For Having a Good Time
Since I am afraid that the reader may be tired of the medical details with which this work is filled, or at least will be, I intend to cheer him up by telling him the story of my visit with Dr. Monardes to England, whence we went at the invitation of said Señor Frampton. Some time ago, Señor Frampton escaped from Cadiz on one of Dr. Monardes and Nuñez de Herrera’s merchant ships, and since then he has felt enormously in his debt.
We left Cadiz with the caravel Hyguiene on a beautiful summer day. Oceanus Occidentalis lay in front of us, to our right was Costa de la Luz, lit, as always, by the sun.
“The dunces who read Plato have been searching for Atlantis since time immemorial,” Dr. Monardes said, sitting on deck in a wicker chair, his legs crossed on a heap of gaskets, a book in his lap, “while here it is, before their very eyes.”
I looked around: Costa de la Luz, Oceanus Occidentalis, the caravel Hyguiene, Dr. Monardes.
“In what sense?” I said.
“In the sense that I’m talking about Cadiz. The island used to be called Gadeira. And that’s where the name of the town comes from. First, it was Gadir, then Gades, and later it became Cadiz. And now the island is called Isla de Cadiz. This is exactly what is meant. An island beyond the Pillars of Heracles. That is the island of Cadiz.” Noticing my incredulous look, Dr. Monardes said, “This land is very old, Guimarães. Andalusia. People have lived here practically since the world was created. In England, where we are now going, there was only the wind whistling through the hills when people were already living here.”
“Yes, but what kind of people!” I said dismissively. “What were they good for? Nothing! Monkeys, savages!”
“Better monkeys and savages than the wind whistling through your ass, believe you me,” Dr. Monardes objected. “Did you know, my friend, that I’ve found pottery from time immemorial in the yard of one of my houses near the Guadalquivir? Remind me some day to show them to you.”
“Yes, by all means,” I said, with the full knowledge that I was lying. There is hardly anything of less interest to me than pottery from time immemorial. Dr. Monardes, though a great physician, has his own peculiarities, just like every man (but not every man is a great physician).
We traveled in silence for a while, whereupon Dr. Monardes grunted, lifted his eyes from the book he was reading, and said with irritation: “Look what a Northern fool has written here: ‘To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.” In the next instant, the doctor abruptly threw the book into the sea with surprising force, shouting after it, “To have succeeded, you fool, means being rich and in perfect health. Rich and healthy! Just that and nothing more. I cannot bear these windbags any longer!” Dr. Monardes turned to me. “They blather pure nonsense to fool themselves and the rest of the world into thinking they are something besides miserable losers, and they call it philosophy.” He turned back towards the sea, adding, “These works deserve to be devoured by fish. Then perhaps some fish will begin speaking wisely.”
I laughed and said, “Like the goldfish in the tale of the fisherman, señor.”
“A goldfish? By no means!” Dr. Monardes objected. “It would have to be a clay one.”
“So why do you read these bores, señor? Read Rabelais. The greatest writer.”
“Why do you think so?” Dr. Monardes asked. He didn’t read such books, feeling a certain unjust contempt for them.
“He is a medical man just like us,” I answered. “The printing of his first three books has been halted, and the fourth has even been banned by Parliament.”
“No wonder,” the doctor nodded. “What is parliament? A place where representatives of the provinces meet. What could be expected of such provincials except the bold combination of stupidity and theft? Thank God there is not such an abomination in Spain!”
“And the greatest of the poets, señor,” I added, feeling encouraged, “is Pelletier du Mans. What a book, señor: L’Amour des amours. It consists of a cycle of love sonnets followed by verses about meteors, planets, and the heavens. Who else has written such a book? Nobody!”
“Indeed!” the doctor agreed. “But you surprise me, Guimarães. I thought you concentrated on medicine.”
“Well, I do concentrate on it, señor. I read these other things in my spare time, if something catches my interest. Why do you torment yourself with those sagacious fools?”
“Because I’m a Renaissance man and a humanist,” the doctor replied. “I must read them.”
“Renaissance man? Humanist? Who gives a damn about that?” I said. “You are a rich man, señor, very successful in your career. What do you need the Renaissance and humanism for?”
“Such is the fashion, my friend. And fashion is a great power, a mighty eagle in the sky. It is more important than you think, and it is most certainly my duty to impress upon you a correct understanding of such matters, lest you should say some day ‘The doctor told me so many other things, but not that.’ You must learn to distinguish the two kinds of fashion, Guimarães: one is short-lived, while the other yields results tomorrow. If you want to achieve a better lot in life, you must be able to recognize the latter and follow it. Tomorrow it may not make any difference that you were rich and highly successful in medicine. It may turn out that the only important thing will be whether you were a man of the Renaissance and a humanist.”
“What does it matter what matters tomorrow?” I objected. “Carpe diem, seize the day. Tomorrow never comes, as the Arabs say.”
“Yes, that is what they say, and see how they ended up,” the doctor retorted, pointing first at the shores of Andalusia and then at the African coast. “Chased out! Tomorrow will come, fear not. It always does.”
I was not particularly convinced, but preferred to stay silent. I was beginning to feel seasick in any case.
“When you vomit, be careful here,” Dr. Monardes said, pointing at the deck beside him. “This is the nail Francisco Rodrigues pricked himself on years ago.”
“Why, haven’t they gotten rid of it?” I exclaimed.
“Nothing ever disappears in Spain, my friend,” the doctor replied and headed for his cabin.
The English are nice chaps, although perhaps a bit foolish. They definitely seem more foolish than the Spaniards, perhaps even more so than the Portuguese; why, they even seem more foolish than those sorry potatoes stuck in the ground—meaning the Bulgarians, of course—although I’m not sure I would be willing to swear to this last statement. The English constantly act witty in order to look smart; although their wit is usually rather trivial. They radiate certain white-bread mediocrity. But I prefer them to the Spaniards. Spain is singed by the sun, supposedly suffused with light, but is, in fact, somehow a dark and bitter country, while England, supposedly veiled in mist and rain, looks somehow green and cheerful; more cheerful, in any case, and gentler. You can say many things to an Englishman and he will keep trying to be smart and witty, while a Spaniard will simply jump up to cut your throat. He calls it pride, but I’m a foreigner
