الفصل الفصل 48 · CHAPTER XLVIII. IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH

. CHAPTER XLVIII. IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH

CHAPTER XLVIII.

IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH

OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT

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“It is as you say, señor canon,” said the curate; “and for that reason

those who have hitherto written books of the sort deserve all the more

censure for writing without paying any attention to good taste or the

rules of art, by which they might guide themselves and become as famous

in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse.”

“I myself, at any rate,” said the canon, “was once tempted to write a

book of chivalry in which all the points I have mentioned were to be

observed; and if I must own the truth I have more than a hundred sheets

written; and to try if it came up to my own opinion of it, I showed

them to persons who were fond of this kind of reading, to learned and

intelligent men as well as to ignorant people who cared for nothing but

the pleasure of listening to nonsense, and from all I obtained

flattering approval; nevertheless I proceeded no farther with it, as

well because it seemed to me an occupation inconsistent with my

profession, as because I perceived that the fools are more numerous

than the wise; and, though it is better to be praised by the wise few

than applauded by the foolish many, I have no mind to submit myself to

the stupid judgment of the silly public, to whom the reading of such

books falls for the most part.

“But what most of all made me hold my hand and even abandon all idea of

finishing it was an argument I put to myself taken from the plays that

are acted now-a-days, which was in this wise: if those that are now in

vogue, as well those that are pure invention as those founded on

history, are, all or most of them, downright nonsense and things that

have neither head nor tail, and yet the public listens to them with

delight, and regards and cries them up as perfection when they are so

far from it; and if the authors who write them, and the players who act

them, say that this is what they must be, for the public wants this and

will have nothing else; and that those that go by rule and work out a

plot according to the laws of art will only find some half-dozen

intelligent people to understand them, while all the rest remain blind

to the merit of their composition; and that for themselves it is better

to get bread from the many than praise from the few; then my book will

fare the same way, after I have burnt off my eyebrows in trying to

observe the principles I have spoken of, and I shall be ‘the tailor of

the corner.’ And though I have sometimes endeavoured to convince actors

that they are mistaken in this notion they have adopted, and that they

would attract more people, and get more credit, by producing plays in

accordance with the rules of art, than by absurd ones, they are so

thoroughly wedded to their own opinion that no argument or evidence can

wean them from it.

“I remember saying one day to one of these obstinate fellows, ‘Tell me,

do you not recollect that a few years ago, there were three tragedies

acted in Spain, written by a famous poet of these kingdoms, which were

such that they filled all who heard them with admiration, delight, and

interest, the ignorant as well as the wise, the masses as well as the

higher orders, and brought in more money to the performers, these three

alone, than thirty of the best that have been since produced?’

“‘No doubt,’ replied the actor in question, ‘you mean the “Isabella,”

the “Phyllis,” and the “Alexandra.”’

“‘Those are the ones I mean,’ said I; ‘and see if they did not observe

the principles of art, and if, by observing them, they failed to show

their superiority and please all the world; so that the fault does not

lie with the public that insists upon nonsense, but with those who

don’t know how to produce something else. “The Ingratitude Revenged”

was not nonsense, nor was there any in “The Numantia,” nor any to be

found in “The Merchant Lover,” nor yet in “The Friendly Fair Foe,” nor

in some others that have been written by certain gifted poets, to their

own fame and renown, and to the profit of those that brought them out;’

some further remarks I added to these, with which, I think, I left him

rather dumbfoundered, but not so satisfied or convinced that I could

disabuse him of his error.”

“You have touched upon a subject, señor canon,” observed the curate

here, “that has awakened an old enmity I have against the plays in

vogue at the present day, quite as strong as that which I bear to the

books of chivalry; for while the drama, according to Tully, should be

the mirror of human life, the model of manners, and the image of the

truth, those which are presented now-a-days are mirrors of nonsense,

models of folly, and images of lewdness. For what greater nonsense can

there be in connection with what we are now discussing than for an

infant to appear in swaddling clothes in the first scene of the first

act, and in the second a grown-up bearded man? Or what greater

absurdity can there be than putting before us an old man as a

swashbuckler, a young man as a poltroon, a lackey using fine language,

a page giving sage advice, a king plying as a porter, a princess who is

a kitchen-maid? And then what shall I say of their attention to the

time in which the action they represent may or can take place, save

that I have seen a play where the first act began in Europe, the second

in Asia, the third finished in Africa, and no doubt, had it been in

four acts, the fourth would have ended in America, and so it would have

been laid in all four quarters of the globe? And if truth to life is

the main thing the drama should keep in view, how is it possible for

any average understanding to be satisfied when the action is supposed

to pass in the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, and the principal

personage in it they represent to be the Emperor Heraclius who entered

Jerusalem with the cross and won the Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey of

Bouillon, there being years innumerable between the one and the other?

or, if the play is based on fiction and historical facts are

introduced, or bits of what occurred to different people and at

different times mixed up with it, all, not only without any semblance

of probability, but with obvious errors that from every point of view

are inexcusable? And the worst of it is, there are ignorant people who

say that this is perfection, and that anything beyond this is affected

refinement. And then if we turn to sacred dramas—what miracles they

invent in them! What apocryphal, ill-devised incidents, attributing to

one saint the miracles of another! And even in secular plays they

venture to introduce miracles without any reason or object except that

they think some such miracle, or transformation as they call it, will

come in well to astonish stupid people and draw them to the play. All

this tends to the prejudice of the truth and the corruption of history,

nay more, to the reproach of the wits of Spain; for foreigners who

scrupulously observe the laws of the drama look upon us as barbarous

and ignorant, when they see the absurdity and nonsense of the plays we

produce. Nor will it be a sufficient excuse to say that the chief

object well-ordered governments have in view when they permit plays to

be performed in public is to entertain the people with some harmless

amusement occasionally, and keep it from those evil humours which

idleness is apt to engender; and that, as this may be attained by any

sort of play, good or bad, there is no need to lay down laws, or bind

those who write or act them to make them as they ought to be made,

since, as I say, the object sought for may be secured by any sort. To

this I would reply that the same end would be, beyond all comparison,

better attained by means of good plays than by those that are not so;

for after listening to an artistic and properly constructed play, the

hearer will come away enlivened by the jests, instructed by the serious

parts, full of admiration at the incidents, his wits sharpened by the

arguments, warned by the tricks, all the wiser for the examples,

inflamed against vice, and in love with virtue; for in all these ways a

good play will stimulate the mind of the hearer be he ever so boorish

or dull; and of all impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed

with all these qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much

more than one wanting in them, like the greater number of those which

are commonly acted now-a-days. Nor are the poets who write them to be

blamed for this; for some there are among them who are perfectly well

aware of their faults, and know what they ought to do; but as plays

have become a salable commodity, they say, and with truth, that the

actors will not buy them unless they are after this fashion; and so the

poet tries to adapt himself to the requirements of the actor who is to

pay him for his work. And that this is the truth may be seen by the

countless plays that a most fertile wit of these kingdoms has written,

with so much brilliancy, so much grace and gaiety, such polished

versification, such choice language, such profound reflections, and in

a word, so rich in eloquence and elevation of style, that he has filled

the world with his fame; and yet, in consequence of his desire to suit

the taste of the actors, they have not all, as some of them have, come

as near perfection as they ought. Others write plays with such

heedlessness that, after they have been acted, the actors have to fly

and abscond, afraid of being punished, as they often have been, for

having acted something offensive to some king or other, or insulting to

some noble family. All which evils, and many more that I say nothing

of, would be removed if there were some intelligent and sensible person

at the capital to examine all plays before they were acted, not only

those produced in the capital itself, but all that were intended to be

acted in Spain; without whose approval, seal, and signature, no local

magistracy should allow any play to be acted. In that case actors would

take care to send their plays to the capital, and could act them in

safety, and those who write them would be more careful and take more

pains with their work, standing in awe of having to submit it to the

strict examination of one who understood the matter; and so good plays

would be produced and the objects they aim at happily attained; as well

the amusement of the people, as the credit of the wits of Spain, the

interest and safety of the actors, and the saving of trouble in

inflicting punishment on them. And if the same or some other person

were authorised to examine the newly written books of chivalry, no

doubt some would appear with all the perfections you have described,

enriching our language with the gracious and precious treasure of

eloquence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the light of

the new ones that would come out for the harmless entertainment, not

merely of the idle but of the very busiest; for the bow cannot be

always bent, nor can weak human nature exist without some lawful

amusement.”

The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their

conversation, when the barber, coming forward, joined them, and said to

the curate, “This is the spot, señor licentiate, that I said was a good

one for fresh and plentiful pasture for the oxen, while we take our

noontide rest.”

“And so it seems,” returned the curate, and he told the canon what he

proposed to do, on which he too made up his mind to halt with them,

attracted by the aspect of the fair valley that lay before their eyes;

and to enjoy it as well as the conversation of the curate, to whom he

had begun to take a fancy, and also to learn more particulars about the

doings of Don Quixote, he desired some of his servants to go on to the

inn, which was not far distant, and fetch from it what eatables there

might be for the whole party, as he meant to rest for the afternoon

where he was; to which one of his servants replied that the sumpter

mule, which by this time ought to have reached the inn, carried

provisions enough to make it unnecessary to get anything from the inn

except barley.

“In that case,” said the canon, “take all the beasts there, and bring

the sumpter mule back.”

While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could speak to his

master without having the curate and the barber, of whom he had his

suspicions, present all the time, approached the cage in which Don

Quixote was placed, and said, “Señor, to ease my conscience I want to

tell you the state of the case as to your enchantment, and that is that

these two here, with their faces covered, are the curate of our village

and the barber; and I suspect they have hit upon this plan of carrying

you off in this fashion, out of pure envy because your worship

surpasses them in doing famous deeds; and if this be the truth it

follows that you are not enchanted, but hoodwinked and made a fool of.

And to prove this I want to ask you one thing; and if you answer me as

I believe you will answer, you will be able to lay your finger on the

trick, and you will see that you are not enchanted but gone wrong in

your wits.”

“Ask what thou wilt, Sancho my son,” returned Don Quixote, “for I will

satisfy thee and answer all thou requirest. As to what thou sayest,

that these who accompany us yonder are the curate and the barber, our

neighbours and acquaintances, it is very possible that they may seem to

be those same persons; but that they are so in reality and in fact,

believe it not on any account; what thou art to believe and think is

that, if they look like them, as thou sayest, it must be that those who

have enchanted me have taken this shape and likeness; for it is easy

for enchanters to take any form they please, and they may have taken

those of our friends in order to make thee think as thou dost, and lead

thee into a labyrinth of fancies from which thou wilt find no escape

though thou hadst the cord of Theseus; and they may also have done it

to make me uncertain in my mind, and unable to conjecture whence this

evil comes to me; for if on the one hand thou dost tell me that the

barber and curate of our village are here in company with us, and on

the other I find myself shut up in a cage, and know in my heart that no

power on earth that was not supernatural would have been able to shut

me in, what wouldst thou have me say or think, but that my enchantment

is of a sort that transcends all I have ever read of in all the

histories that deal with knights-errant that have been enchanted? So

thou mayest set thy mind at rest as to the idea that they are what thou

sayest, for they are as much so as I am a Turk. But touching thy desire

to ask me something, say on, and I will answer thee, though thou

shouldst ask questions from this till to-morrow morning.”

“May Our Lady be good to me!” said Sancho, lifting up his voice; “and

is it possible that your worship is so thick of skull and so short of

brains that you cannot see that what I say is the simple truth, and

that malice has more to do with your imprisonment and misfortune than

enchantment? But as it is so, I will prove plainly to you that you are

not enchanted. Now tell me, so may God deliver you from this

affliction, and so may you find yourself when you least expect it in

the arms of my lady Dulcinea—”

“Leave off conjuring me,” said Don Quixote, “and ask what thou wouldst

know; I have already told thee I will answer with all possible

precision.”

“That is what I want,” said Sancho; “and what I would know, and have

you tell me, without adding or leaving out anything, but telling the

whole truth as one expects it to be told, and as it is told, by all who

profess arms, as your worship professes them, under the title of

knights-errant—”

“I tell thee I will not lie in any particular,” said Don Quixote;

“finish thy question; for in truth thou weariest me with all these

asseverations, requirements, and precautions, Sancho.”

“Well, I rely on the goodness and truth of my master,” said Sancho;

“and so, because it bears upon what we are talking about, I would ask,

speaking with all reverence, whether since your worship has been shut

up and, as you think, enchanted in this cage, you have felt any desire

or inclination to go anywhere, as the saying is?”

“I do not understand ‘going anywhere,’” said Don Quixote; “explain

thyself more clearly, Sancho, if thou wouldst have me give an answer to

the point.”

“Is it possible,” said Sancho, “that your worship does not understand

‘going anywhere’? Why, the schoolboys know that from the time they were

babes. Well then, you must know I mean have you had any desire to do

what cannot be avoided?”

“Ah! now I understand thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “yes, often, and

even this minute; get me out of this strait, or all will not go right.”

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