and Duns Scotus who,
positing the primacy of will over the intellect, declare Theology to be not
science but revelation and foretell Luther and Kant—creators of the modern
chaos.
European thought, after the Cathedrals, Dante, and the great scholastics,
is a story of destruction. Men of as high genius as Albertus Magnus or Saint
Thomas proceed by vision and by dialectic to take stone from stone in the
dismantlement of Christian Europe. Here and there in the vast liquidation a
prophet throws up a scheme for a new Synthesis—such a one was Spinoza:
the world cannot accept him, neither can it lose him, from cosmic
prescience of a future need.
The towers of this great House in which dwelt the soul of Europe touch
the year 1300. Dante has devised his vision; Chartres lives upon the Ile-de-
France; Saint Bernard in Clairvaux and Saint Francis in Assisi have filled
the world with brothers; chivalry has brought war and love into the sacred
symphony of Europe; the German foray is Crusade; lust of the flesh bears
the Mystery of Tristan and Isolt, of Abélard and Héloïse. Now, the divine
Structure nobly curves back to earth. By 1400, Europe dwells once more in
the bowels of discord. By 1500, European man is a congeries of atomic
wills: the unity of Christ has scattered into exploration, industry and
science.
But in this destructive act, Europe is as creative as when the Fathers
builded, out of the Prophets, Plato, Paul, the puissant Organism of medieval
Europe. To tear down such a body is as divine an act as to build it. Systole
and diastole are equal. Schopenhauer and Kant are brothers before God
with Aquinas. The long ages of deliquescence from that peak of Rome
rightly seem rich to our enlisted eyes since they are as full of saints and
heroes consecrate to our work, as were the anchorites of the Thebaid to
theirs.
For this is the mysterious law of history: that the divine is present in
death even as in life, in the Nay equally with the Yea. God does not build
His revelation upon earth and then turn away His face while man tears
down. He is there, too, in the destruction. He was there when the Prophets
created the Jew: He was there also when the Pharisees and the Essenic
Christ destroyed the Jew. He was there when the saints and Fathers builded
Catholic Rome. He was there when Luther, Calvin, Goethe, Blake burned
Rome away.
We see Him in the despair of Dostoievski no less than in the joy of Saint
Francis. It was while the Jewish world drooped and retched, that the gospels
of Jesus flowered. From that nadir was prepared the Dantean zenith. Once
more an ebb of the Tide. Spain has become a befuddled chaos. Home from
her mad anachronistic dream of establishing on earth what Europe has
given up for centuries, she is already rotting. And now, from the bitterness
of her awareness rises a new Word. It, too, is entextured of contemporary
failure, and is implicit of revelation.
. . . . . .
Spain did not conform with the Middle Ages of the north. Roman Iberia
received its dominant invasion from the south, whereas in Italy, Gaul and
Britain the coefficient of transformation from Rome to Holy Rome was the
same Teuton element which held the eastern marches beyond Roman rule.
León, Aragon and Castile were medieval in so far as the Visigoth was
strong in them. But even here, contact was as great with the Moslem foe of
the south as with the brother northward.
Medievalism is an idealism forced upon the world of Appearance. It is a
mystical conclusion by the Teuton will, drawn from the logical element of
Latin, and the naturalistic element of Semitic, cultures. It is most powerful
in the lands where the Teuton is strongest: Germany and England. In
France, where the blend was fairest between Frank and Gallo-Roman, it is
most balanced and most perfect. In Italy, medievalism is never great. And in
a land whose conclusive elements are Semitic or harmonize with the
Semitic, it is impossible. Such a land was Spain. The ethnic Iberian base of
Spain is more African in nature than European; more aboriginally close to
Semite than to German. Arab culture was always naturalistic. Judaism and
Mohammedanism are pragmatic systems on different levels, yet both based
upon empirical experience and natural law. In medieval Catholicism, the
natural laws and the experience of the world are deformed by a mystic
idealizing will. In Semitism, the ideal sense is made to converge with
natural law: the mystic will is regarded as possessing its true form in the
activity of nature.
Semitism in its several shades, or a spirit close to it, impeded Spain from
becoming wholly medieval. It was culturally too strong to accept the neo-
platonic House of the medieval God. But Semitism is politically weak.
Medievalism, repugning the natural body of the world, creates an ideal
Organism—a Church—which becomes politically real. Semitism, accepting
Nature as God’s organic body, has no impulse to erect political substitutes
for the wholeness of existence. Politically, it tends toward fragmentation:
even as in art it remains lyrical and forms no such organic structures as the
Gothic cathedral or the Dantean epic. This political weakness of the Spanish
Semite impeded Spain from becoming wholly Semitic. Spain for centuries
was in a state of continuous flux and of osmosis between the medieval north
and the Semitic south. When at length there came a final issue the north
won. Ferdinand and Isabel turned toward Europe. A revised medievalism,
equipped with methods of the Renaissance, became the goal of the Spanish
will. And at a time when it was already dead in Europe.
This is the year 1500. The Holy Roman Empire is in full liquidation.
Luther and Calvin are rising. Copernicus is at work. America has been
discovered. Now Spain pours her ideal energy and her blood into the tragic
task of becoming medieval. Godefroi, Saint Louis, Parzival, Saint Francis
and Aquinas have been dethroned and denied in the countries of their birth.
They become the patterns and movers of Castile.
Lest the hostile—the Semitic elements, which in the noon of medieval
Europe held Spain from her part in that great Synthesis, hold Spain back
now, Isabel drives the Jew and Moslem from her realms. It is too late. The
dissident spirit is at work in Spain. And the heroic effort of this land to
revive chivalry, to recreate Christ, to re-establish all the world as Christ’s
Rock and Church becomes a divine farce, a sort of comic Mystery—Don
Quixote.
. . . . . .
Perhaps Cervantes’ family was of gentle blood: but it had come to pitiful
fortune when Miguel was born to the poor surgeon in Alcalá de Henares.
The year was 1547: and the town upon the llanura of Castile was the rival
of Salamanca. Naught is more eloquent of the poverty of his people than the
fact that Miguel was unable to attend the university round the corner. At
twenty-two, however, he was a poet. He went to Italy as the body servant of
the Papal Nuncio: later he rose to be a soldier. In 1571, the ships of Philip II
defeated the Turk in the waters of Lepanto. A shot crippled the left hand of
Cervantes. His officers ordered him below. He refused to leave the deck,
and in his blood and pain fought to the close of the engagement. This is a
better sign of his unusual nature than his verse. A man of high sensitivity, he
exposed himself to physical suffering beyond the duty of a soldier. He was
devoted passionately to the Catholic cause. And when in 1575 he took ship
from Italy, he had letters to the king from Don Juan of Austria and the Duke
of Sessa whom he had served in Naples. He was full of merit: and full of
hope he went home for his reward. But the Berber pirates took the vessel
and he and his brother, Rodrigo, became slaves in Algiers. Four times in
five years Cervantes plotted to escape the stiflement of servitude in the
Kasbah of that town which rises within a snow-crowned conch above the
hard-blue sea, hiding its reek within the gleam of roofs. Cervantes’ sisters
and mother bestirred themselves: scraped coin together, borrowed, and at
last, ransomed Rodrigo. In 1580, a mendicant monk came to the aid of the
sisters, and Cervantes was freed on the eve of his departure eastward. He
went to Madrid. He sought protection, and he failed to find it. He had been
a hero and a martyr: but such were cheap in Spain. The land swarmed with
veterans of the wars which had spread Spain’s glory to the Pacific Ocean.
Cervantes performed odd diplomatic jobs and tried to be a writer. From
thirty-four to forty he wrote thirty plays; he had no financial success. But he
wed a landed lady, Doña Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano of
Esquivias, a town on the fringe of the Manchegan desert which after twenty
years was to be transfigured by a hero. At about the time of his marriage,
another lady Doña Ana de Rojas bore him a natural daughter, Isabel, whose
life was to be fateful in his own. Cervantes’ burdens were great as his
means were small. He placed all his hopes on a novel in which he believed
that he had lavished all his genius. La Galatea appeared in 1585, and was
an unremunerative succès d’estime.
Now come twenty years of Gethsemane to Don Miguel de Cervantes y
Saavedra. The silence of oblivion—el silencio del olvido whereof he speaks
—was their sweetest portion. We follow him hardly, for he had reason to
hold to his obscurity. In 1588 he is a commissary in Seville. In 1592 he is in
prison for a bungled sale of wheat. Later he is engaged in provisioning the
Armada. He tries to get out of Spain: he seeks a post in Guatemala: but he
lacks the influence to win it. Once more he sues the stage. Lope de Vega is
the master of taste; and once more Cervantes fails. In 1594 he is a tax-
collector in Granada: in disgrace: once more in prison. In 1597 we find him
released on faith of his word that he will make good a deficit to the
Treasury of the King. There is no trace, however, of his payment. For five
years, he seems to have touched depths in Andalusia. An obscure actor,
Tomás Gutiérrez (blessèd be his name) supports him. In 1603 he is in jail
again, the bank in which he had deposited trusted monies having failed. He
appears to have been under lock and key at this time, in both Seville and
Argamasilla de Alba. This may have been the circumstance in which,
judged by his own words, he began to write Don Quixote.
In 1604, Part One of the work is written: has even been bruited about
Madrid either in manuscript or in an edition prior to the first extant one
which bears the date 1605. Lope de Vega is at his height. He is the Stage of
Spain. His name outshines the king’s: his portrait stands beside a saint’s in
myriad Spanish homes. Miguel de Cervantes is living in Vallodolid. With
him are the two sisters who helped ransom him from slavery, a niece and
Isabel; his natural daughter. His wife lives in indifferent ease on her estate
in La Mancha. Cervantes is penniless. His labors as tax-farmer have earned
him bread in prison and disgrace with the world. He has been forgotten as a
writer. And he lives with women who support him. They are good women
and he loves them: but they are women, like himself disgraced by fortune.
His sisters, Magdalena de Sotomayor and Andrea de Cervantes, have been
“kept” women. His niece Constanza is living now with a man to whom she
is not married. Cervantes knows this, and eats their bread. His daughter,
Isabel, is not of good repute; nor is Cervantes perfectly cleared of
implication in her mercenary ways.
He is fifty-seven: he is broken utterly. And his bread is shame. Yet he is
still the proud hidalgo who served Don Juan of Austria in Naples, who
refused succor and relief at Lepanto: who led gallant sallies in Algiers. He
is not Cervantes. He is Miguel de Cervantes y Saavedra.
. . . . . .
This man looks out upon his world, with eyes of such a life, and decides,
after twenty adverse years, again to write a book. He has read only the
decadent offspring of chivalry’s literary flower. He does not know the
original chansons de geste nor the native water-clear romans d’aventure.
The best he knows is the fifteenth century Romancero; is Ariosto and the
ornate Italians; is the Castilian version of Amadís de Gaula which has come
to Spain, over-blown, by Portugal out of Brittany and Wales. These are
relatively pure beside their spawn of dull sons performing ridiculous
wonders in a world of wooden magic. But the vogue of these knights is
past. The books of caballería, which tempted the young Santa Teresa to go
forth seeking martyrdom and adventure, have already ebbed. On the other
hand, La Celestina which appeared along with the first Castilian Amadis
has thriven and inspired the pícaro who lives still in Spanish and in
European letters.
Vivid in Cervantes’ mind is the organic music—the first great Castilian
prose—in which Fernando de Rojas sang the sordid fate of his Celestina. As
with Amadis, this book has medieval roots. But unlike Amadis, it has
classic form, and independent greatness. Amadis is a fatty degeneration of
Roland, Parzival, Lancelot. La Celestina is a transfigurement of the comedy
of Terence and Plautus, as well as of the romance of Aucassin and
Nicolette, of Tristan and Isolt, of Romeo and Juliet. It is ironic, realistic,
ruthlessly tragic as the romance was never. Chivalry expressed a childlike
age which projected its own maturity into a Church and a Heaven. The
romance at best was an adolescent form. As the Church dimmed and
Heaven grew less sure and man began again to build upon himself, it was
transfigured into the modern novel. La Celestina is the first towering adult
of the childlike race of the fabliaux and romances.
Irony and a profound acceptance of natural justice—such are the
transforming elements of La Celestina. Love’s medieval idyll is rotted and
destroyed by the pragmatic world to which it has appealed for fulfillment.
Loveliness is killed by lust. The whole infantile fantasy of the Middle Age
is confronted with the fate of its own will: a fate of evil and of sordid
passion. And Justice is implicit in the nature of events. This meeting of love
and lust, of vice and beauty, this hot-and-cold inmixture of vision and of
despair gives to the book of Rojas a dimension that relates it to Dostoievski
and to Balzac.
The pícaro novels of Spain’s sixteenth century continue the novel of
Rojas and announce Don Quixote. Counterpoint of irony and naturalistic
justice becomes the theme, variantly construed, of Lazarillo de Tormes, of
Quevedo’s El Buscón, of Delicado’s Lozana Andaluza, of the Guzmán of
Mateo Alemán.
This in the mind of Cervantes looking out upon his world. And with it, a
parallel domain of literary expression: one that is not unrelated to the brutal
picaresque and to the extravagant tales of chivalry: the mystic. Cervantes
knew the renowned Diálogos de Amor of León Hebreo. And he knew Santa
Teresa, Luis de León, Luis de Granada.
This man whom adversity for twenty years has silenced is a bookish
man. But he has been a man of action. He has grown old with his own
literary failure. But he has absorbed a century of literary success. He is no
primitive. Mature in years and in events, he is the heir of a rich, various
heritage of expression.
When he was born, Carlos I was king. His youth spanned the age of
Felipe II. While he fought and was exiled, the Escorial rose, a last pinnacle
of stone, from the Castilian Guadarrama. Now, in Cervantes’ broken age,
the grotesque Felipe III leads Spain. Spain has gone on the Crusade Isabel
dreamed; and Spain has come to this.
Cervantes looks back over the glorious madness of his land; and he has
his earliest vision of the Knight: Quixote wearing a barber’s dish, mounted
on a nag. For Spain was not like Europe at the dawn of chivalry. Europe
then was dawn, itself. Old wines—the wines of the Prophets, of Plato and
Saint Augustine—had raged in the young flesh of Teuton hordes. But Spain
at this flush of her ambition was already old. Seven centuries of war with
Islam, endless ages of conflict with a desert world have parched the skin
and turned brittle the bone of this Quixotic hero, abroad in the world to
make the world into the House of Christ.
Cervantes looks at Spain. Outward splendor flings Spain’s canopy from
Holland to Africa, from Florida to Santa Fe. Paul and the Apostles who
voyaged over the world are dead fifteen hundred years; but Columbus
charts his way to the Indies from study of the Scriptures. Roland blew his
last horn six centuries since: but Cortés and Pizarro raze empires in Peru.
The hermits of the Thebaid are buried under millennial dust; but Córdoba
has its anchorites. Saint Anthony and Saint Elisabeth are old in Heaven; but
here yesterday were Saint John of the Cross and Saint Teresa. Bernard of
Clairvaux did not crush the Albigensians with more blood than Torquemada
the Jews. Saint Louis of France announces Isabel of Spain. Pope Gregory
has his brother—across seven hundred years—in Cisneros, Cardinal of
Toledo.[24]
Cervantes looks within Spain. It is a squalid land. Men pray while it lies
sterile. Old soldiers are vagabonds on the roads. Farms are waste while the
lazy lords watch for gold-filled galleons from the Indies. It is a bloodless
land. Women give themselves to Christ, and their wombs shrink. Carlos and
Felipe pour the blood of Aragon and Castile into the Flemish sea.
Cervantes looks at himself. He, too, has been a hero. His maimed hand
recalls the gesture of Lepanto. He has been a poet—in prison; a servant of
the State—who starved. He has helped to provision the Armada whose
splendor sank under the modern iron of stripped England. And now, he eats
the shame-bread of his women.
Looking within himself or out upon his world, Cervantes sees one thing.
Spain and he are home, ashen and sober, from a high Crusade. Spain and he
are this single body of his bitterness. Such is the conjunction and dark omen
of the birth of a hero.
b. The Career of the Hero

Don Quixote is but the final name of the ingenious knight of La Mancha.
In Chapter One of his book, it is set forth that he was known as Quijada,
Quesada or Quejana. Four chapters later a worker in the neighboring fields
addresses him as Quijana, and as Quijano he made his will at the end of his
last journey. His Christian name was Alonso. Quixote (Quijote in modern
Castilian) was the choice of the old man himself. And as Cervantes gives
him birth, he is old—old for his fifty years in a frustrate Manchegan village.
He is noble but poor. He is an eater of cheap meats. He is a cadaverous,
lantern-jawed, brittle-boned, deep-eyed fellow. His house, one room of
which is stocked with the chivalric books that have drawn his substance and
addled his brains, is cared for by an old Nurse and a niece. There is as well
a boy servant who disappears from the tale after the first chapter. Doubtless
Cervantes meant to employ him as Don Quixote’s squire: but when the
independent knight after his first sally made choice of Sancho Panza, there
was naught left for the poor mozo. Of course, in the stable stands a splay-
hoof nag. After four days of meditation on such names as Bucephalus and
Babieca (the stallion of the Cid), Quixote christens his jade Rocinante.
Rocín means hack horse: wherefore Don Quixote meant that his mount was
before all the other hacks of the world.
This detail, appearing in the first chapter of the Book, might give the
canny reader pause. “Why,” he might ask, “if the deluded eyes—as we are
told—of Don Quixote saw his hack as a mount equal to the steeds of
Amadis or Alexander, as he was soon to be equal in renown, did he christen
him with a name so comical and so revealing?” The reader will be aware of
a curious shift in this Don Quixote’s “madness”: a note shivering in at once
of self-conscious irony.
However, the madman to whom Cervantes introduces us seems on the
whole at first to be consistent. A poverty-struck Manchegan, finding his
treeless world too empty for his senses, lets them roam in a realm of knight-
errants, ogres, fairies, virgins, Magic. Until his senses are strayed.
Whereupon, deeming himself a Roland or an Amadis, he buckles on his
rusty sword, takes his nag from the stall and sallies forth into a Spain
sordidly realistic, sick of heroes, to perform adventures. He cuts a
ridiculous figure. And his fate is what a sane man might expect. He is
unhorsed, drubbed, pounded. He loses teeth as his molested countrymen
lose tempers. The ladies he meets are foul-breathed wenches; the lord of the
Castle in which he takes his rest wants his pay, being the keeper of an inn.
His battles are with goats, sheep, windmills and Biscayan servants. It is
clear that some day his madness will discomfit him entire. At which time he
will be forced back to his house where the good Nurse and the niece will
staunch his wounds, bathe the dust from his mad eyes and put him to bed.
Meantime, there is the tale to tell—with much laughter—of his absurd
adventures. Cervantes wishes to laugh at this medieval scarecrow, jousting
with the Modern. His fellow Spaniards, sick like himself of gestures and
heroics, will roar along—will pay reales for the book—will put money in
the purse of a scribbler.
Such a Quixote is the child of Cervantes, and is the subject of the early
chapters. And now a fundamental difference sets in, marking off this
character from others. Most literary creations remain their maker’s. As he
willed, modeled, developed them, so they live—or die. This is true in great
books. The evolution of the hero is explicit in the poet’s mind or at least in
the action’s threshold. But for the analogue to Don Quixote we must go to
biology, rather than to art. The mother forms the baby in her womb. It is
organically hers, and so for a brief time it will remain. But she has endowed
it with a principle which will make her child recede ever more from being
her creation. This inner life, seeking substance in the world of sense and of
impression, becomes itself. The mother has created a babe—only to lose it.
Similar is the fate of Quixote with Cervantes. From the womb of his will
and bitter fancy comes the child. But Don Quixote is no sooner set on earth,
than he proceeds by an organic evolution, by a series of accretions,
assimilations, responses, to change wholly from the intent of his author—to
turn indeed against him. He does not lose organic contact with his source,
even as the man is child of his own childhood and of his parents in a way
deeper than the parents’ conscious will or than biologic pattern. But above
all, the child becomes himself. He has transcended vastly the amorphous
thing lodged in his mother’s womb. So Don Quixote is transfigured beyond
the sprightly scheme of his maker.
He was conceived and formed, as a broken writer’s bitter turning against
his heroic soul and his heroic age; he becomes the Body of sublime
acceptance—the symbol of what his misfortunes were to mock. Cervantes’
conscious will has no firm hold on Don Quixote. And this is plain almost
from the outset in the fact that the Manchegan knight, despite his author’s
assurance, is not mad. We had an inkling of this already in the too
conscious, too ironic naming of Rocinante. Soon the proofs multiply; for
the clown-blows that continue to rain upon Don Quixote in Part One cannot
hold him from his organic growth. With Part Two, written ten years later,
the blows and buffets are less frequent. Cervantes has had time to catch up
with and humbly to accept his son.
In the matter of the selecting of a Lady (that needed spur of every true
knight-errant) it is clear that Don Quixote knows the facts about Aldonza
Lorenzo, wench daughter of Lorenzo Cochuelo of El Toboso. Quite
consciously, he turns her into the divine Dulcinea whom henceforth he will
worship. Her he makes his “truth”; there is no evidence that the fact of the
girl is ever hidden from him. He needs a helmet, indeed he needs
Mambrino’s magic helmet. A barber comes, riding an ass and on his head
(for it is raining) a copper bleeding-dish. This shall be the golden helmet of
Mambrino; and as such Don Quixote takes it. But in the parley before and
after with Sancho Panza, it is plain that the knight accepts Sancho’s fact
about the dish: he merely turns the fact, for his own purpose, into “truth.”
In the Sierra Morena, Don Quixote resolves to follow a tradition. He and
Sancho have reached the mountains that bar the smooth plains of La
Mancha from the fluid meads of Andalusia southward: mountains of rock
flung to sky, titanic gestures of rock, pourings of cosmic might into the
waste of rock. The Sierra, sudden beneath La Mancha, suggests delirious
excess. So here, Don Quixote will have his knightly spell of madness, in
anguish of his absent lady love. How does he set about it? He debates the
merits of two schools of madness. There was the furious way of Roland
after his Angelica had slept with the Moor Medoro. And there was the quiet
melancholy way of Amadis. Don Quixote is fifty: he elects the quieter
madness. He takes Sancho to witness of his straits, ere he sends him off to
beseech mercy of Dulcinea. Nor is he fooled by Sancho’s meeting with the
lady. The fact that Sancho has left behind him the very letter which he
describes as giving to Dulcinea does not disturb Don Quixote. He is not
dwelling with facts, but with truths of his own conscious making. And he
tells his squire, speaking in elegiac temper of himself: “That if he did not
achieve great matters, he died to achieve them; and if I am indeed not
disowned and disdained by Dulcinea del Toboso, it sufficeth me ... to be
absent from her.” Later he meets the swine girl whom he has transfigured
into princess. And since he speaks of the magic making her appear as the
facts (and Sancho) would have it—a coarse and silly female with a breath
of garlic—it is plain that the facts are in his mind. He is not fooled. Nor is
he lying when he speaks of magic. Magic is the deep inner change of
attitude. This is the secret of the fakirs of the East. This is true magic. Don
Quixote’s attitude changes the fact of the swine girl into his truth of a
princess.
The fooled is Sancho. For Sancho does not understand that fact and truth
may be foes. He takes one for the other. He believes that Dulcinea’s
enchantment, the Cave of Montesino, the Island which he is sent to govern,
the Empress whom his master is to wed are facts. As the tale grows, poor
Sancho is more and more enmired in confusion. He is in danger of madness,
losing his distinction between the world of shapes and this world of ideas in
which Don Quixote rides.
The old knight’s progress is willful. There is, for instance, the wondrous
ride on Clavileño, the wooden horse in the garden of the Duke, upon which
the pair are wafted through heaven and hell. Sancho claims to have stolen a
glimpse and to have seen them soaring through the firmaments of fire. And
Don Quixote answers:
“If you desire me to believe you in what you have just seen in the sky, I
desire that you should believe me in what I saw within the Cave of
Montesino. No need for me to say more....”
He is proposing to Sancho what is neither more nor less than a deal; he
will accept his squire’s lies, if Sancho accepts his own distinction between a
glorious truth and a drab world of facts. But Sancho’s mind has no such
athleticism. He is not Ramón Lull! He has never heard of León Hebreo. He
is forever mixing two insoluble realms.
At last Don Quixote meets his fate. In Barcelona, having been acclaimed
by crowds with mingled laughter and devotion which they can never
understand, he is challenged to combat by the Knight of the White Moon.
He is worsted, of course: and this is his end. For the caballero de la luna
blanca is none other than the bachelor Sansón Carrasco. The goodly Don
Antonio cannot understand this medieval nonsense in his busy modern
seaport. Carrasco explains:
“My lord, know that I, the bachelor Sansón Carrasco, am of the same
place as Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose simplicity and madness have
moved to tears all of us who know him: and among these none has wept
more than I: and believing that there lay his health and peace, in that he
should reside in his own land and house, I determined to return him thither;
and so three months since I went upon the road as a knight-errant, calling
myself el caballero de los espejos, meaning to fight him, vanquish him
without hurt, and having put as the condition of our encounter that the
vanquished remain in the discretion of the victor: and what I thought to
demand of him (for I judged him beforehand already vanquished) was that
he should return to his home, and sally not forth from it for a whole year; in
which time he might be cured; but fate ordered otherwise, for I was the
defeated. I was hurled from my horse, and hence my purpose could not take
effect; he went his way, and I returned, beaten, bruised, mashed by my fall
which to be sure was dangerous enough; but for this I did not give up my
meaning which was to seek him out once more and defeat him, as you have
seen me do this day. And since he is so punctilious in all that pertains to the
knight-errant, without doubt soever he will obey the order I have given him,
in honor of his word. This, my lord, is what has passed, without my need to
say another thing; I beseech you, do not discover me nor say to Don
Quixote who I am, in order that these my good intentions may have effect,
and that there may return to reason a man so excellent in reason, when he is
left alone by the unreasons of chivalry....”
Carrasco reveals that his deep instinct against Don Quixote is buttressed
by a shallow understanding. When the old knight saw the familiar face of
his friend within the vizor of the defeated caballero de los espejos, he was
not troubled: he knew that magic had turned the truth of the defeated
warrior into the face of his neighbor, the bachelor Sansón Carrasco. Had he
now been told that the Knight of the White Moon appeared to others as this
same bachelor, he would have found a similar solution—and obeyed the
knight, though his heart broke.
So now, stripped of his harness, Don Quixote makes his ashen way
homeward from Barcelona. He does not yet know that he is vanquished for
good. His word binds him for a year: thereafter, can he not sally forth
again? Meantime, he need not stay idle in a gross world of facts. “If it seem
well to thee,” he tells his squire, “I should like that we turn pastors even for
the time I am caught up.” He makes his plans. “I shall buy a few sheep and
all other things needed for the pastoral life.” His friends will share this new
transfiguration which has the advantage of being more sociable than the life
of the knight-errant. He will become the pastor Quixotiz; Sancho will
become Pancino. Sancho’s wife Teresa will be Teresona. The bachelor
Carrasco will be known as Sansonino or Carrascón: being a learned man,
he shall take his choice. The priest (el cura) he might call, not knowing his
true name, el pastor Curiambro.
These persons, being facts, must change their names ere they can enter
his truthful pastoral Eden. Dulcinea remains Dulcinea: for already she is of
the world of his truth. With this last lucid statement of his mind, the old
man comes upon his home where soon he is to die. No more may he be a
knight, dispensing Justice in a real world inhabited by such true concepts as
ogres, virgins, sorcerers. Even the little interlude of pastor is denied him. He
languishes; and with his strength, his creative will expires.
The child returneth to the mother. Don Alonso Quijano el Bueno lies
upon a death-bed and renounces Don Quixote. Again Cervantes’ child
shrinks to the arms of his parent. He abjures the careers of all knights-
errant:
“Ya soy enemigo de Amadís de Gaula y de toda la infinita caterva de su
linaje; ya me son odiosas todas las historias profanas de la andante
caballería; ya conozco mi necedad y el peligro en que me pusieron harlas
leído; ya por misericordia de Díos, escarmentando en cabeza propia, las
abomino....”
. . . . . .
Don Quixote, as he emerges unscathed from the mind of his author, is a
man possessed: not a madman. He is a man possessed as were the Hebrew
prophets, or Jesus, or Vardhamana, or Boehme or Plotinus, or any poet....
The difference is subtle but is clear beyond the logical distinctions of man’s
reason. No atheist would call Amos mad, but a man possessed. To Jesus
saying: “When ye have lifted up the Son of God, then shall ye know that I
am he, and that I do nothing of myself, but as my Father hath taught me” no
Jew would ascribe madness, but possession. Quixote is possessed of an
Ideal. And since this ideal was mothered of the world struggling toward
light, and since now it mothers him entire, becoming his truth and his
world, Don Quixote takes his place among the broken and triumphant
prophets. Even the alienist durst not call him mad, for in the drama which
he enacts he knows his part: and the more fully senses what he calls the
truth, knowing its bodily difference from the facts about him.
Reality for the medieval soul was neo-platonic. The conceptual was real:
all else was merely fact. The bitter apartness of Jew and Arab from
medieval Europe was due to the failure of the Semite, despite Philo and Al
Gazali, to assimilate neo-platonism deeply. Plotinus, Porphyry, Augustine,
Iamblicus created the psychology of a thousand years of Europe. The real is
not this world. We are snared and mired in a viscous web of seeming. All
congeries of sense is this. And knowledge tends, not to a translating of this
factual film into the real but to the piercing it, the abandoning it altogether.
This attitude is far from the naturalistic mysticism of the Hebrew, from the
intellectual mysticism of Plato; from the profound nihilism of the Hindu
who recognized the unity of the ideal and the factual, interpreting one
always in terms of the other. Medievalism is a child—and a childish
offshoot—of all these. It declares: There is a real world, and it is not this
one. Man can reach the real world, by various means. He must crucify the
fact, he must worship the saints, he must lose his body in order to save his
soul.
Don Quixote moves through a world neo-platonically real. He is as
aware as Sancho of sheep, windmills, inns, country wenches. He chooses to
disregard these lies of fact. He erects a systematic symbol whereby his
senses vault the phenomena about him, and deliver him the truth. Thereby,
the windmill serves him as a giant; the sheep as enchanted armies; the
empty cave of Montesino as the scene of Glory, and Maritornes the whore
as the virgin lady languishing in love. He has elected to do Justice upon
earth. These giants, armies and disasters serve him as means to that end.
By a similar process, the medieval mind made all history into parable
and symbol. The medieval mind is subjectivism carried to the intense
conclusion made possible by the barbarous Germanic will. Philo’s
allegories of the Scripture, the Book of Zohar, the way of Egypt and India
with all written words, treating them as intricate and recondite symbols,
obsessed the mind of medieval Europe. No act is simple, no name is simply
a name. The world becomes a dramatic Mystery, with every scene bearing
upon the central Plot: the soul’s salvation. For a thousand years, literature
and art, to be serious, had to be allegory.
The mood of medieval symbolism, while it was fathered by Plato and the
Jews, is neither Greek nor Jewish. With these two adult peoples, symbolism
held its place: it remained a relative and ancillary life within the mastering
testimony of the world. Already in Plotinus and Saint Augustine, the
balance is lost. When we are deep in the Middle Ages, we are deep in an
allegoric jungle: the paths of fact are gone; there comes no daylight of
reason in this tangle of monster foliage and whelming branches.
Don Quixote’s world is medievally real. It is a hypertrophy of such
births as Chivalry, Romance and Sainthood. In its character of wholeness,
of deliberate disregard for fact, it springs from the fountainhead of neo-
platonic thought.
But if this transfiguring of the world to his own will is a medieval act,
Don Quixote’s impulse is not medieval, is not even Christian. The medieval
will, myriad in its flowerings, was childishly simple in its seed: the soul’s
salvation. Nothing else counted: or rather, everything had its sole
significance, indeed its reality, as it bore on this monomaniac problem of
each soul: to be saved. That a man’s soul might be saved, all acts since
Adam had been apportioned. For this, the Hebrews lived, the Prophets
preached, Christ died: for this, Peter builded his Church and the Jews
remained outside in perpetual testimony of damnation. For this, men went
on Crusades, conquered heathens, gave birth to children in holy wedlock.
For this there was love and justice: for this there was life and death. But
Don Quixote is no more centrally concerned with his soul’s salvation than if
he had been a Jew. He believes in his soul; he hopes it shall be saved. But
his acts are motived by a will far less personal: the enacting of Justice.
Don Quixote looks upon himself as the instrument of Justice. He is the
embodied and moving will of Justice. The neo-platonic Christian lived
justly, that he might pierce better the Phenomenal Lie and win salvation.
The Arab warrior spread justice with his sword because the Prophet was
just, and he must serve the Prophet to be saved. The knight of the Round
Table of King Arthur performed deeds of justice—rescuing the virgin,
slaying the bad giant—because it was good sport and because it was a way
to his salvation. But Don Quixote wills Justice upon earth, because he
hungers after Justice, because there is naught else true save Justice. If, by
the sheer testimony of his words and deeds, we analyze this passion of Don
Quixote, we learn that for him instinctively Justice meant Unity. The world
must become One: and the means thereto is Justice.
The symbols with which he works are medieval Christian; his mental
mechanism is neo-platonic: his knightly attitude is more Moorish than
Teutonic (as contrasted with the Germanic tenor of the freebooting Cid).
But this heart of his will is Hebrew. The parabolic line of its enactment in
his life links Don Quixote with the Prophets.
The words God and Christ are surprisingly seldom on the old knight’s
lips. He cites Roland and Amadis more often than the Saints. They, indeed,
are his saints. But his God is Justice. And so impersonal, so monotheistic is
He, that He wants more than a body; almost He lacks a name. Or rather His
body is the world: His name is Justice.
The eidolon-making Greeks said in wonder of the Jews: “They are a
people who see God everywhere and localize him nowhere.” So Don
Quixote created for himself a world that should consist solely of
opportunities for Justice. To this end he rejects, selects and builds in the
world which meets his eyes. His mind works like the instinct of an artist.
But he is a peculiar sort of artist. His ethical purpose, the intensity with
which he imbues every action with his vision and turns the social fact into a
spiritual Word, recalls the Prophets. Amos, too, looked out on a world made
wholly the matrix for the vision of God: and moved in Israel as a flame
within the burning wood. To Hosea, even the wife of his bed was a symbol
of the intention of the Lord. Every detail of the Prophet’s life—even the
silence and the dark, even the failure and the sin—is caught in the unity of
his vision and becomes a Word to express it. Thus Don Quixote sets forth to
perform Justice. He must perform it constantly. The world must become
material—a continuum of material—for his performance. But like every
artist and like every prophet Don Quixote must translate his vision into the
accepted formulæ of his mind. In his case, these formulæ are the shoddy
regalia of decadent knighthood. Justice is to be performed by rescuing
virgins, unseating ogres, slaying giants, despiting necromancers. Don
Quixote rides through Spain. Along these highways graze sheep, trudge
merchants: there are inns but no castles. Don Quixote does not see the
enactment of Justice in such terms as these. So he transforms them.
His Justice is an attempt at unity. But it is very simple. The real world of
Don Quixote is no intricate entexture of hierarchic values. It is not like the
mazed affluence of life which the Hindu fused into One. It has none of the
deep involument of souls and states fused by Hebrew and Hellene into God.
It is a simple pyramid. At the base are knights and villains, virgins and
married ladies, angels, enchanters, demons, ogres. And at the pyramid’s
peak is the ideal of all this homogeneous matter: freedom and liberty. This
ideal is uncorrupted by any political or sectarian dogma. It is never more
clear than in the adventure with the convicts. With clinking chains, this
squad of scoundrels is led south by the soldiers of the King, to meet the
galley in which they must serve their terms. Here are men in chains: Don
Quixote’s ideal of Justice demands that chains be stricken off. The soldiers
protest that these chains are virtuous and lawful: it avails not. The freed
rascals repay their liberator with a shower of stones and make off with
Sancho’s ass: this avails nothing. Don Quixote will not be swerved from his
immaculate conception of Justice.
In such episodes as this, we touch the core of the miracle of Don
Quixote. His nature is ridiculously funny, and is Christlike. The freeing of
legally judged robbers, the letting of lions out of cages, is farce: and yet
illumes a justice above laws whose vision is Christlike and whose
enactment brings upon the knight a Christlike fate. In laughing at Don
Quixote, we crucify him. Mockery and buffets create the knight of the
Sorrowful Figure: our own roars of glee at his well-earned mishaps hail the
ridiculous Christ.
And here we come back into the medieval. The Jesus of the Synoptic
Gospels is a dominant unbroken man. The Passion on the Cross is a mystic
interlude—probably an interpolation—which rends the Temple far more
than it does Jesus. His cry, about the ninth hour; “Eli, Eli, lama
sabachthani” is a shredding weakness against the serenity and might of the
historic Man. Jesus in his true character is almost wholly Hebrew Prophet.
With the Lord in his mouth, he is imperious, even overbearing. The Hebrew
spirit is as adverse from ill-health—from martyrdom as an end-in-itself—as
the Greek. But with the infantilization of the West, with the upshowing of
the childish spirit within the iron carapace of Rome, Jesus becomes pitiful.
Medieval art makes him lean and ugly; asceticism borrowed from the
Hindus and Egyptians mangles his body. Within the splendor of the Gothic
church there comes to live a shrunken Christ. And as medievalism stumbled
southward, the process gathered. The baroque churches of Seville are
fantasmagoria of tropic wealth, writhed like a forest about the Sensitive
Plant: Christ, milkpale, blood-spotted.
So at the end, Don Quixote. He is laughter-spotted, blood-spotted.
Reason bespatters him and makes him comic. But since in the minds of men
this reason is profane, and his mad impulse holy, he is a Christ—a
medieval, an unjewish Christ.
. . . . . .
His deeds get him into trouble. Part One abounds in buffets that unhorse
him, knock out his teeth, bathe him in blood and muddy him all over. Part
Two has a less rollicking mood. Cervantes has been affected by Don
Quixote. But there is worse: Don Quixote, enacting Justice, brings trouble
to others—and to the best of them. There is the boy whom he frees from a
flogging master, and who is flogged the worse, in payment for the
humiliation the master has suffered from Don Quixote. There is the freeing
of the convicts—a menace to every household in the land. There is the
freeing of the lion, to the probable disgrace of the poor keeper. Don Quixote
wrecks funerals: he maims an innocent Penitent for life. He unhinges
Sancho’s peace: brings the anarchy of ambition into the breast of this sweet
clod of the earth. He visits destruction upon the unfortunate inns which he
takes for castles. He robs a barber of his copper dish. He drubs innocent
servants. He smashes the sole fortune of Maese Pedro—his set of puppets.
He commits sacrilege even: plunging full-tilt upon a pilgrimage of
disciplinants, breaking legs and wresting from the outraged hand of a priest
an image of the Virgin.
Though he offends many and amuses more, he convinces no one. That a
prophet should inspire jeers and hatred is natural: but that he should have
not one disciple? and that at the end of his mission, he should recant, and
call his mission folly? How can such win the love of the world?
The strong whom he encounters laugh at him. The weak flee from him.
The Nurse and his niece do not laugh: they weep and tear their hair for his
unseemly conduct. In the bachelor Carrasco he inspires a nagging irritation.
This man is common sense incarnate: he is ill-at-ease before the irreducible
vision of the artist. He goes out of his way to down him: dons the armor of
folly in order to bring home the fool. This must not be construed as
altruism. Carrasco pays tribute to Don Quixote, in despite of himself. It is
his own peace he is after. He is aware, albeit far too rational ever to admit it
to himself, that this utter idealist stalking La Mancha robs his small reality
of ease. Common sense—the sense of approximation and of compromise—
is fragile and is nervous. It must sequester the poet-prophet in his home
town.
Perhaps the ugliest episode in the book treats of the knight’s
entertainment in the castle of the Duke and Duchess. They are the worldly-
wise, the worldly-cultured, even as Carrasco is the pragmatist. They take
Don Quixote in; and make him a show for their own genteel delectation.
They are the perpetual patron of the artist. They feed him, flatter him, serve
him: everything but believe him. Their minds hold him safe from their
hearts. And nowhere does the knight of the Sorrowful Figure appear so
pathetic, so ridiculous, so disarmed, as under this ducal roof where he is
lionized and where whole pageantries are enacted to pander to his need of
enacting Justice.
Quixote survives the sophistical salon of the Duchess and of her
lecherous ladies. But while he is among them, he is shrunken. He goes forth
at last, aware of the subtle poison of their praise, to seek the adventure of
Justice—to be laid low by the bachelor Carrasco.
But there is his squire? are there not moments at least in which the squire
is a true disciple? Sancho Panza seems to have come latterly to Cervantes.
Indeed, this loamy son of the Manchegan desert is less immediate
altogether to the world illumined by Don Quixote. That treeless, sapless
plain whose horizons are beyond eye, whose winters are blasts of ice,
whose summers are fire, whose indeterminate panorama of details—dust,
men, towns, roads—is chaos, is the true mother of Don Quixote. La
Mancha is a defeated desert: neither waste nor garden, it imposes the way
of gardens upon the mood of the desert. Don Quixote transfigures its inns
and sordid villages, its hard-fist peasants and its heavy girls into a ruthless
psychic unity; much as the son of the true desert drew its vast horizons and
its breastlike slopes into the body of God. But how in this world was
Sancho Panza born? For not Falstaff of verdant England is more robustly
gay, not Panurge of luxuriant France more subtly sensual.
Sancho is wholly the creation of Cervantes. Don Quixote, born of his
author, outgrew him. Sancho, too, grows organically. Contact with his
master determines this. But none the less he lies ever full within Cervantes’

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Exercise 7—Organic Molecules and Nutrition

Materials and Supplies

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M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 42 19/03/15 10:59 pm

Miscellaneous Supplies Quantity

1. Food preparation (two setups).

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Ordering Information (*)

1. Electric hot plate—Equivalent to Corning, #PC-35 or Fisher, #11-500-7H

2. Disposable pipettes—Fisher, #13-711-7, transfer pipettes

3. Squirt bottles—Fisher, #03-409-16, 500 ml

4. Glass stacking dishes, medium—Carolina Biological, #74-1004, 4 1/2 inches diameter

5. Cartilage forceps—Carolina Biological, #14-W-0926, broad point, 5 inches long

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M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 44 19/03/15 10:59 pm

6. Petri plates, disposable—Fisher, #8-757-12, 100 × 15 mm

7. Filter paper circles, 9 cm diameter—Fisher, #09-795C

8. Biuret solution, ready mixed—Carolina Biological, #84-8213

9. Sudan IV solution, ready mixed—Carolina Biological, #89-2995

10. Albumin powder—Fisher, #A-388-500

11. Dextrose (d-glucose)—Fisher, #D-15-3

12. Starch, soluble—Fisher, #S-516-500

Suggestions for Specific Activities

1. Activity 1: Positive and negative indicator tests

Save all control tests for use in Activity 2.

2. Activity 2: Testing food samples

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To make determining the results of food tests easier:

4. Activity 4: Students should be encouraged to bring calculators for this activity.

Approximate Time to Complete Activities

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Answer Key to Questions

1. Tube 1 was positive for sugar, tube 2 was negative.

Iodine Test for Starch

5. Tube 3 was positive for starch, tube 4 was negative.

6. The paper contains starch.

Biuret Test for Protein

4. Tube 5 was positive for protein, tube 6 was negative.

Sudan IV Test for Lipids

9. Oil circle—positive. Water circle—negative.

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M07_BRES7815_04_SE_C07.indd 47 19/03/15 10:59 pm

6. Refer to the completed Table 7-3.

7. Refer to the completed Table 7-3.

1. Peanut butter, refried beans, and milk.

3. All except lettuce.