“I CERTAINLY agree with your grace, señor canon,” said the priest, “and for that reason those who have written such books up to now are even more deserving of censure, since they have written without considering good taste, and without respecting the rules of literary art on which they could have modeled their work and become as famous in prose as those two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse.”
“I must say,” replied the canon, “that I’ve been tempted to write a book of chivalry myself, trying to use the characteristics that I’ve indicated; and to tell the truth, I’ve written more than a hundred sheets. And to see if it met my expectations, I showed it to men who were fond of such reading, learnèd and intelligent; and I showed it to ignorant people, who only want to have the pleasure of listening to nonsense, and I received flattering approval from all sides. But even so, I didn’t keep going, since I was doing something that was quite far afield from my profession, and because I knew that there are more fools than wise men—and even though it’s better to be praised by the few wise men than to be jeered by the many fools, I don’t want to subject myself to the idiotic judgment of the moronic public who, by and large, read those books.
“But what most prevented me from completing the book, not to mention even contemplating finishing it, was an argument I had with myself taken from the plays that are staged nowadays, saying: ‘These plays that one sees nowadays—the ones that are purely fictional, as well as those based on history—all, or most of them, are acknowledged to be pure garbage, lacking both feet and heads, yet they’re relished by the common folk, who think they’re good when they’re so far from being so; and the authors who write them, and the actors who play in them say that they have to be that way because that’s what the public wants and plays that are carefully crafted and follow the plot as the rules demand only please four discerning people capable of comprehending them. The rest of the people have no way of understanding their art, but authors and producers feel it’s better to earn a living with the many than to be in good graces of the few. This is what would happen with my book—after having put in so much effort to keep the precepts I mentioned, I’d be like «the tailor on the corner».
“And although I’ve tried to persuade producers on occasion that they’re making a mistake in holding that opinion, and that they would attract more people and become more famous if they put on plays that follow the rules, and not the nonsensical ones, they’re so attached to their opinion and obstinate that there is no reasoning or proof that will convince them otherwise. I remember one day I said to one of these stubborn people: ‘Tell me, don’t you remember a few years ago they put on three tragedies in Spain, written by a famous poet of this kingdom, that were so good that everybody who saw them were in awe, happy, and amazed—the simple as well as the wise, the common folk as well as the educated—and those three plays brought more money to the producers than thirty of the best that have been written since.’ ‘Your grace doubtless means,’ said the producer I’m talking about, ‘the Isabella, the Phyllis, and the Alexandra.’ ‘Those are the ones,’ I replied. ‘Look at how they maintained the precepts of art, and if in keeping them did they suffer at all or were they prevented from pleasing everyone? So the fault doesn’t lie with masses who seem to want foolish plays, but rather with those who can’t produce anything else. Ingratitude Avenged wasn’t trash, nor was Numantia, nor was any nonsense to be found in The Merchant Lover, and less in The Kind Enemy, nor in several others written by some learnèd poets to increase their fame and renown, and to the profit of those who produced them.’ I said other things, too, and I think I left him a bit baffled, but neither satisfied nor convinced to save himself from the error he’d fallen into.”
“You’ve touched upon a subject, señor canon,” said the priest, “that has aroused in me an old dislike that I have for the plays that are put on nowadays, so much so that it’s almost as great as my opposition to books of chivalry, because a play, according to Tully, should be a mirror of human life, a model of customs, and an image of the truth; but those that are put on nowadays are mirrors of nonsense, models of foolishness, and images of bawdiness. What greater nonsense can there be for a character to be in diapers in the first scene of act one, and in the second act come out as a bearded man? And what greater stupidity can there be than to represent a valiant old man, a cowardly youth, an eloquent lackey, a counselor-page, a handyman king, or a dishwashing princess?
“What can I say about how much attention they pay to the locales in which actions can or could happen? I’ve seen a play whose first act began in Europe, the second act in Asia, the third act ended in Africa, and if there had been four acts, the last doubtless would have been set in America, and all four corners of the earth would have been accounted for. And if the main thing in drama is that it’s supposed to imitate real life, how is it possible for it to satisfy an average intellect, if when we have a play that is supposed to take place during the time of Pippin and Charlemagne, the main character is Heraclius, who is seen entering Jerusalem bearing the Cross, and winning the Holy Sepulcher, as Godefroy de Bouillon did, when there were infinite years between one event and the other? And what about those plays based on pure fiction that include facts of history, as well things that happened in the lives of people at different times, and none of it believable, but rather filled with errors that are wholly inexcusable? And the worst thing is that there are ignorant people who claim that all this is perfect and that everything else is superfluous.
“Next, what if we talk about mystery plays? Look at the false miracles and other apocryphal and ill-understood things they relate, attributing the miracles of one saint to another! And even in secular plays they dare to show miracles with so little respect that they just think that such a miracle, or «special effect»—as they call it—would go nicely there, so that the ignorant masses will be amazed, and will go to see the play. All this is in prejudice to the truth and in detriment to real history, and even to the disrepute of Spanish genius, because foreign writers—who carefully maintain the laws of playwriting—consider us barbarous and ignorant, seeing the absurdities and nonsense in the plays we write.
“And it’s not enough of an excuse to say that the main reason well-ordered republics allow plays to be presented in public is to entertain the community with harmless recreation, to take one’s mind off the bad humors that idleness sometimes engenders, and if it can do this with any play—be it good or bad—there’s no reason for new guidelines to force writers and producers to do what they should, since—as I’ve said—the same object is achieved with any kind of play. But I’d respond to this that this goal can be achieved much better—there’s no comparison—with good plays rather than the other kind. Because after they see an artistic and well-put-together play, the audience will be delighted with its humor, instructed with its truths, thoughtful about its issues, sharpened by its turns of phrase, made more aware by its ironies, wiser through its examples, angered by vice, and appreciative of virtue—for all these things will be awakened in the souls of the listener, no matter how rustic and slow he might be. Of all impossibilities, the greatest is that the play that has all of these characteristics cannot fail to entertain, satisfy, and gratify, much more than the play that lacks them—which are most of the plays you see nowadays.
“The fault doesn’t lie entirely with the poets who write them since some of them know very well that they’re erring, and know very well what they should do. But since plays have become a saleable commodity, they say—and correctly—that the producers won’t buy them if they’re not of a certain type. So the poet tries to adapt himself to what the producer—who is going to pay him for his work—demands. And to show you that this is true, just look at the infinite number of plays that a very fortunate genius of these realms has written, so festive, with so much wit, with such elegant verses, such well-chosen words, with serious maxims, and finally, with such eloquence and lofty style that he’s known throughout the world. But to adapt to the taste of the producers, not all of his plays have achieved, as some have, the level of perfection they require.
“And other playwrights write so carelessly, that after the plays are put on, the actors have to flee, fearful of being punished, as they have been many times, for having appeared in plays that are prejudicial to certain kings, and that dishonor certain families. And all of these annoyances—and others I haven’t mentioned—would cease if there were an intelligent and sensible person at court who would examine every play before it was put on—not only those to be put on in the capital, but every one that was to be put on in Spain–without whose approval, seal, and signature, no magistrate would allow any play to be produced. In this way the directors would take care to send plays to the capital, and they could produce them without worries. And those who write plays would use greater care and study in what they were doing, knowing that their work would have to pass a rigorous examination by a knowledgeable person, and in this way good plays would be written, and the goals of dramatic art would be achieved—namely, entertainment of the people, the good opinion of Spain’s intelligentsia, income and security of the actors, and sparing the bother of punishing them.
“And if they gave a similar charge to another person—or maybe the same one—of examining newly-written books of chivalry, some of them would turn out with the perfection your grace has mentioned, enriching our language with a precious new treasure of eloquence, and making the old books fade away in the light of the new ones that came out to offer harmless entertainment, not only for idle people, but also for the busiest—for it’s not possible for the bow always to be taut—because the weak human condition can’t be sustained without some kind of wholesome entertainment.”
The canon and the priest arrived at this point of their conversation when the barber came over and said to the priest: “Here, senor licenciado, is the place I told you about, where we can have a nap and the oxen can graze on this fresh and abundant pasture.”
“It seems like a good idea to me, too,” responded the priest. And turning to the canon, he told him of their plan. The canon said he would stay as well, attracted by the captivating valley that lay before them. So, in order to enjoy both the view and the conversation with the priest, to whom he’d taken a liking, and to find out more about don Quixote, he had some of his servants go ahead to the inn, which wasn’t far, and bring back something to eat for everyone, because he planned to have his siesta there that afternoon. One of the servants replied that the pack mule must already be at the inn, and it had enough provisions already so all they would need from the inn was barley for the animals.
“If that’s the case,” said the canon, “take all of the animals there, and bring back the mule with the food.”
While this was going on, Sancho saw that he could speak with his master without the continual interference from the priest and barber, whom he considered suspicious, and he went to the cage in which his master was traveling, and said: “Señor, to relieve my conscience, I want to tell you what’s going on with your enchantment. Those men who have covered their faces are the priest and the barber of our village, and I think that they dreamed up this trick to haul you off in this way out of pure envy, seeing that your worship is surpassing them in famous deeds. Assuming this truth, it follows that you’re not enchanted, but deceived and made a fool of. And to prove it, I want to ask you a question, and if the answer is what I think it will be, you’ll be able to put your finger on this trick, and you’ll see that you’re not enchanted at all, but rather have had your wits turned inside-out.”
“Ask what you want, Sancho, my son,” responded don Quixote, “and I’ll satisfy you and answer to your heart’s content. Insofar as what you say that those accompanying us are the priest and the barber, our fellow townsmen and friends, it may seem that they appear to be. But don’t believe that they really are for a moment. What you have to believe and understand is that if they seem to be, as you say, it must be that those who enchanted me must have taken on their appearance, because it’s easy for enchanters to take on any form they choose, and they would have taken on the shape of our friends to make you think what you’re thinking, and put you into a labyrinth of confusion from which you won’t be able to find your way out, even though you had Theseus’ rope. They also would have done it so that it would confuse me as well, so I can’t figure out where this harm is coming from, because on the one hand you tell me that the barber and priest of our town are with us, and on the other, here I am in a cage, and I know that no human power, unless it were supernatural, is sufficient to keep me in a cage, what should I say or think, except the way I’ve been enchanted is more powerful than any I’ve read about in the histories that deal with knights errant who have been enchanted? So, you can calm yourself in the knowledge that they’re not who you say they are, for they’re about as close to being what you say as I am to being a Turk. And as for asking me something, go ahead, and I’ll answer you even though you ask questions from now until tomorrow morning.”
“Holy Mary Mother of God!” responded Sancho in a loud voice. “Is it possible that your grace is such a numbskull and lacking in brains that you don’t realize I’ve told you the pure truth, and that your being in a cage and your misfortune are more due to malice than enchantment? But since you don’t believe me, I’ll prove to you you’re not enchanted. If not, tell me this, and may God pull you out of this ordeal and may you soon see yourself in the arms of my lady Dulcinea when least you think…”
“Stop this nonsense,” said don Quixote, “and ask whatever you want. I’ve already told you I’d answer completely and immediately.”
“What I ask,” replied Sancho, “and what I want to know is that you should tell me without adding or taking away anything, but rather with the complete truth, as is to be expected from those who profess arms, as your grace does, under the title of knight errant…”
“I’ve said I’ll not lie about anything,” responded don Quixote. “Just ask me, because in truth I’m getting tired of all your oaths, supplications, and precautions, Sancho.”
“Then I say that I’m sure about the goodness and truth of my master, and so, since it has to do with our subject at hand, I ask, speaking with respect, if perhaps after you’ve been put in the cage, and in your opinion enchanted, if you’ve felt like doing number one or number two, like they say.”
“I don’t understand this business of numbers, Sancho. Clarify a bit if you want me to answer properly.”
“Can it be that your grace doesn’t understand what «number one» and «number two» are? Schoolboys are weaned on that expression. Well, what I mean is have you felt like doing what no one else can do for you?”
“Now, now I understand, Sancho. And frequently, and even now I feel the urge. Get me out of this plight, or we’ll be in a real mess.”