Cervantes; he never, even for the most temporary purpose, puts forward a lay figure. There is life and individuality in all his characters, however little they may have to do, or however short a time they may be before the reader. Samson Carrasco, the curate, Teresa Panza, Altisidora, even the two students met on the road to the cave of Montesinos, all live and move and have their being; and it is characteristic of the broad humanity of Cervantes that there is not a hateful one among them all. Even poor Maritornes, with her deplorable morals, has a kind heart of her own and “some faint and distant resemblance to a Christian about her;” and as for Sancho, though on dissection we fail to find a lovable trait in him, unless it be a sort of doglike affection for his master, who is there that in his heart does not love him?
But it is, after all, the humour of Don Quixote that distinguishes it from all other books of the romance kind. It is this that makes it, as one of the most judicial-minded of modern critics calls it, “the best novel in the world beyond all comparison.”
It is its varied humour, ranging from broad farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare’s or Molière’s, that has naturalised it in every country where there are readers, and made it a classic in every language that has a literature.