PROLOGUE TO THE READER

I should like, if it ­were pos­si­ble, to spare myself the writing of this pro-
logue, b ­ ecause m
­ atters did not go well enough for me following the one I
wrote for my Don Quixote that I should wish to repeat the experience with
this one. The fault lies with a friend, one of the many I have acquired in the
course of my life, more as a result of my good nature than my shrewdness; this
friend, as is the usual custom, could have engraved my likeness on the first
page of this book, and for that purpose I could have given him my portrait by
the famous Don Juan de Jáuregui. And that would have satisfied my ambition
as well as the desire of some who might have wished to know what kind of
looks and appearance belonged to one who dares to send out into the world so
many inventions and set them before p ­ eople’s eyes, writing beneath the like-
ness: “The man you see ­here, with the aquiline face, chestnut hair, smooth,
clear brow, joyful eyes, curved yet well-­proportioned nose, silver beard that was
golden not twenty years ago, large mustache, small mouth, teeth neither short
nor long ­because he has only six, and ­those are worn down and badly placed
since they are not distributed in a symmetrical manner; his body lies between
the two extremes, neither large nor small, his coloring is vivid, more fair than
dark, and he is somewhat stoop-­shouldered and not very light on his feet; this,
I say, is the appearance of the author of La Galatea and of Don Quixote de la
Mancha, and of the man who made the Viaje del Parnaso, imitating the one
by Cesare Caporali of Perugia, as well as other works that have gone astray and
perhaps are missing the name of their owner, who is commonly called Miguel
de Cervantes Saavedra. He was a soldier for many years, and a captive for five
and a half, when he learned to be patient in adversity. In the naval b ­ attle of
Lepanto he lost his left hand to a harquebus, a wound that, although it looks
ugly, he considers beautiful ­because it was acquired on the highest, most
memorable occasion witnessed by past centuries or that ­future centuries can
hope to see, as he served u ­ nder the victorious banners of the son of the thun-
derbolt of war, Charles the Fifth, of happy memory.” And when the memory
of my friend, about whom I am complaining, cannot summon anything e­ lse
to say about me except what has been said h ­ ere, I myself could find two dozen
testimonies and tell them to him in secret, so that my name would be made

3
4 Prologue to the Reader

known and my talent recognized. For thinking that such panegyrics tell the
exact truth is foolishness, b ­ ecause neither the praise nor the censure has a
precise, specific limit.
Well, since this opportunity has passed, and I have been left unsatisfied and
without a portrait, I ­will be obliged to speak for myself, using my own voice, which
lacks eloquence but is fine for telling truths that even when told with gestures tend
to be understood. And so I tell you again, kind reader, that in no way w ­ ill you be
able to make hash of ­these novels I offer you, for they have no feet, head, innards,
or anything that resembles them. I mean that the amorous remarks you w ­ ill find
in some of them are so chaste and so moderated by reason and Christian dis-
course that they ­will not move ­either the careless or the attentive reader to any ig-
noble thought.
I have called them exemplary, and if you consider this carefully, t­here is
none from which one cannot derive some edifying example; and if only not to
prolong this ­matter too much, perhaps I could show you the delightful and
virtuous profit that can be derived from all of them taken together as well as
from each one by itself. My intention has been to bring out into the public
square of our nation a gaming ­table where each person can be entertained,
with no harm to anyone; I mean, with no harm to soul or body, b ­ ecause hon-
est, pleasant pastimes are profitable rather than harmful.
Certainly ­people are not always in churches; they are not always found in
small chapels; they are not always attending to their affairs, no m ­ atter how
impor­tant t­hose may be. T ­ here are times of recreation, when the afflicted
spirit can rest. That is why walks are planted with trees, fountains are sought
out, hills are leveled and gardens cultivated with care. One ­thing I ­shall dare
say to you: if it happened somehow that the reading of ­these Novels could en-
courage the person reading them to any evil desire or thought, I would rather
cut off the hand that wrote them than make them public. I am too old now to
­gamble with the next life, for at fifty-­five I win nine more and my hand allows
me to advance.1
My mind applied itself to this, my inclination leads me ­here, and what I
believe is that I am the first to have written novellas in Castilian, for the many
that have been published in this language have all been translated from for-

1. Born in September of 1547, the sixty-­four years that Cervantes accounts for
would bring us as late as the summer of 1612, approximately one year before
the publication of the collection. The phrase “my hand allows me to advance”
(“gano . . . ​por la mano”) refers to the author’s approaching birthday, which would
add one more year to the count.
 Prologue to the Reader 5

eign languages, while t­hese are my own, neither imitated nor stolen; my wit
engendered them, and my pen gave birth to them, and they are maturing in
the arms of print. A ­ fter them, if life allows, I s­ hall offer you the T
­ rials of Per-
siles, a book that dares compete with Heliodorus, ­unless, ­because of its bold-
ness, it fares badly; and first you ­will see, and soon, the continuation of the
deeds of Don Quixote and the delights of Sancho Panza, and then the Weeks
in the Garden.
I promise a ­great deal, with the small strength I have, but who can rein in
desires? I wish only that you consider this, that since I have had the courage to
dedicate ­these Novels to the g­ reat Count of Lemos, they hide a mystery that
elevates them.
That is all, except for this: may God keep you and give me the patience to
endure the bad t­ hings that ­will be said of me by more than a few faultfinders
and mollycoddles. Farewell.
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