From “Some of Mayor Gaynor’s Letters and Speeches”

December 4th, 1911.

Dear Mr. Smith: I thank you exceedingly for the edition of Don Quixote which you sent me. The illustrations by Doré are grand. The translation I notice is by Motteux. Of the English translations I deem that by Jarvis the best. It is so deft and nimble. I imagine that it approaches the spirit of the original more nearly than any of the others. When a younger man I often entertained the intention of trying to learn Spanish in order to read Don Quixote in the original. I envy your being able to do so. In translating a work of imagination it is almost always necessary to depart from literalness in order to give the genius and spirit. This Jarvis does, while Motteux is often painfully literal. And yet his literalness brings out some things that should not be lost. For instance, in the account of Don Quixote’s manner of living, and what dishes he ate each day of the week, Jarvis says, “an omelet on Saturdays,” which is certainly common-place enough. But Motteux gives the original exactly, namely, “griefs and groans on Saturdays,” which was some kind of a mixed dish which evidently caused belly ache, or some sort of distress in the paunch. But cases like that are few, and the nimble and light touches of Jarvis which let you right into the spirit of the narrative are often departures from the literal rendering of the original. At best a translation of a work of imagination bears about the same resemblance to the original as the reverse side of a tapestry to the true side. That is why I am sorry I do not understand Spanish as you do. If I did we could continue that discussion of the writings of Cervantes which we commenced on the train up from Richmond.

Let me cite a passage or two to show how much more attractive the translation of Jarvis is. After Don Quixote is knocked down by the sail of the wind-mill, Sancho Panza comes galloping up on Dapple and says, according to Motteux: “Mercy on me, did not I give your Worship fair warning? Did not I tell you they were wind-mills, and that nobody could think otherwise unless he also had wind-mills in his head?” But Jarvis more nimbly says: “God save us, quoth Sancho Panza, did not I warn you to have a care of what you did, for that they were nothing but wind-mills, and nobody could mistake them but one that had the like in his head.” And again, speaking of the company at Antonio’s house who were entertaining Don Quixote, Motteux says: “Among others were two ladies of an airy and waggish disposition.” Contrast this with the way Jarvis puts it: “Among the ladies there were two of an arch and jocose disposition.” But I must not multiply these instances except to quote the rendering of a proverb. Motteux makes Don Quixote say to Sancho: “I have always heard it said that to do a kindness to clowns is like throwing water into the sea.” Jarvis has it that “to do good to the vulgar is to throw water into the sea.”

Cervantes and Shakespeare died on the same day — or rather one died ten days later than the other according to the modern reckoning of time, but I do not remember which. But I find they made use of the same expression. Sancho Panza is made to say, “There is some difference between a hawk and a handsaw.” Shakespeare says in Hamlet, “I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

Years ago I copied every proverb, or philosophical or wise saying there is in Don Quixote. I think that an equal number of good ones is not found in any other book except the Bible. I am half tempted to quote a few to you and let you compare them with the original. “Who but a madman would mind what a madman says,” is one. “Diligence is the mother of good fortune,” is another. And this: “It is pleasant to govern though it be but a flock of sheep.” And this: “Some people go out for wool and come home shorn.” And this: “Letters without virtue are pearls upon a dunghill.” And this: “Though habit and example do much, good sense is the foundation of good language.” And this: “When they give you a heifer be ready with the rope.” And this of the same meaning: “When good fortune knocks, make haste to let her in.” And some or all of those elected to office might well say with Sancho Panza when his old clothes were being taken off and he was being dressed up in his official garments when he was entering upon the government of his island: “Clothe me as you will, I shall be Sancho Panza still.” And it were well if they could all say, as Sancho did when he gave up his governorship and they had stripped him of his official garments to reclothe him with his old ones: “Naked came I into this government and naked come I out of it.” And let me wind up with this one which the ladies might take offense at: “Between the yea and the nay of a woman I would not undertake to thrust the point of a needle.”

And while I am at it, and since we went into this book talk on the train at all, I will set down for you the books which I think have had the largest effect on my life. I will give them in the order in which I think I was affected by them:

The Bible,

Euclid,

Shakespeare,

Hume’s History of England (especially the notes),

Homer,

Milton,

Cervantes (Don Quixote),

Rabelais,

Gil Blas,

Franklin’s Autobiography and letters,

The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini,

Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,

Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations,

Bacon’s Works.

I have left out of this list those works on what for want of a better name I may call the philosophy of history. I have derived immense satisfaction and, I hope, much profit, from them. And no doubt I have omitted some books I would mention if I took the time.