GOD HELP ME, HOW anxiously you must be waiting for this prologue, illustrious or plebeian reader, expecting me to avenge myself, denounce, and reproach the author of the second Quixote. I mean the fellow they say was conceived in Tordesillas and was born in Tarragona. But in truth I can’t give you this satisfaction, for although injustice typically awakens wrath in the meekest of hearts, my case will be the exception to this rule. You would have me call him an ass, an idiot, or an insolent person, but I’m far from doing that—let his sin punish him, «let him eat it on his bread», and let’s say no more.
What offended me the most was his saying that I’m old and maimed, as if I had it in my power to stop time, and as though my maimed arm was a result of some tavern brawl rather than from the noblest battle any age ever witnessed, or that current and future ages will ever witness. If my wounds don’t seem resplendent in the eyes of the man on the street, they’re revered at least by those who know where they came from, since the soldier looks better dead in battle than free in flight. I’m so convinced of this that if this impossible situation were offered to me right now—that I could be free from my wounds by not having participated in that battle—I would refuse. Wounds that a soldier has on his face or his chest are stars that guide others to the heaven of honor and to the thirst for earned praise. Also bear in mind that you don’t write with grey hairs, but rather with your intellect, which only gets better with the passage of time.
I also take offense that he calls me envious, and that he goes on to explain to me, as if I were stupid, what envy is. Of the two kinds of envy, I know only the one that’s holy, noble, and pure. And that being so—as it is—I’m not of a mind to attack any priest, especially if he’s a member of the Holy Office. And if he said that for the benefit of whom I think he said it, he made an enormous mistake, since I worship his genius, I admire his works, and his ever virtuous way of life. But I’m indeed grateful to this author when he says that my Novellas are more satirical than exemplary, but good withal—which they wouldn’t be if they didn’t have both qualities.
It seems to me that you must be saying that I’m showing great restraint and I’m containing myself within the bounds of modesty, knowing that one shouldn’t add more misery to the person who is suffering; and the suffering of this man must be great since he doesn’t dare appear in an open field under the clear sky, but rather conceals his name and disguises his hometown, as if he has committed high treason. If by chance you happen to run into him, tell him for me that I don’t consider myself insulted; that I know very well what temptations of the devil are, and one of the greatest ones is to make a man think that he can write and publish a book to become as famous as he is rich, and as rich as he is famous. To confirm this I want you to tell him this witty and charming story:
In Seville there dwelled a madman who came up with the most amusing nonsense and hobby that any madman ever dreamed up. And it was that he fashioned a tube with a sharp end, and would catch a dog in the street, or anywhere else, and with his foot he would hold down one of the dog’s back legs, and he would lift the other leg with his hand, and would fit the tube as well as he could into the place where, when he blew into it, he made the dog as round as a ball. Keeping it in this position, he would give it a couple of little slaps on its belly and would let it go, saying to the bystanders—and there were always a lot of them: “Do your graces think that it’s not much work to inflate a dog?” Does your grace think now that it’s not much work to make a book? And if this story doesn’t seem quite right, you’ll tell him, dear reader, this one, which is also about a madman and a dog:
There was in Cordova another madman who used to balance a piece of marble or other such stone—and not a light one either—on his head, and when he came across an unsuspecting dog, he went up to it and let the stone fall straight down onto it. The dog would be inordinately vexed and would go barking and yelping for three blocks.
It happened that among the dogs onto which he discharged his load was one belonging to a hatmaker, whose owner loved him very much. He dropped his stone, it hit the dog’s head, the dog raised a fuss, the owner saw and heard what was going on, took a yardstick and ran out to the madman and didn’t leave a whole bone in his body. With every thwack he said: “You dog of a thief! My pointer? Didn’t you see, you cruel creature, that my dog is a pointer?”
And he repeated the word POINTER many times, and sent the madman away beaten up. The madman learned a lesson from this, and he didn’t go to the plaza for more than a month, but finally returned with his usual game and with a heavier weight. He would go up to a dog, and after examining it carefully, he wouldn’t let the stone fall, saying: “This is a pointer, watch out!” So, every dog he saw, whether they were Great Danes or lapdogs, he said they were pointers, and never let the stone fall again.