T HE GOOD lunch came to an end without anything else happening worthy of being recorded, and the next day they arrived at the inn that had caused Sancho Panza so much terror and dread. Although he didn’t want to go in, there was no way he could avoid it. The innkeeper’s wife, the innkeeper, his daughter, and Maritornes, who all saw don Quixote and Sancho coming, went out to receive them showing great joy, and he received them with a grave mien and solemnity, and told them to prepare a better bed for him than the last time, to which the innkeeper’s wife said that if he paid better than the last time, she would give him one fit for a king. Don Quixote said he would, and so they prepared a reasonable one in the same garret as before, and he went to bed right away, because he felt very debilitated both in body and spirit.
No sooner was the door shut when the innkeeper’s wife assaulted the barber, grabbed him by the beard and said: “By the sign of the cross, you can’t use my ox-tail as a beard anymore. My husband’s thing is lying around the floor, which is a disgrace-I mean his comb, which I used to put into my good tail.”
The barber refused to give it to her, even though she was pulling on it, until the licenciado said that he should give it back, since it was no longer needed for that stratagem, and that he should show his real face and tell don Quixote that when the thieving galley slaves robbed them, he’d fled to that inn, and if he asked about the princess’ squire, they would tell him that he’d been sent ahead to notify her subjects of her return and that she was bringing along the liberator of them all. With this, the barber willingly returned the tail to the innkeeper’s wife, as well as the other items they had been lent to rescue don Quixote. The people at the inn marveled at Dorotea’s beauty and the noble appearance of the young Cardenio. The priest arranged for a meal to be made from what was available at the inn, and the innkeeper, hoping for better pay, prepared a tolerable dinner. Don Quixote slept through it all, and the others thought it was best not to waken him, because it would be better for him to sleep instead of eating.
The innkeeper, along with his wife and daughter, Maritornes, and all the travelers, spoke over dinner about the odd madness of don Quixote, and how they had found him. The innkeeper’s wife told them what had happened between don Quixote and the muleteer. She then looked around to see if Sancho was to be found, and seeing that he wasn’t, told about his blanketing, which was received with no little pleasure. And when the priest said that it was the romances of chivalry that don Quixote had read that had driven him crazy, the innkeeper said: “I don’t know how that can be, for in truth, the way I understand it, there is no better reading in the world, and I have two or three of them over there along with other writings that have restored my spirits—and not only mine, but that of many others. Because when it’s harvest time, many reapers come here on their days off and there’s always someone who can read and picks up one of those books, and more than thirty of us gather round him, and we listen with so much pleasure that we forget our worries. At least, for me, I can say that when I hear about those raging and terrible blows that the knights deliver, it makes me feel like doing the same thing, and I want to keep on listening, night and day.”
“And I no less,” said the innkeeper’s wife, “because it’s never still in this place, except when you’re listening to what is being read, and you’re so entranced that it doesn’t occur to you to fight with me.”
“That’s the truth,” said Maritornes, “and on my faith I like to hear those things, too, because they’re very pretty, and especially when they tell about the lady underneath the orange trees in the arms of her knight, and a lady-in-waiting is standing guard for them, dying of envy and fright. That’s about as sweet as it gets.”
“And what do you think of these things, young lady?” the priest said, addressing the daughter of the innkeeper.
“I don’t know, señor, on my soul,” she responded. “I listen to them as well, and in truth I don’t understand much, but I get a lot of pleasure hearing them. But I don’t like to hear about the blows that my father likes so well, but rather the lamentations that the knights make when they’re away from their ladies. At times they make me cry because of the compassion I have for them.”
“So, would you console them, señora maiden,” said Dorotea, “if it was for you they wept?”
“I don’t know what I’d do,” said the girl, “I only know that there are some of those ladies who are so cruel that they call their knights tigers and lions, and other bad things. And, Jesus, what kind of people can they be, so without soul or conscience, that they’ll let an honorable man die or go crazy rather than look at him! I don’t know what all this priggishness is about. If it’s for their honor’s sake, let them marry the knights, which is all they want anyway.”
“Quiet, child!” said the innkeeper’s wife. “It seems that you know a lot about these things, and it’s not good for girls to know or to talk so much.”
“Since this man asks me,” she responded, “I feel I have to answer him.”
“All right,” said the priest, “bring me those books, señor innkeeper-I want to see them.”
“I’ll be pleased to,” said the innkeeper.
He went into his room and brought out a small valise closed by a little chain and when he opened it, he found in it three large books and a couple of manuscripts written in a very clear hand. The first book that he opened was Don Cirongilio de Tracia. The next one was Felixmarte de Hyrcania, and then other one was History of the Gran Capitán, Gonzalo Hernández de Córdoba, Together with the Life of Diego García de Paredes. As soon as the priest read the first two titles, he turned to the barber and said: “What we need here and now are my friend’s housekeeper and his niece.”
“We don’t need them,” responded the barber, “because I also know how to take them to the corral or the fireplace where a nice fire is already burning.”
“So, your grace wants to burn more books?” said the innkeeper.
“Only these first two,” said the priest, “the one about Don Cirongilio and the other one about Felixmarte.”
“By chance you think that my books are heretical or phlegmatic so that you want to burn them?”
“«Schismatic» you mean to say, my friend,” said the barber, “and not «phlegmatic».”
“Yes, yes,” replied the innkeeper, “but if you want to burn one of them up, let it be the one about the Gran Capitán and that Diego García, because I’d rather burn up a child of mine than allow either of the two others to be burned.”
“My brother,” said the priest, “these two books are mendacious and are filled with nonsense and silly things, but this one about the Gran Capitán is true history, and it deals with the exploits of Gonzalo Hernández de Córdoba, who, because of his many deeds has deserved to be called by everyone the Gran Capitán—the Great Captain—a famous and illustrious epithet merited by him alone. And this Diego García de Paredes was a knight of renown, native of the city of Trujillo in Extremadura, a very brave soldier, and was so strong that he could stop a millstone in all its fury with one finger. And once, when he stood at one end of a bridge with a broadsword, he prevented an immense army from crossing over it. He did other feats as well, and he writes about them himself, as his own chronicler, with modesty imposed by his knighthood, if someone else had written about them, freely and dispassionately, it would have cast all the Hectors, Achilles, and Rolands into oblivion.”
“In your hat!” said the innkeeper. “What’s so astounding about stopping a millstone? By God, you should read now about what Felixmarte de Hyrcania did—with a single backslash he split five giants in two as if they had been beanpod friars little children make. And once he attacked a huge and powerful army of more than a million six hundred thousand men, all armed to the teeth, and he vanquished every one as if they were flocks of sheep. And what do you have to say about the good Cirongilio de Tracia, who was so valiant and intrepid, as you’ll see in the book, they say when he was sailing up a river, a flaming serpent leapt from the water and as soon as he saw it, he jumped onto it astride its scaly back, and seized its neck with such force that when the serpent saw that it was being strangled, it could only plunge into the depths of the river, taking along the knight, who refused to let go? And when they got to the bottom, he found himself in a very beautiful garden, a wonder to behold, and then the serpent turned into an old man who told him incredible things. So, señor, if you heard all this, you would go crazy with pleasure. I couldn’t care less about the Gran Capitán and that Diego García de Paredes.”
When she heard this, Dorotea whispered to Cardenio: “Our host can almost be don Quixote’s understudy.”
“That’s what it seems like to me,” responded Cardenio, “because, the way it looks, he’s convinced that everything these books describe happened exactly as written, and even the barefoot friars won’t make him believe anything else.”
“Look, brother,” the priest said to him, “neither Felixmarte de Hyrcania nor don Cirongilio de Tracia ever existed in the real world, nor did any of the other knights described in the romances of chivalry, because it’s all made-up, and fiction, created by idle minds that wrote them for the reason you mentioned—to pass the time and entertain your reapers by hearing them read. Really, I swear to you that there were never any such knights in the world, nor any of the deeds or foolish acts related in them.”
“You can’t dupe me!” responded the innkeeper. “As if I didn’t know how many is five and where my shoe pinches! Don’t think you can fool me, because, by God, I know what’s what. Here you are trying to make me believe what happens in these good books is nothing more than nonsense and lies, when they’re printed with the license of the Royal Council—as if those people would permit a bundle of lies to be printed with so many battles and enchantments, enough to drive you mad!”
“I’ve already told you,” replied the priest, “that these are written to entertain us when we have idle moments. And so just as in well-ordered states we have games, such as chess and pocket billiards, to entertain those who have finished their day’s work, or cannot work, in that same way they allow such books to be printed, believing—and it’s the truth—that there is no one so ignorant as to think that any of them are true histories. And if this were the appropriate time, and if the present company were to demand it, I could expound on what romances of chivalry should contain to make them good, if they are to be of profit as well as pleasure. But I hope that the time will come when I can communicate this to someone who can do something about it; meanwhile, believe what I’ve told you, señor innkeeper, and take your books and try to resolve whether they’re truth or lies, and much good may they do you, and may God forbid you to limp on the same foot as your guest don Quixote.”
“Never that,” responded the innkeeper. “I’ll never be so crazy that I’d become a knight errant, since I see that there aren’t any now like there were in those days, when they say that these famous knights roamed the world.”
In the middle of this conversation Sancho came in, and he became very puzzled and pensive when he heard that there were no longer any knights errant, and that all the romances of chivalry were nonsense and lies; and he determined in his heart to wait and see how his master’s expedition turned out, and if it didn’t end as happily as he thought, he would leave him and go back to his wife and children and his regular work. The innkeeper was about to take away the valise with the books when the priest said to him: “Wait a minute. I’d like to see that manuscript that’s written in such a nice hand.”
The innkeeper took it out and gave it to him to look at, and he saw that it was made of up to eight folded sheets, handwritten, and it bore a title written in large letters: “Novella of the Ill-Advised Curiosity.” The priest read three or four lines to himself and said: “The title of this novella doesn’t seem bad, and I think I’d like to read it aloud.”
To which the innkeeper said: “Your reverence can well read it. It has really entertained some guests who have read it here, and some have asked me for it, but I haven’t given it away, because I planned to give this valise with these books and papers back to the person who left them behind, since it may be he’ll come back some time, and although I know I’d miss the books, I really should give everything back, because although I’m an innkeeper, I’m still a Christian.”
“You’re very right, my friend,” said the priest, “but if the novella pleases me, you must let me copy it.”
“With pleasure,” responded the innkeeper.
While the two were talking, Cardenio had taken the novella and begun to read it, and having formed the same opinion of it as the priest, begged him to read it so that everyone could hear.
“I’ll read it,” said the priest, “if time were not better spent in sleeping than in reading.”
“Passing the time hearing a story,” said Dorotea, “will be sufficient rest for me, since my spirit is not so calm that it would let me sleep, even though I should.”
“In that case,” said the priest, “I’d like to read it, if only out of curiosity. Maybe it’ll have something to pique our curiosity in it.”
Maese Nicolás went over to ask him to read it as well, and so did Sancho. When the priest saw this, and realizing that it would please everyone including himself, he said: “If that’s the case, listen attentively, for the novella begins like this: