Dr. Cheynell raised his hand and once again took the floor. He stood up, still holding the pipe in his left hand, and said: “My intention, Your Majesty, honorable gentlemen, is to conclude this debate on a brighter note with the help of art. As they say, what else is art for, if not for that? Because our men of letters have discovered several charming properties of tobacco, which the heavy medical works do not mention. For example, one writer comes to mind, who in the part of his book dedicated to the Drunkard, wittily remarks that ‘Tobacco serves to air him after a washing’ [i.e. a drinking-bout]. Our poet Marston also described — in what seems to me chronological order — a whole series of actions, which make our lives pleasant and happy, when he says:
Musicke, tobacco, sacke and sleepe,
The tide of sorrow backward keep.
“I think, most honorable gentlemen, that he has every chance of being right. And please note that here also tobacco and wine go hand in hand. Thank you, thank you”—Dr. Cheynell bowed amidst the good-natured applause that had broken out. “Gentlemen,” he continued afterwards, “sitting here next me is a little-known bard, whose name, I am certain, will live on in the future, even though you may be hearing it today for the first time. This is Mr. Barten Holiday. He wrote a poem of eight stanzas with a chorus to each in praise of tobacco, up to the exemplary requirements of the spirit of burlesque, and filled with inimitable wit — so inimitable, that one would say it had been boiled in dog’s urine. . thank you, thank you. . in which poem, as I was saying, he shows the herb, which he calls ‘Mr. Tobacco,’ as a musician, a lawyer, a physician, a traveler, a tramp, and a braggart. Did I leave anything out, Mr. Holiday?”
“Yes,” the latter replied. “Tobacco is also a critic.”
“Ah, yes,” Dr. Cheynell nodded. “I propose, gentlemen, that we hear this wonderful poem from Mr. Holiday himself.”
With these words, Dr. Cheynell sat down, while Mr. Holiday, standing up next to him, cleared his throat, bowed, and said: “This poem, gentlemen, was written for accompaniment by harp and choir. Unfortunately, I do not have either one or the other of these at my disposal at the moment, for which reason I beg you to be satisfied by the words alone.
“Mr. Tobacco. .
“Oh yes, let me just say as well that I will skip the choral section, which otherwise follows each stanza.
Mr. Tobacco
Tobacco’s a musician,
And in a pipe delighteth,
It descends in a close
Through the organ of the nose
With a relish that inviteth.
Tobacco is a Lawyer,
His pipes do love long cases;
When our braines it enters
Our feet do make indentures,
While we seal with stamping paces.”
I did not record any more of it, since it seemed to me unimportant. The poem, however, really was witty and was met with laughter and heartfelt applause. This poet indeed can look forward to a great future. Hardly as great as Pelletier du Mans, but still, he is nothing to sneeze at.
After that, the king took the floor and gave a short concluding speech, namely the following (after at least two minutes of addresses): “If there are men whose bodies are benefited by tobacco-smoke, this does not so much redound to the credit of tobacco, as it does reflect upon the depraved condition of such men, that their bodies should have sunk to the level of those of Barbarians so as to be affected by remedies such as are effective on the bodies of Barbarians and Indians! This is why I kindly suggest that both these people and the doctors who believe in the healing power of tobacco should take their medicine of pollution and join the Indians.”
With that, the debate ended, in good spirits, and, it seems to me, satisfaction on both sides. In any case, our party had every reason to be satisfied. I along with Mr. Frampton, Dr. Monardes, Dr. Cheynell, Dr. Barclay, the bard Holiday, and the apothecary Venner stayed until late in the pub of the Toga and Rabbit Inn, where we spent an exceptionally pleasant evening. I was put up for the evening in the most luxurious room I’ve ever been in at an inn. It even had a terrace made of pure stone. Since I was still feeling highly excited from the debate and didn’t feel like sleeping, I went out on the terrace and gazed at the stars in the sky. There’s Venus, the brightest star on the horizon. Up there, above the moon, is Mars, twinkling slightly. In the other direction, down and to the right — Jupiter. I wonder what it is like to be a planet? Pelletier talks a lot about that. To drift through endless space, amidst the black horizons of the cosmos, alongside the stars and other planets, yet always following your own path, in your own unwavering orbit. Having the sun circle around you. To be Mars, Venus. Big and round, hanging in the sky like a giant fruit, swept through it like an enormous bird. If you’re the Earth, you’ll stand in the very center of the universe, and various people will jump all over you like lice. In what sense are they alive, and the planets are dead? This is some kind of misunderstanding. The planets, now that’s real life. Just imagine living, or more precisely, existing, without experiencing hunger or thirst, without being hot or cold, without getting old? Not needing anything. To have countless things all over you. Take the Earth, for example, how many things it has. . They all have countless things, yet at the same time are so different. Worlds. Each one of them — a different world. That’s the Big Thing — being a planet. But yes, that’s Nature for you. They are her big, majestic children. They are Nature herself. Or perhaps it is actually the other way around and they are the parents of Nature. While man is most likely just some jabbering, jumping nothing. But how to reach for that, how to reach that golden fruit hanging high in the sky? It’s impossible. You were not meant to, by nature. Adam would be leaping endlessly towards that golden apple, and he’d still be in Paradise. No, it is not for his mouth.
And that idiot with his kingdom, with his social customs, with his pompous self-satisfaction. What bullshit! So the Indians are barbarians? Fine, so they’re barbarians. But he himself is exactly the same, a most ordinary animal.
I took out a cigarella, took a drag off it, and felt a powerful rush of energy wash over me. Like Old Testament might, if I may express myself that way. Tobacco, Pelletier. What to do now?
Musicke, tobacco, sacke and sleepe,
The tide of sorrow backward keep.
I’ll go to sleep. At least I’ll try to.
12. For the Treatment of Domestic Animals and the Quick Accumulation of Wealth
One day, back in Sevilla again, Jesús came up to me with a puzzled look and said that a very strange dog had gotten into the garden.
“How could it have gotten in?” I wondered, since the garden had a high fence.
Jesús gave me a long and, as was to be expected, very confused explanation, which I will not torment the reader with here; rather, I will retell it coherently and in its essence: when Jesús passed by the Hospital of the Resurrection with the carriage, a dog started following him. But it wasn’t one of those usual dogs you see wandering about the city, but obviously a well-kept, large dog, a shepherding breed, and, according to Jesús, it had a gold collar, or rather a hoop, around its neck. This caused me to raise my eyebrows skeptically, and I asked Jesús why, if the dog really had a gold hoop around its neck, he hadn’t gotten down from the carriage to take off the hoop, even if that meant taking the head off with it — in case there was no other way of doing it; something which Jesús, as far as I know him, would do without batting an eye. But he replied that this was impossible and that I only needed to see the dog to understand why.