Thrown into Nature

7. Curing Lovesickness

On July 15, 157. ., a clear sunny day, at around two o’ clock in the afternoon, I tripped over one of the beams we had brought for the new barn and very nearly hit my head on the side door of Dr. Monardes’ house. Very nearly. This dangerous incident brought back memories. The door was neglected, its paint peeling, no one used it anymore. Before, when Dr. Monardes’ daughters lived with him, they would go in and out of it. Or more precisely, only the second daughter, Magdalena, would go in and out of it. The older one, Maria, was already married and living with her husband Rodrigo de Brizuela, a merchant.

But I was talking about the younger one. What a lively girl! Thin and pretty, you really felt like snapping her in two, but at the same time you inwardly felt somehow sure that even if you folded her up in a figure eight (8), she would keep murmuring something with her sweet little mouth. I watched her scampering about, jumping around Dr. Monardes’ neck when he returned from his house calls in the evening, like a little fawn, I heard her ringing laughter. Always cheerful, always ready to laugh — at anything and everything. Even if you only lifted your finger, she would laugh (as long as it wasn’t the middle one, of course). Being, especially at that time, a young man, I was captivated by her — with her black hair, her dark eyes, her thin, perky figure, and her ringing laugh, she was one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. Besides, she was also heiress to thirty thousand ducats, or more precisely fifteen thousand, if we subtract those which would go to her sister (who was already married, like I said). And now I see the arbor in which I declared my love to her. I had been on her scent for some time — as folks have put it ever since the distant past when everybody had dogs — looking at her amorously and so on, hence she was fully aware of my feelings. One evening, when the doctor and Jesús were out, I was pacing back and forth on the lawn under her window, hoping she would notice me. I remember I passed the time by dividing fifteen thousand by various numbers. She came out, ostensibly to get water from the well in the garden. I said to myself “Now or never!” and strode decisively — but with a love-struck look — towards her. One way or another, we finally ended up in that arbor I was talking about. I threw myself to my knees before her, banging up my knee terribly in the process, incidentally. I did not let this on in any way, of course, yet I know what I was going through. I remember very well what I said, since I had rehearsed the words many times. I said: “Señorita, I am in love with you. I love you passionately. Love is burning me up like a fire. I have tried in vain to suppress my feelings for you, dearest girl. Only you can ease my suffering, only you can extinguish this raging fire with your small white hand. Give me your hand, señorita, become my wife!”

As I said this, I took her little hand and pressed it to my lips, my head bowed, as I had seen it done in a certain place.

She laughed, tapped me lightly on the head with her other hand, and said: “Silly fool, that’s from Lope!”

Here, I will admit, I made a mistake. I don’t think the cause was yet lost. However, instead of thinking up something more fitting, I said: “Lope? Lope who? Is this some rival of mine, señorita?”

“Ugh!” she said, wrested her hand away, and ran towards that side door, saying only: “These Portuguese!”—and shutting the door behind her.

I have never come that close to success again. Damned books! The truth is that women have been reading more and more lately. This is likely the reason for many misfortunes, not only my own. Reading is a completely useless habit for women. A learned woman is an utter absurdity! Women should not read, they should only get married, have children, and bring them up, take care of their appearance, which is their most important part — which they know very well, by the way — look after their husbands, cook, keep the house in order, and if they are poor, do the washing and so on. As it has been since time immemorial, and as it should be. Yes, indeed, that’s how it should be. Reading is utter foolishness for them, they merely waste their time with books and fill their heads with needless fabrications. Actually, reading is utter foolishness for men as well, books are totally useless for them, too, and a pure waste of time. Men should not read, but rather should be merchants, earn money, be soldiers and conquer lands, be sailors, discoverers, cross the seas, build cities and bridges, ships, roads, stride boldly, briskly, and quickly through the world — now that’s how men should be. As Dr. Monardes says: “There’s no need for any more thinkers. First, there are enough of them already, and second, thinkers are foolish. A pack of smalltime tricksters, who struggle to make a little money with ranting.” He’s right. They are a pack of smalltime tricksters, who try to pass off their ranting as some kind of substance on par with meat, fruit, and wood, so that you’ll give them some money, not for any other reason. And afterwards they take the money and buy themselves meat, fruit, and wood. Because meat and fruit can be eaten, and wood can be burned — they are real. That’s the whole point.

Upon my word, sometimes I think that if someday people quit buying all the things that they don’t actually need, the only people left on earth would be farmers, a handful of craftsmen, and huge crowds of completely useless tramps. The physicians would also be left, always. And the soldiers would stay on — to chase away the tramps. The king’s people would also remain — there’s no getting around them. And then everything would again start becoming as it is now, little by little. A vicious circle.

By the way, Nature would also be there the whole time. And if she happened to change her intentions, in the end she would be the only one left.

And afterwards perhaps everything would again start becoming as it is now, little by little. Or perhaps not.

Of course, as far as books are concerned, physicians are the exception. I mean that unfortunately there is no way to become a physician without reading books. But for all other undertakings, and perhaps even for medicine, it is far more important to know how to reckon than to read. Isn’t that so? In the future, reading will most likely become useless for medicine as well. Some even think that this future is already upon us. I personally think, however, that it would be good, at least in this case, to wait just a bit longer. One way or another, tobacco will cure all illnesses — the only thing left is to figure out exactly how — and then all sorts of books will become utterly useless for anything at all. No one will read any longer, this useless habit will disappear, books will be forgotten, except as an absurd curiosity from the past, and then things in the world will start to fall into place. Nature will rise up in her full power. Man, too. Together with the wind and the elements, he will stride through the world mighty and invulnerable, cured of absolutely everything by tobacco. When this comes to pass, he will once again embrace Nature as his very own — now harmless — mother.

Urbi et Orbi. Farewell, Roman Epictetus! Even though this same Epictetus was a wise man, he never wrote a line in his life — the books in his name were written by his foolish, mediocre students. He himself understood splendidly that this had no point. Look at Socrates! And then look at that monstrous fool Plato, who squandered his life in ceaseless copycat scribbling, day and night, tirelessly, like a true maniac. Just take one, then take the other! And finally Christ, too. Did Christ ever write anything? Not a word! He came, saved whom he could, they say, and then left. Afterwards the fools start jabbering, jabbering on endlessly, they confuse everything and use his name to justify who knows what. And yes, thus folly triumphs in this world — it triumphs by means of books.

Of course, that is a rule, every rule has its exceptions, and this very book you are now holding in your hands, dear reader, is one of them. One of the last.

Anyway. What I was trying to say is that my love remained unrequited, and I cured myself of it not by reading something or other, but with the help of tobacco. I can claim with complete confidence that a cigarella every morning, another after a hearty lunch and a third before bed, followed by a good night’s sleep and moderate labor during the day to distract your thoughts from the object of your amorous desires, completely and totally cures lovesickness in two, or at most three, weeks. One cigarella in the morning, one after a hearty lunch, one before bed. In two weeks you’ll have completely forgotten what the fuss was even about. That’s the way it is, man is actually built quite simply. I would even say that he is built very simply, at least on the spiritual level. In fact, this is to be expected. Whoever heard of one animal being lovesick over another in Nature? Books have thought up all that, books and various absurd individuals such as Lope and so on. For a thousand years now books have been beating it into mankind’s head that he is not an animal, but something else, and he has begun to believe this fable to such an extent that he has even begun to suffer from lovesickness, which would surely drive the heavenly spheres — if they were really alive as the ancients believed — to burst out in thunderous laughter. I can also imagine what Dr. Monardes would say on this question! But this is precisely the correct, medical, and scientific view of things, in accordance with the laws of nature. Look at the bees, the ants, the birds in the sky, dogs, cats, and even Jesús — do any of them suffer from lovesickness? Absolutely not! But if you’ve let books get under your skin — as it seems I have — you will need tobacco to cure you. But it will cure you. It will cure you, and how! It cures everything.