[Footnote 13: "From the Arabic At-Cala-d'el-Nahr, the chateau by the river.">[
Whether debarred by poverty or negligence, the last an unlikely supposition, Cervantes did not graduate in the University of Alcala or in any other, a circumstance that occasioned him much fortification in his manhood and advanced age. Émile Chasles thus expresses himself on this subject:
"The graduated took their revenge. When Cervantes acquired celebrity they recollected that he had taken no degree. When he thought an employ they applied to him by way of iron brand the epithet, Ingenio Lego, 'He is not of ours,' said they; 'he is not a cleric.' The day when he attracted the attention of all Europe their anger was excessive towards the writer who possessed talent without permission, and genius without a diploma. Cervantes gaily replied, that he admired their pedantic learning, their books bristling with quotations, the complements they paid each other in Greek, their erudition, their marginal notes, their doctors' degrees, but that he himself was naturally lazy, and did not care to search in authors for what he was able to say without them; and finally, that when there is a dull or foolish thing to be expressed, it will do in Spanish as well in Latin."
He was smarting under the contempt of the learned asses of his day when writing the preface to his Don Quixote:
"Alas, the story of Don Quixote is as bare has a rush! Ah, if the author could do as others,—cite at the head of the book a litany of authorities in alphabetic order, commencing with Aristotle and ending with Xenophon or Zoilus! But the poor Cervantes can find nothing of all this. There he sits, paper before him, the pen behind his ear, his elbow on the table, his cheek in his hand, and himself all unable to discover pertinent sentences or ingenious trifles to adorn his subject. Happily a humorous and intelligent friend enters and brings relief. 'Quote,' said he, 'and continue to quote; the first sentence that comes to hand will answer. "Pallida mors aequo pede" is as good as another. Horace will come in well anywhere, and you can even make use of the Holy Scriptures. The giant Golias or Goliath was a Philistine, whom David the shepherd slew with a stone from a sling in the valley of Terebinthus, as is related in the Book of Kings in the chapter where it is to be found.'"
THE FIRST PLAYS AT WHICH HE ASSISTED.
The earliest instructors of our brave romancer and poet were the excellent clergyman Juan Lopez de Hoyos, who took pride and pleasure in expanding the intellects of clear-headed pupils, and the talented strolling actor, Lope de Rueda, who at a time (middle of sixteenth century) when neither Alcala nor even Madrid could boast a suitably appointed theatre, went from town to town, and amused the inhabitants from his rudely contrived stage. This consisted of a platform of loose planks supported by trestles, and a curtain as respectable as could be afforded, doing duty as permanent scene, and affording a hiding-place behind it to the actors when not performing, and to the few musicians who occasionally chanted some romantic ballad.
Rueda had been in his youth a gold-beater at Seville, whence, finding in himself a strong vocation for the mimetic art, he made his escape, carrying some of the popular satiric stories in his head, and moulding them into farces. His troupe consisted of three or four male actors, one or two occasionally presenting female characters, and these were found sufficient to present a simple story in action, the manager himself being an actor of rare ability. These open air performances took a very strong hold on Cervantes' imagination. An outline is given of one of these acted fables, the precursors of the voluminous repertory furnished some years later by Lope de Vega.
Rueda himself, presenting an old laborer, tired and wet, and carrying a fagot, appears before his door, and calls on his wife, who should have his supper ready. His daughter (represented by [{18}] a beardless youth) acquaints him that she is helping a neighbor at her skeins of silk. She is called, and a fierce scolding match ensues, he demanding his supper and vaunting the severity of his labor, she vilifying the fagot he has brought home. By-and-by the discourse falls on a little plantation of olive trees which he has just put down, and the Signora Aguéda de Toruegano forgets her anger in the anticipation of the large profits to accrue from her seedlings:
"Wife.—Do you know, my dear, what I've been just thinking? In six or seven years our little plantation will produce four or five fanèques (about fifteen barrels) of olives, and putting down a plant now and again, we shall have a noble field all in full bearing in twenty-five or thirty years.
"Husband.—Nothing more likely; it will be a wonder in the neighborhood.
"Wife.—I'll gather the fruit, you'll take them to market on the ass, and Menciguela (the daughter) will sell them; but mind what I tell you, girl! you must not sell them a maravedi less than two reals of Castile the celemin (bushel).
"Husband.—Two reals of Castile! O conscience! a real and a half [Footnote 14] will be a fair price.
[Footnote 14: This has been substituted for fifteen deniers, about three farthings, the amount in M. Chasles' version.]
"Wife—Ah, hold your tongue! They are the very best kind—olives of Cordova.
"Husband.—Even so, a real and a half is quite enough.
"Wife.—Ah, don't bother my head! Daughter, you have heard me; two reals of Castile, no less.
"Husband.—Come here, child. What will you ask—the bushel?
"Daughter.—Whatever you please, father.
"Husband.—Just a real and a half.
"Daughter.—Yes, father.
"Mother.—Yes, father! Come here to me. How will you sell them the bushel?
"Daughter.—Whatever you say, mother.
"Father.—I promise you, my lass, two hundred stripes of the stirrup leathers, if you don't mind my directions. Now what'll be the price?
"Daughter.—Whatever you like, father.
"Mother.—How! Ah, here's for your 'whatever you like.' (She beats her.) Take that, and maybe it'll teach you to disobey me.
"Father.—Let the child alone.
"Daughter.—Ah, mother, mother, don't kill me! (Cries out; a neighbor enters.)
"Neighbor.—What's this, what's this? Why do you beat the little girl?
"Wife.—Ah, sir, it's this wasteall that wants to give away all we have for nothing. He'll put us out of house and home. Olives as large as walnuts!
"Husband.—I swear by the bones of my ancestors that they are no bigger than grains of millet.
"Wife.—I say they are.
"Husband.—I say they're not.
"Neighbor.—Will you please, ma'am, to go inside? I undertake to make all right (She enters the house.) Now, my friend, explain this matter. Let us see your olives. If you have twenty fanèques, I will purchase all.
"Father.—You don't exactly comprehend. The fact is—do you see?—and to tell the honest truth, the olives are not just in the house, though they are ours.
"Neighbor.—No matter. Sure it's easy to get them brought here. I'll buy them at a fair price.
"Daughter.—My mother says she must get two reals [Footnote 15] the bushel.