Context
From Don Quixote de la Mancha, Book Two, Chapter One
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
In this excerpt from Book Two of the
Quixote, Cervantes invents (even if not for the first time) what the
French call mise en abime (literally, put in the abyss). He
simultaneously discovers metafiction, and a mere four hundred years
ahead of John Barth! In
the first book of this history, we left the valiant Biscainer and the
renowned Don Quixote with their swords lifted up, and ready to
discharge on each other two furious and most terrible blows, which, had
they fallen directly, and met with no opposition, would have cut and
divided the two combatants from head to heel, and have split them like
a pomegranate; but, as I said before, the story remained imperfect;
neither did the author inform us where we might find the remaining part
of the relation. This vexed me extremely, and turned the pleasure which
the perusal of the beginning had afforded me into disgust, when I had
reason to despair of ever seeing the rest. Yet, after all, it seemed to
me no less impossible than unjust, that so valiant a knight should have
been destitute of some learned person to record his incomparable
exploits; a fortune which never attended any of his predecessors, I
mean the knights-adventurers, each of whom was always provided with one
or two learned men, who were always at hand to write not only their
wondrous deeds, but also to set down their thoughts and childish petty
actions, were they ever so hidden. Therefore, as I could not imagine
that so worthy a knight should be so unfortunate, as to want that which
had been so profusely lavished even on such a one as Platyr, and others
of that stamp, I could not induce myself to believe that so admirable a
history was ever left unfinished, and rather chose to think that time,
the devourer of all things, had hidden or consumed it. On the other
side, when I considered that several modern books were found in his
study, as The Cures of Jealousy, and The Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares,
I had reason to think that the history of our Knight could be of no
very ancient date; and that, had it never been continued, yet his
neighbors and friends could not have forgotten the most remarkable
passages of his life. Full of this thought I resolved to make it my
business to make a particular and exact inquiry into the life and
miracles of our renowned Spaniard Don Quixote, that refulgent glory and
mirror of the knighthood of La Mancha, and the first who in these
depraved and miserable times devoted himself to the neglected
profession of knight-errantry, to redress wrongs and injuries, to
relieve widows, and defend the honor of damsels; such of them, I mean,
who in former ages rode up and down over hills and dales, with whip in
hand, mounted on their palfreys, with all their virginity about them,
secure from all manner of danger; and who, unless they happened to be
ravished by some boisterous villain or huge giant, were sure, at
fourscore years of age (all which time they never slept one night under
a roof) to be decently laid in their graves, as pure virgins as the
mothers that bore them. For this reason and many others, I say, our
gallant Don Quixote is worthy of everlasting and universal praise: nor
ought I to be denied my due commendation for my indefatigable care and
diligence, in seeking and finding out the continuation of this
delightful history; though, after all, I must confess that, had not
Providence, chance, or fortune, as I will now inform you, assisted me
in the discovery, the world had been deprived of two hours’ diversion
and pleasure, which it is likely to afford to those who will read it
with attention. One day, being in the Alcala at Toledo, I saw a young
lad offer to sell a parcel of old written papers to a shopkeeper. Now
I, being apt to take up the least piece of written or printed paper
that lies in my way, though it were in the middle of the street, could
not forbear laying my hands on one of the manuscripts, to see what it
was; and I found it to be written in Arabic, which I could not read.
This caused me to look about, to see whether I could ever find a
Morisco that understood Spanish, to read it for me and give me some
account of it; nor was it very difficult to meet with an interpreter
there; for, had I wanted one for a better and more ancient tongue, that
place would have infallibly supplied me. It was my good fortune to find
one immediately; and, having informed him of my desire, he no sooner
read some lines than he began to laugh. I asked him what he laughed at.
“At a certain remark here in the margin of the book,” said he. I prayed
him to explain it, whereupon, still laughing, he did it in these words:
“This Dulcinea del Toboso, so often mentioned in this history, is said
to have had the best hand at salting of pork of any woman in La
Mancha.” I was surprised when I heard him name Dulcinea del Toboso, and
presently imagined that those old papers contained the history of Don
Quixote. This made me press him to read the title of the book, which he
did, turning it thus extempore out of Arabic: “The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha,
written by Cid Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian historian.” I was so
overjoyed when I heard the title, that I had much ado to conceal it;
and presently, taking the bargain out of the shopkeeper’s hand, I
agreed with the young man for the whole, and bought that for half a
real, which he might have sold me for twenty times as much had he but
guessed at the eagerness of his chapman. I immediately withdrew with my
purchase to the cloister of the great church, taking the Moor with me,
and desired him to translate to me those papers that treated of Don
Quixote, without adding or omitting the least word, offering him any
reasonable satisfaction. He asked me but two Arroves of raisins, and
two bushels of wheat, and promised to do it faithfully with all
expedition. In short, for the quicker dispatch and the greater
security, being unwilling to let such a lucky prize go out of my hands,
I took the Moor to my own house, where, in less than six weeks he
finished the whole translation. Don Quixote’s fight with the
Biscainer was exactly drawn on one of the leaves of the first quire, in
the same posture as we left them, with their swords lifted up over
their heads, the one guarding himself with his shield, the other with
his cushion. The Biscainer’s mule was so pictured to the life, that
with half an eye you might have known it to be a hired mule. Under the
Biscainer was written, “Don Sancho de Azpetia,” and under Rozinante,
“Don Quixote.” Rozinante was so admirably delineated, so slim, so
stiff, so lean, so jaded, with so sharp a ridgebone, and altogether so
like one wasted with an incurable consumption, that any one must have
owned, at first sight, that no horse ever better deserved that name.
Not far off stood Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter, at whose
feet there was a scroll, in which was written “Sancho Canças”; and if
we may judge of him by his picture he was thick and short,
paunch-bellied, and long-haunched; so that, in all likelihood, for this
reason he is sometimes called Panza and sometimes Cança in the History.
There were some other niceties to be seen in that piece, but hardly
worth observation, as not giving any light into this true history,
otherwise they had not passed unmentioned; for none can be amiss, so
they are authentic. I must only acquaint the reader, that if any
objection is to be made as to the veracity of this, it is only that the
author is an Arabian, and those of that country are not a little
addicted to lying: but yet, if we consider that they are our enemies,
we should sooner imagine that the author has rather suppressed the
truth than added to the real worth of our Knight; and I am the more
inclined to think so, because it is plain that where he ought to have
enlarged on his praises, he maliciously chooses to be silent; a
proceeding unworthy of a historian, who ought to be exact, sincere, and
impartial; free from passion, and not to be biased either by interest,
fear, resentment, or affection, to deviate from truth, which is the
mother of history, the preserver and eternizer of great actions, the
professed enemy of oblivion, the witness of things passed, and the
director of future times. As for the History, I know it will
afford you as great variety as you could wish, in the most entertaining
manner; and if in any point it falls short of your expectation, I am of
opinion it is more the fault of the Infidel, its author, than the
subject.
