Cervantes Street (6 page)

“Don Luis,” Don Rodrigo said to me once, after he had gotten to know me better, “this is what I have to do to keep body and soul together. But I’m really a poet at heart. I know you can see that.”

During holidays, and after school every day, Miguel was supposed to help his father bleed patients, kill flies, and wash the chamber pots and blood-splattered floor. He was deeply ashamed of these tasks and had no interest in learning his father’s skills. “Why should I learn about leeches and hair?” he confided in me once, bitterly. “When I am Court Poet, I will not have to bleed people to relieve them of their bad humors. The beauty of my verses will cure them of all their illnesses.”

Miguel inherited his love of poetry from his father. But he was determined to make something of himself, not to be a failure like his progenitor. “You don’t know how many times I’ve had to take soup to my father in jail,” Miguel told me one night in a tavern after he had had too much wine. “Sometimes my mother and my little brothers and sisters went hungry so he could keep his big belly full.” I felt sorry for my friend that his life had been so harsh.

Though Doña Leonor prized an education, and was proud that nuns had taught her to read and write, she begrudged Miguel the cost of the paper to write his compositions. Buying paper for his classes meant there were other things the household would have to do without. Doña Leonor lost no chance to remind everyone within earshot that it was her dwindling inheritance that supported the family. She had inherited a vineyard in Arganda, which provided a small income to feed and clothe the Cervantes children.

Years later, when I was ready to begin my
Don Quixote
, I modeled some of its most important characters after Miguel’s parents. Here I would like to stress the difference between autobiography (cannibalizing one’s own life) and biography (which relies on the writer’s powers of observation). It was from the figure of the father that I began to hatch the idea of a dreamer who ruined his family. Don Rodrigo was the model for the mad Don Quixote, and Miguel’s mother would be transformed into the realistic housekeeper and the practical niece. I repeat, it was
I
who conceived of turning these people into fictional characters. The grave mistake I made was that one night when we were out drinking, and I had imbibed a little too much wine, I mentioned my brainchild to Miguel (keeping to myself that my characters were based on his parents). He then went ahead and stole the idea from me, publishing the rambling and inartistic first part of his
Don Quixote
before I had a chance to complete mine.

Yet despite all our differences, the fire of poetry strengthened my friendship with Miguel. Two friends united forever in literary history, that’s how I saw us. Whenever we pondered what the future might bring us, we recited the opening verses of one of Garcilaso’s most famous sonnets, which expressed to perfection the uncertainty of our young lives:

When I pause to contemplate my life

and study the steps that have led me to this place . . .

In October 1568, the third wife of King Philip II, the French princess Isabel de Valois, died after miscarrying a five-month-old fetus. Not yet twenty-three years old, Isabel had been known as the “Princess of Peace” because her betrothal to our king sealed the peace between France and Spain in 1559, and gave our kingdom domination over Italy. Like all Spaniards, I adored her.

Isabel was still playing with dolls when she arrived in Spain. The king had to wait two years, until Isabel menstruated for the first time, to consummate their marriage. The newlywed couple did not speak a language in common (our king did not speak Latin). He was twice her age, and was having an affair with a lady-in-waiting for his sister Princess Joan. Isabel was heartbroken because her own father had had a mistress, Diane de Poitiers, who had made Isabel’s mother miserable. Isabel pretended to be ignorant of the king’s infidelity. But the queen endeared herself to the Spanish people by learning Castilian to perfection. She became a patroness of the arts—especially of painters—and wrote musical compositions. During her all too brief reign, Isabel turned Philip’s court into one of the most refined in Europe.

Isabel’s subjects prayed for the birth of an infante. Her first attempt at childbirth resulted in miscarrying twins. She fell gravely ill, and all of Spain feared for her life. During those agonizing weeks, Spaniards of all social classes crowded cathedrals and churches to light candles and pray for their queen. Prayer meetings attended by large crowds were held in Madrid’s plazas and squares. Thousands of candles were lit near the gates of the Royal Alcázar where the young queen’s life was an extinguishing flame. In our chapel, we said Masses twice a day, praying to the Almighty to save her. The prayers of the people in the plazas and churches were so fervent that they rose toward heaven in a sonorous cloud and echoed throughout the city all night long. The devotion that humble Madrileños felt for Isabel moved me deeply.

An Italian surgeon visiting the court saved her life. After she recuperated from her near-death experience, the king, the court, and all Spaniards lived for the day she would become gravid again. When she remained infertile, the archbishop of Toledo recommended that the uncorrupted remains of Saint Eugene be brought from France to Madrid, so that Isabel could pray to him in person to cure her infertility. Such was her desire to give an heir to the Spanish throne, and such was her pure devotion to God’s saint, that Isabel slept naked in bed with the corpse of Saint Eugene until she became pregnant again. The Spanish people rejoiced in the birth of two princesses. It was a matter of time, everyone believed, before she gave birth to a male heir.

Instead, Isabel suffered a disfiguring illness. A rumor spread that she had contracted syphilis from the licentious king. Her doctors diagnosed chicken pox and, to prevent her disfiguration, they recommended she be kept in a tub filled with she-donkey’s milk, her face covered with a paste made of pigeon stool and butter. When Isabel recovered, and her skin was unblemished, the people believed that, because of her suffering and her miraculous recoveries, the spiritual queen might be one of God’s saints on earth. After a long convalescence, Isabel became pregnant again, and it was the miscarriage resulting from this pregnancy that killed her. The grief we all felt was worse than if we had been reconquered by the Moors or had lost our armada. The entire nation went into mourning. No music was heard in Madrid for thirty days; the theaters were closed, bullfights forbidden, birthday celebrations canceled, and marriages postponed for six months. The women in my family wore black, and covered their faces with veils of gold cloth for three months. I wrapped a mourning band around my right arm. My grief was more personal than most: I had met the princess at a court function. My aunt, the countess of La Laguna, had introduced me to her saying I was one of the future glories of Spanish poetry. Her Royal Highness invited me to send her, via my aunt, some of my poems. The princess sealed her invitation with a smile. I never found out what she thought of my verses; but it made me happy just to know that she might have read my words.

* * *

King Philip announced a literary competition to reward the best sonnet written to commemorate the beloved late queen. Winning a literary tourney was one of the few ways open to an ambitious young man to gain fame and prestige; and it could lead to the patronage of a vain and wealthy nobleman, or, in some cases, to an appointment as Court Poet.

I wrote a sonnet about Isabel, but did not submit it to the competition. Like Horace, I believed a poem should be nurtured and burnished for nine years before being sent out into the world for publication. Besides, I was not hungry for fame, nor did I need the monetary reward.

I hope I don’t sound arrogant when I state that my elegy for the queen was crafted with more rigor, rhymed with more delicacy and refinement, and infused with loftier sentiments than Miguel’s crude versifying in the sonnet he wrote for the occasion. I knew how important it was for my friend to win this competition. His future might depend on it. The least I could do for him was not to become an obstacle in his hunt to achieve a piece of literary glory.

We were in the habit of showing our poems to each other. I read Miguel’s middling sonnet to Isabel. When he asked for my opinion, I said, “I think you will win the competition.” That made him happy. He was too self-assured to ask for any suggestions; still, I tried to improve his lusterless choice of words and to furnish his lines with a mellifluous and classic rhyme scheme. Next, Miguel sought the help of Professor López de Hoyos, whose devotion he had secured with unceasing flattery.

Then the sole judge of the literary tourney, in a drunken state, fell from his horse and cracked his skull on the cobblestone street where he lived. Professor López de Hoyos was appointed as his replacement. It did not surprise me that he awarded Miguel first prize, as all literary competitions, to begin with, are held: 1) to reward the friends of the judges; and 2) to punish their enemies. I will quote the first quatrain, just to give you an idea of the quality of Miguel’s winning sonnet:

When our Motherland had finally

bid adieu to war, in a chariot

of fire headed for the sky, earth’s

loveliest flower departed from us.

The sonnet was nothing but a feeble imitation of Garcilaso, the laughable effluvium of an ambitious young poet desperate for recognition.

Miguel’s little literary success brought out his true personality: he acted as if he believed he was the brightest bard in the kingdom, and he boasted to everyone who would listen: “I am the true successor of Garcilaso de la Vega.” The day after the winner was announced, many of Miguel’s remarks were prefaced with, “When I become Court Poet . . .” This kind of bragging was ridiculous, but since I am not a cruel person, I did not point out that Jews were, de facto, excluded from such a post. In those days, blinded by Miguel’s charm, I forgave him everything; the things that united us were stronger than those that eventually opened a chasm between us.

* * *

After I concluded my preparatory studies at the Estudio de la Villa, I had no desire to linger in Madrid, fighting for crumbs of literary glory. I was ready to commence my studies in classic literature at the Universidad Cisneriana in Alcalá de Henares. I chose it over the more famous university in Salamanca because it was the most select of our institutions of higher learning, and I wanted to remain close to Toledo and Madrid. In spite of my growing misgivings about Miguel’s lack of modesty, I was sorry to see him remain behind in Madrid. Poor families could, at great sacrifice, send their sons to study at a university. The parents of the wealthy students, on the other hand, rented them houses, furnished with servants and horses, while they completed their studies. The less-privileged students paid for their education by working for the scions of Castile. When I hinted to Miguel that this was a possibility, he snapped, “I’d rather remain an ignoramus than be one of those starving students begging for a hunk of bread; or one who has to depend on cast-off clothing to be warm in winter.”

“May I remind you that you’ll be living in my house, Miguel, where you’ll be treated as a brother, not as a servant.”

“I know that. And I’m not ungrateful to you for your generous offer. But the other students would know about the situation and treat me as an inferior.”

I did not press the issue, hoping that in time he would see the advantages of my proposition. Without an education, Miguel’s prospects—despite the ephemeral fame that had befallen him as a poet—would be few. I suspected that he did not accept my offer because there was pressure from his parents to start earning money and contribute to the expenses of the Cervantes household. I did cajole Miguel into accompanying me to visit the grounds of the university and to help me search for a suitable house. “Wouldn’t you like to see the town where you were born?” Miguel had left Alcalá de Henares when he was a boy, but he often spoke of it with fondness and nostalgia. “On the way back,” I added, “we can stop in Toledo to visit Garcilaso’s tomb.” I knew Miguel was eager to see the city where Garcilaso de la Vega was born, and to visit his tomb at the cathedral. “We’ll stay at my grandparents’ home and you’ll meet my cousin Mercedes, who lives with them. I am eager for Mercedes and you to meet.” I wanted to bring together the woman I adored and the best friend I had ever had. Such was my innocence of heart, and my affection for Miguel, that I added, “I mentioned our friendship to Mercedes, and she wrote back saying she looks forward to meeting you. I want the two of you to be as close as brother and sister.”

* * *

When Miguel and I stood in front of the white marble façade of the Universidad Cisneriana, I hoped he would change his mind and accept my invitation to live together during my university years. But when the offspring of the great families arrived to attend the day’s lectures wearing dark velvet cloaks and hats adorned with fancy feathers, armed with daggers and swords, mounted on fine horses, and accompanied by their pages, valets, and footmen, who set up camp in the plaza to wait while their masters attended classes, I knew that Miguel must have compared himself to them and felt inferior, knowing he could not aspire to such displays of wealth.

The scions of Spain’s nobility stood in marked contrast to the other students milling about, the ones known as the
capigorristas
, who wore capes made of humble material and cloth caps that could barely protect their heads in the cold weather.

We spent a few pleasant hours visiting the august buildings. Miguel admired in particular the Great Hall’s golden wooden ceilings carved with Moorish motifs; its stained-glass Gothic windows; the imposing chapel; the patios with Romanesque arches and columns flanked by tall cypresses; and the various flower gardens among the buildings. Birds stopped to drink, splash, and sing in their marble fountains.