Galatea

by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

'On what do you base your reasoning?' said Thyrsis.

'On what, shepherd?' answered Lenio; 'on this, that by the effects they have I know how evil is the cause that produces them.'

'What are the effects of love that you count so evil?' replied Thyrsis.

'I will tell you them, if you listen to me with attention,' said Lenio; 'but I would not have my discourse weary the ears of those who are present, since they can spend the time in different and more pleasurable converse.'

'There will be nothing that could be more so to us,' said Darinto, 'than to hear a discussion of this topic, especially between persons who will know so well how to defend their opinion: and so for my part, if these shepherds on theirs do not hinder it, I beg you, Lenio, to continue the discourse you have begun.'

'That will I do readily,' answered Lenio, 'for I think I shall show clearly therein what a strong reason compels me to follow the opinion I do follow, and to blame any other that may be opposed to mine.'

'Begin then, oh Lenio,' said Damon, 'for you will not hold it longer than my companion Thyrsis will take to explain his.'

At this moment, whilst Lenio was preparing to utter his reproofs against love, there came to the spring the venerable Aurelio, Galatea's father, with some shepherds, and with him came also Galatea and Florisa, with the three veiled shepherdesses, Rosaura, Teolinda, and Leonarda, whom he had met at the entrance of the village, and, learning from them of the gathering of shepherds there was at the spring of slates, caused to turn back at his request, the strange shepherdesses trusting that by reason of their veils they would not be recognised by anyone. All rose to receive Aurelio and the shepherdesses, these latter seating themselves by the ladies, Aurelio and the shepherds by the other shepherds. But when the ladies saw Galatea's remarkable beauty, they were so astonished that they could not keep their eyes from looking at her. Nor was Galatea less so at their beauty, especially at that of her who seemed the older. There passed between them some words of courtesy, but everything ceased when they learnt what was agreed between the discreet Thyrsis and the loveless Lenio; whereat the venerable Aurelio was infinitely rejoiced, for he desired very much to see that assembly, and to hear that discussion, and all the more when Lenio would have someone who could answer him so well; and so, without waiting further, Lenio, seating himself on the trunk of a felled elm-tree, in a voice at first low, and then full-sounding, began to speak in this wise:

LENIO. 'Already I almost guess, worthy and discreet company, how even now in your understanding you are judging me as bold and rash, since with the little intellect and less experience which the rustic life, in which I have been nurtured for some time, can promise, I am willing to hold a contest in a matter so difficult as this with the famous Thyrsis, whose nurture in famous academies, and whose profound studies, can assure naught to my pretensions save certain failure. But confident that at times the force of natural genius, adorned with some little experience, is wont to discover new paths with which one makes easy sciences acquired during long years, I wish to make bold to-day to show in public the reasons which have moved me to be such an enemy to love, that I had deserved thereby to gain the appellation of loveless; and though nothing else would have moved me to do this, save your behest, I would not excuse myself from doing it; all the more that the glory will not be slight which I have to gain hereby, though I should lose in the enterprise, since after all fame will say that I had the spirit to compete with the renowned Thyrsis. And so on this understanding, without wishing to be favoured except by the reason that I have on my side, it alone do I invoke and pray to give such strength to my words and arguments that there may appear in both of them the reason I have for being such an enemy to love as I proclaim. Love, then, as I have heard my elders say, is a desire for beauty; and this definition, amongst many others, those give it that have advanced farthest in this question. Then, if it be granted me, that love is desire for beauty, it must necessarily be granted me that such as is the beauty which is loved, will be the love with which it is loved. And because beauty is of two kinds, corporeal and incorporeal, the love which loves corporeal beauty for its ultimate goal, such a love as this cannot be good, and this is the love whose enemy I am; but as corporeal beauty is divided likewise into two parts, namely into living bodies and dead bodies, there can also be a love of corporeal beauty which may be good. The one part of corporeal beauty is shown in living bodies of men and women, and this consists in all the parts of the body being good in themselves, and all together making one perfect whole, and forming a body proportioned in limbs and in pleasantness of hue. The other beauty of the corporeal part which is not alive, consists in pictures, statues and buildings; which beauty can be loved without the love with which it is loved being blameworthy. Incorporeal beauty is divided also into two parts, the virtues and the sciences of the soul; and the love which cleaves to virtue must necessarily be good, and likewise that which cleaves to virtuous sciences and agreeable studies. Then, as these two kinds of beauty are the cause which begets love in our breasts, it follows that whether love be good or bad, depends upon loving the one or the other: but, as incorporeal beauty is viewed with the pure and clear eyes of the understanding, and corporeal beauty is regarded with the corporeal eyes, clouded and blind, in comparison with the incorporeal, and as the eyes of the body are quicker to regard the present corporeal beauty which pleases, than those of the understanding to view the absent incorporeal beauty which glorifies, it follows that mortals more usually love the fading and mortal beauty which destroys them than the rare and divine beauty which makes them better. Then from this love, or from desiring corporeal beauty, have arisen, arise, and will arise in the world desolation of cities, ruin of states, destruction of empires, and deaths of friends; and when this, as is generally the case, does not happen, what greater woes, what more grievous torments, what fire, what jealousy, what pains, what deaths, can the human understanding imagine which can be compared to those the wretched lover suffers? And the cause of this is that, as the lover's whole happiness depends upon enjoying the beauty he desires, and this beauty cannot be possessed and enjoyed fully, that inability to reach the goal which is desired, begets in him sighs, tears, complaints, and dejection. It is manifest and clear then that it is true that the beauty of which I speak, cannot be enjoyed perfectly and fully, because it is not in the power of man to enjoy completely a thing which is outside of him and not wholly his; because external things, it is well known, are always under the control of that which we call fortune or chance, and not in the power of our free-will, and so it results that where there is love there is sorrow; and he who would deny this, would likewise deny that the sun is bright and that fire burns. But that we may come the more easily to the knowledge of the bitterness that love contains, the truth I follow will be clearly seen by running over the passions of the mind. The passions of the mind, as you know best, discreet gentlemen and shepherds, are four universal ones, and no more. Immoderate desire, much joy, great fear for future miseries, great sorrow for present calamities; these passions, being, as it were, contrary winds which disturb the tranquillity of the soul, are called by a more appropriate term disturbances; and of these disturbances the first is proper to love, since love is nothing else save desire; and so desire is the beginning and origin of all our passions, from which they issue as every stream from its source. Hence it comes that every time desire for something is kindled in our hearts, straightway it moves us to follow it and seek it, and in seeking it and following it, it leads us to a thousand disordered ends. This desire it is which incites the brother to seek his beloved sister's abominable embraces, the stepmother her step-son's, and what is worst, the very father his own daughter's; this desire it is that bears our thoughts to grievous perils. Nor does it avail that we oppose it with the reason, for, though we clearly recognise our hurt, we cannot, on that account, withdraw from it; and love does not content itself with keeping us intent on one wish, but rather, as from the desire of things all the passions arise, as has already been said, so from the first desire that arises in us, a thousand others are derived; and these are in lovers no less various than infinite, and though they well-nigh always look to one goal only, yet, as the objects are various, and various the fortune of those in love with each, without any doubt desire takes various forms. There are some who, to reach the attainment of what they desire, put all their strength on one course, in which, alas, what great hardships are encountered, how often they fall, what sharp thorns torture their feet, and how often strength and breath are lost before they attain what they seek! There are some others who are possessors of the thing beloved, and neither desire nor think of aught else save to remain in that state, and, having their thoughts busied about this alone, and on this alone spending all their toil and time, are wretched amidst happiness, poor amidst wealth, and unfortunate amidst good fortune. Others who are no longer in possession of their treasure, seek to return to it, employing for the purpose a thousand prayers, a thousand promises, a thousand conditions, countless tears, and at last, busying themselves with these woes, they bring themselves to the pass of losing their life. But these torments are not seen at the entry of the first desires, for then deceitful love shows us a path whereby we may enter, in appearance broad and spacious, which afterwards gradually closes in in such a manner that no way offers itself to return or go forward; and so the wretched lovers, deceived and betrayed by a sweet and false smile, by a mere turn of the eye, by two stammered words which beget in their breasts a false and feeble hope, dash straightway to go after it, goaded by desire, and afterwards, in a short space and in a few days, finding the path of their cure closed, and the way of their pleasure obstructed, turn to bedew their faces with tears, to disturb the air with sighs, to weary the ears with woeful complaints; and the worst is, that if perchance with their tears, their sighs, and their complaints they cannot come to the goal of their desire, straightway they change their manner and seek to attain by bad means what they cannot by good. Hence arise hatreds, angers, deaths as well of friends as of enemies. For this cause it has been seen and is seen at every moment that tender and delicate women set themselves to do things so strange and rash that even to imagine them inspires terror. Therefore the holy marriage-bed is seen bathed in crimson blood, now of the sad unheeding wife, now of the incautious and careless husband. To come to the goal of this desire brother is traitor to brother, father to son, and friend to friend. It originates feuds, tramples on respect, transgresses laws, forgets duties, and seduces kinswomen. But in order that it may be clearly seen how great the misery of lovers is, it is already known that no appetite has such strength in us, nor carries us with such force to the object in view as that which is urged on by the spurs of love. Hence it comes that no happiness or contentment passes so much beyond the due bounds as that of the lover when he comes to attain any one of the things he desires; and this is evident, for what person of judgment will there be, save the lover, who will reckon his highest joy a touch of his mistress's hand, a little ring of hers, a short loving glance, and other similar things of as small account as a dispassionate understanding holds them? And not by reason of these abundant pleasures which lovers in their judgment gain, must it be said that they are happy and fortunate; for there is no contentment of theirs that does not come accompanied by innumerable displeasures and disgusts, wherewith love dilutes them and disturbs them, and never did amorous glory reach the pitch reached and attained by pain. So evil is the happiness of lovers that it draws them out of themselves, making them careless and foolish; for, as they set their whole intent and strength to maintain themselves in that pleasant state they fancy themselves to be in, they neglect everything else, whereby no small harm overtakes them, as well of property, as of honour and life. Then, in exchange for what I have said, they even make themselves slaves of a thousand pangs, and enemies of themselves. What then, when it happens that, in the midst of the course of their pleasures, the cold steel of the heavy lance of jealousy touches them? Then the sky is darkened for them, the air is disturbed, and all the elements turn against them. Then they have nothing from which to hope for contentment, since the attainment of the end they desire cannot give it them. Then appear ceaseless dread, unfailing despair, sharp suspicions, varying thoughts, care without gain, false laughter and true sorrow, with a thousand other strange and terrible sensations which consume them and affright them. All the actions of the beloved object distress them, if she looks, if she laughs, if she turns away or comes back, if she is silent, if she speaks; and in a word all the graces that moved him to love well, are the very ones which torture the jealous lover. And who does not know that if fortune does not favour with full hands the beginnings of love and with speedy diligence lead them to a sweet end, how costly to the lover are any other means the luckless one employs to attain his purpose? What tears he sheds, what sighs he scatters, how many letters he writes, how many nights he does not sleep, how many and what contrary thoughts assail him, how many suspicions distress him and fears surprise him? Is there by chance a Tantalus who feels more distress, set between the waters and the apple-tree, than that which the wretched lover feels placed between fear and hope? The services of the lover out of favour are the pitchers of Danaus's daughters, drained so fruitlessly that they never come to attain the least part of their purpose. Is there eagle that so destroys the bowels of Tityus as jealousy destroys and gnaws those of the jealous lover? Is there rock that weighs down so much the shoulders of Sisyphus as love unceasingly weighs down the thoughts of those in love? Is there wheel of Ixion that more quickly turns and torments than the quick varying fancies of irresolute lovers? Is there a Minos or Rhadamanthus who so punishes and oppresses the luckless condemned souls as love punishes and oppresses the loving breast which is subject to his unendurable power? There is not a cruel Megæra, nor raging Tisiphone, nor avenging Alecto, who so illtreat the soul in which they enclose themselves, as this fury, this desire, illtreats those hapless ones who recognise it as lord, and bow before it as vassals, who, to give some excuse for the follies they commit, say—or at least the ancient heathens said—that that instinct which incites and moves the lover to love another's life more than his own, was a god, to whom they gave the name of Cupid, and so, being constrained by his godhead, they could not fail to follow and go after what he willed. They were moved to say this, and to give the name of god to this desire by seeing the supernatural effects it produces in lovers. Without doubt it seems a supernatural thing for a lover at the same moment to be timorous and confident, to burn away from his beloved and grow cold when nearer her, to be dumb when speaking much, and speaking much when dumb. It is likewise a strange thing to follow one who shuns me, to praise one who reproaches me, to utter words to one who does not listen to me, to serve an ungrateful one, and to hope in one who never promises nor can give aught that is good. Oh bitter sweetness, oh poisonous medicine of sick lovers, oh sad joy, oh flower of love, that dost indicate no fruit, save that of tardy repentance! These are the effects of this fancied god, these are his deeds and wondrous works; and indeed it can also be seen in the picture by which they represented this vain god of theirs, how vainly they acted; they painted him as a boy, naked, winged, his eyes bandaged, with bow and arrows in his hands, to give us to understand, amongst other things, that, when a man is in love, he assumes again the character of a simple and capricious boy, who is blind in his aims, light in his thoughts, cruel in his deeds, naked and poor in the riches of the understanding. They said likewise that amongst his arrows he had two, the one of lead and the other of gold, with which he produced different effects; for the leaden one begot hatred in the breasts it touched, and the golden one increase of love in those it wounded, merely to tell us that it is rich gold that causes love, and poor lead abhorrence. And for this reason poets do not sing in vain of Atalanta vanquished by three lovely golden apples; and of fair Danae, made pregnant by the golden rain; and of pious Æneas descending to hell with the golden branch in his hand; in a word, gold and gifts are one of the strongest arrows which love has; and the one with which he subdues most hearts; quite the contrary to the one of lead, a metal low and despised, as poverty is, which rather begets hatred and abhorrence where it comes, than any kind of benevolence. But if the reasons spoken by me so far do not suffice to persuade you of the reason I have for being on bad terms with this treacherous love, which I am discussing to-day, observe its effects in some true examples from the past, and you will see, as I see, that he who does not attain to the truth I follow does not see nor has he eyes of understanding. Let us see then—what but this love is it which made righteous Lot break his chaste purpose and violate his own daughters? This it is without doubt that made the chosen David be an adulterer and a murderer; that forced the lustful Ammon to seek the infamous embraces of Tamar, his beloved sister; that placed the head of mighty Samson in the traitorous lap of Delilah, whereby he lost his strength, his people lost their protection, and at last he and many others their lives. This it was that moved Herod's tongue to promise to the dancing girl the head of the Fore-runner of Life; this makes one doubt of the salvation of the wisest and richest king of kings, and even of all mankind. This brought down the strong arms of famous Hercules, accustomed to wield the weighty club, to turn a tiny spindle and to busy themselves in feminine tasks. This made the raging and loving Medea scatter through the air the tender limbs of her little brother; this cut out the tongue of Procne, Arachne and Hippolytus, made Pasiphae infamous, destroyed Troy, and slew Ægisthus. This caused the works of new Carthage once begun to be stayed, and her first queen to pierce her chaste breast with a sharp sword. This placed in the hands of the fair and famous Sophonisba, the vial of deadly poison which ended her life. This robbed valiant Turnus of life, Tarquin of kingdom, Mark Antony of power, and his mistress of life and honour. This finally handed our Spain over to the barbarous fury of the children of Hagar, called to avenge the disordered love of the wretched Roderick. But, because I think that night will cover us with its shade before I finish bringing to your memory the examples that offer themselves to mine, of the exploits that love has performed, and is performing every day in the world, I do not wish to go on with them, nor yet with the discourse I have begun, in order to give an opportunity for the famous Thyrsis to reply to me, begging you first, gentlemen, not to be wearied by hearing a song which I composed some days ago in reproach of this my foe. If I remember rightly, it runs in this way:

No fear have I before the frost and fire,
The bow and arrows of the tyrant Love,
And so I needs must sing in his dispraise;
For who shall fear a blind boy whose desire
Varies, whose judgment doth inconstant rove,
Although he threaten wounds and sad decays?
My pleasure doth increase, his worth decays,
When I employ my tongue
To utter the true song
Which in reproach of Love himself I form,
So rich in truth, in manner, and in form,
That unto all Love's malice it reveals,
And clearly doth inform
The world of the sure hurt that Love conceals.