TWO EXEMPLARY NOVELS

Prologue

To the Reader

 

I SHOULD LIKE, if it were possible, dearest reader, to be excused from writing this Prologue—the one I composed for my Don Quixote did not turn out so well for me that I should care to follow it here with another. In the present case, a certain friend of mine is to blame, one of the many whom I have acquired in the course of my life, thanks to my disposition rather than to my intellect. He might very well, as the custom is, have made an engraving of me for the frontispiece of this book; for the famous Don Juan de Jáuregui would have provided him with my portrait, and in that way my ambition would have been satisfied, as well as the desire that some have to know what kind of face and figure belong to him who has had the boldness to come out into the market place of the world and exhibit so many stories to the gaze of the peoples. Beneath the portrait my friend might have placed the following inscription:

“This man you see here with the aquiline countenance, the chestnut hair, the smooth, untroubled brow, the bright eyes, the hooked yet well proportioned nose, the silvery beard that less than a score of years ago was golden, the big mustache, the small mouth, the teeth that are scarcely worth mentioning (there are but half a dozen of them altogether, in bad condition and very badly placed, no two of them corresponding to another pair), the body of medium height, neither tall nor short, the high complexion that is fair rather than dark, the slightly stooping shoulders, and the somewhat heavy build—this, I may tell you, is the author of La Galatea and Don Quixote de la Mancha;¹he it was who composed the Journey to Parnassus, in imitation of Cesare Caporali of Perusa,² as well as other works that are straying about in these parts—without the owner’s name, likely as not,

“He is commonly called Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. He was a soldier for many years and a captive for five and a half, an experience that taught him patience in adversity. In the naval battle of Lepanto he lost his left hand ³as the result of a harquebus shot, a wound which, however unsightly it may appear, he looks upon as beautiful, for the reason that it was received on the most memorable and sublime occasion that past ages have known or those to come may hope to know; for he was fighting beneath the victorious banner of the son of that thunderbolt of war, Charles V of blessed memory.”

And if this friend of mine of whom I am complaining had been unable to think of anything else to say of me, I could have made up and secretly given him a couple of dozen tributes to myself such as would have spread my fame abroad and established my reputation as a genius. For it is foolish to believe that such eulogies are scrupulously truthful, since praise and blame never have precise limits. But the short of it is the opportunity was missed, and I have been left in the lurch and without a portrait. Accordingly, I shall have to make use of my own tongue, which, though a stammering one, will not falter when it comes to uttering truths that are understandable even when spoken in dumb show.

And so, kind reader, I will further tell you that you will by no means be able to make a fricassee out of these Novels that I offer you, for they have neither feet nor head nor entrails nor anything that is suited to such a purpose; by which I mean to say that the amorous episodes you will find in some of them are so respectable and restrained, so within the bounds of reason and conformable to Christian conduct, that no one who reads them, either carefully or carelessly, can possibly be moved to evil thoughts. I have given these stories the title of Exemplary; and if you look closely there is not one of them that does not afford a useful example. If it were not that I do not wish to expand upon this subject, I could show you the savory and wholesome fruit that is to be had from each of them separately and from the collection as a whole.

My intention has been to set up in the public square of our country a billiard table where everyone may come to amuse himself without harm to body or soul; for decent and pleasing pastimes are profitable rather than harmful. One is not always in church or engaged in prayer, one is not always occupied with business matters, however important they may be. There is a time for recreation, when the tired mind seeks repose. It is with this object in view that public walks are laid out, water is brought from afar to play in fountains, hills are leveled, and gardens cultivated with such care. There is one thing I will venture to say to you: if I believed that the reading of these Novels would in any way arouse an evil thought or desire, I would sooner cut off the hand that wrote them than see them published. At my age one does not trifle with the life to come—I am now sixty-four and a little beyond.⁴

It is to this task that I devote my abilities, in accordance with my natural inclination. What is more, I believe I am the first to have written novels in the Castilian tongue, since the many that are printed in Spanish have all been translated from foreign languages, whereas these are my own, neither imitated nor stolen. My mind conceived them, my pen brought them forth, and they have grown in the arms of the printing press. Afterward, if I live long enough, I shall offer you the Troubles of Persiles, a book that dares to compete with Heliodorus (if only its boldness does not prove its undoing). But first you shall see, and shortly, the continuation of Don Quixote’s exploits and Sancho Panza’s drolleries, and after that, the Garden Weeks.

I am promising much in view of the little strength I have, but who can put a rein on ambition? I would merely ask you to bear in mind that inasmuch as I have had the audacity to dedicate these Novels to the great Count of Lemos, there must be some hidden virtue in them. I say no more, except: God be with you, and may He give me the patience to bear well the ill that a few stiff-starched hairsplitters are bound to speak of me. Vale.