THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE (Part II)

by Miguel de Cervantes

　　God bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly mustthou be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find thereretaliation, scolding, and abuse against the author of the second DonQuixote--I mean him who was, they say, begotten at Tordesillas and bornat Tarragona! Well then, the truth is, I am not going to give thee thatsatisfaction; for, though injuries stir up anger in humbler breasts, inmine the rule must admit of an exception. Thou wouldst have me call himass, fool, and malapert, but I have no such intention; let his offence behis punishment, with his bread let him eat it, and there's an end of it.What I cannot help taking amiss is that he charges me with being old andone-handed, as if it had been in my power to keep time from passing overme, or as if the loss of my hand had been brought about in some tavern,and not on the grandest occasion the past or present has seen, or thefuture can hope to see. If my wounds have no beauty to the beholder'seye, they are, at least, honourable in the estimation of those who knowwhere they were received; for the soldier shows to greater advantage deadin battle than alive in flight; and so strongly is this my feeling, thatif now it were proposed to perform an impossibility for me, I wouldrather have had my share in that mighty action, than be free from mywounds this minute without having been present at it. Those the soldiershows on his face and breast are stars that direct others to the heavenof honour and ambition of merited praise; and moreover it is to beobserved that it is not with grey hairs that one writes, but with theunderstanding, and that commonly improves with years. I take it amiss,too, that he calls me envious, and explains to me, as if I were ignorant,what envy is; for really and truly, of the two kinds there are, I onlyknow that which is holy, noble, and high-minded; and if that be so, as itis, I am not likely to attack a priest, above all if, in addition, heholds the rank of familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he didon account of him on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is entirelymistaken; for I worship the genius of that person, and admire his worksand his unceasing and strenuous industry. After all, I am grateful tothis gentleman, the author, for saying that my novels are more satiricalthan exemplary, but that they are good; for they could not be that unlessthere was a little of everything in them.I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and keepingmyself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a feeling thatadditional suffering should not be inflicted upon a sufferer, and thatwhat this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be very great, as hedoes not dare to come out into the open field and broad daylight, buthides his name and disguises his country as if he had been guilty of somelese majesty. If perchance thou shouldst come to know him, tell him fromme that I do not hold myself aggrieved; for I know well what thetemptations of the devil are, and that one of the greatest is putting itinto a man's head that he can write and print a book by which he will getas much fame as money, and as much money as fame; and to prove it I willbeg of you, in your own sprightly, pleasant way, to tell him this story.There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest absurditiesand vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It was this: hemade a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a dog in the street,or wherever it might be, he with his foot held one of its legs fast, andwith his hand lifted up the other, and as best he could fixed the tubewhere, by blowing, he made the dog as round as a ball; then holding it inthis position, he gave it a couple of slaps on the belly, and let it go,saying to the bystanders (and there were always plenty of them): "Do yourworships think, now, that it is an easy thing to blow up a dog?"--Doesyour worship think now, that it is an easy thing to write a book?And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, tell him thisone, which is likewise of a madman and a dog.In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to carry a piece ofmarble slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on his head, and when hecame upon any unwary dog he used to draw close to him and let the weightfall right on top of him; on which the dog in a rage, barking andhowling, would run three streets without stopping. It so happened,however, that one of the dogs he discharged his load upon was acap-maker's dog, of which his master was very fond. The stone came downhitting it on the head, the dog raised a yell at the blow, the master sawthe affair and was wroth, and snatching up a measuring-yard rushed out atthe madman and did not leave a sound bone in his body, and at everystroke he gave him he said, "You dog, you thief! my lurcher! Don't yousee, you brute, that my dog is a lurcher?" and so, repeating the word"lurcher" again and again, he sent the madman away beaten to a jelly. Themadman took the lesson to heart, and vanished, and for more than a monthnever once showed himself in public; but after that he came out againwith his old trick and a heavier load than ever. He came up to wherethere was a dog, and examining it very carefully without venturing to letthe stone fall, he said: "This is a lurcher; ware!" In short, all thedogs he came across, be they mastiffs or terriers, he said were lurchers;and he discharged no more stones. Maybe it will be the same with thishistorian; that he will not venture another time to discharge the weightof his wit in books, which, being bad, are harder than stones. Tell him,too, that I do not care a farthing for the threat he holds out to me ofdepriving me of my profit by means of his book; for, to borrow from thefamous interlude of "The Perendenga," I say in answer to him, "Long lifeto my lord the Veintiquatro, and Christ be with us all." Long life to thegreat Conde de Lemos, whose Christian charity and well-known generositysupport me against all the strokes of my curst fortune; and long life tothe supreme benevolence of His Eminence of Toledo, Don Bernardo deSandoval y Rojas; and what matter if there be no printing-presses in theworld, or if they print more books against me than there are letters inthe verses of Mingo Revulgo! These two princes, unsought by any adulationor flattery of mine, of their own goodness alone, have taken it upon themto show me kindness and protect me, and in this I consider myself happierand richer than if Fortune had raised me to her greatest height in theordinary way. The poor man may retain honour, but not the vicious;poverty may cast a cloud over nobility, but cannot hide it altogether;and as virtue of itself sheds a certain light, even though it be throughthe straits and chinks of penury, it wins the esteem of lofty and noblespirits, and in consequence their protection. Thou needst say no more tohim, nor will I say anything more to thee, save to tell thee to bear inmind that this Second Part of "Don Quixote" which I offer thee is cut bythe same craftsman and from the same cloth as the First, and that in it Ipresent thee Don Quixote continued, and at length dead and buried, sothat no one may dare to bring forward any further evidence against him,for that already produced is sufficient; and suffice it, too, that somereputable person should have given an account of all these shrewdlunacies of his without going into the matter again; for abundance, evenof good things, prevents them from being valued; and scarcity, even inthe case of what is bad, confers a certain value. I was forgetting totell thee that thou mayest expect the "Persiles," which I am nowfinishing, and also the Second Part of "Galatea."