L ITTLE REMAINED to be read of the novella when Sancho Panza ran in from the garret where don Quixote had been resting, and exclaimed in a dither: “Come quickly, señores, and rescue my master, who is in the midst of the toughest and fiercest battle I’ve ever seen! By God, he’s given a slash to the giant, the enemy of the señora princess Micomicona, and has cut his head clean off, as if it were a turnip.”
“What are you saying, brother,” said the priest, interrupting the end of the story he was reading. “Are you crazy? How the devil can this be when the giant is two thousand leagues from here?”
At that moment they heard an enormous racket from the room, and don Quixote was loudly shouting: “Stop, you thief, you brigand, you rogue! Now I have you where I want you, and your scimitar will do you no good!”
It sounded as if he were giving solid slashes to the walls. Sancho said: “Don’t stop to listen, but go in and stop the fight, or help my master—although that probably won’t be necessary, because the giant is doubtless already dead and giving an account of his wicked life to God, for I saw blood flowing on the floor, and the chopped-off head lying on its side, and I swear it’s the size of a large wineskin!”
“May they kill me,” said the innkeeper at this point, “if don Quixote, or don Devil, hasn’t stabbed one of the skins of red wine that were hanging at the head of his bed, and the spilled wine must be what this fellow thinks is blood.”
The innkeeper, and all the rest, ran into the room and found don Quixote dressed in the strangest way in the world—he was in his shirt, which barely covered his thighs and was a hand shorter in the back. His legs were very long and thin, covered with hair and not at all clean. He was wearing a dirty red cap on his head that belonged to the innkeeper. Wound around his left arm was that blanket Sancho so despised, and he knew the reason well. In his right hand was his unsheathed sword he was thrusting in all directions, crying out as if he were truly fighting with a giant. The strange thing is that his eyes weren’t open, because he was still sleeping and dreaming that he was in a battle with the giant. His imagination about the adventure that he was going to be in was so intense that it made him dream he’d already arrived in the kingdom of Micomicón and that he was already fighting with his enemy. And he’d given so many slashes to the wineskins, thinking that he was giving them to a giant, that the whole room was flooded with wine. When the innkeeper saw it, he became so angry that he began to rain so many blows on don Quixote, that if Cardenio and the priest hadn’t separated them, the innkeeper would have finished the battle with the giant himself. And the poor knight never woke up until the barber brought a large bucket of cold water from the well and threw it onto his whole body in one splash, which caused don Quixote to wake up, but not sufficiently so that he knew what was going on.
Dorotea, seeing how little he was wearing, wouldn’t go into the room to witness the battle between her rescuer and her enemy. Sancho was running around trying to find the giant’s head on the floor, and since he didn’t see it he said: “Now I know that everything in this place happens by enchantment. The last time, in this very room where I’m standing right now, I got a lot of punches and jabs, and I didn’t know who did it, and I couldn’t see anyone. And now the head I saw my master chop off with my own eyes is nowhere to be seen, and there was blood flowing from the body as from a spring.”
“What blood and what spring are you talking about, you enemy of God and all his saints?” said the innkeeper. “Don’t you see, you rogue, that the blood and spring are nothing more than slashed wineskins and red wine swimming around this room, and may I see the soul of the one who slashed them swimming around in hell.”
“I don’t know anything,” responded Sancho. “I only know that it’ll be too bad if I can’t find that head because my county will dissolve like salt in water.” Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, such was the effect his master’s promises had on him.
The innkeeper was despairing seeing how doltish the squire was and how much damage the master had done, and he swore it wasn’t going to turn out as it had the last time, when they got away without paying. This time, the privileges of his knighthood weren’t going to let him get off without paying both accounts, down to the repairs he’d have to make to fix the punctured wineskins.
The priest took don Quixote by his hands, and he, thinking that he’d successfully completed the adventure and he was in the presence of the princess Micomicona, got down on his knees before the priest and said: “Your greatness, noble and famous señora, can live from this day forth, sure that this ill-born creature will do you no harm, and that I, also as of today, am released from the promise I gave you, since—with the help of God in heaven, and with the aid of her for whom I live and breathe—I’ve fulfilled it.”
“Didn’t I tell you,” said Sancho, when he heard this. “You see, I wasn’t drunk. Come and see if my master doesn’t have that giant packed in salt! «Here come the bulls!» My county is a sure thing!”
Who couldn’t help but laugh at the foolish remarks of both the master and the servant? Everyone laughed except the innkeeper, who was despairing. In the end, the barber, Cardenio, and the priest managed to get don Quixote back into bed with no little effort, and he went to sleep looking utterly fatigued. They let him sleep, then went out to the door of the inn to console Sancho Panza for not having found the giant’s head, although they had more to do to appease the innkeeper who was despondent about the sudden death of his wineskins, and his wife began shouting very loudly: “It was a stroke of bad luck when this knight errant came to my house—he’s cost me so much! I wish I’d never seen him. Last time he stiffed us for the bed, the dinner, the straw and barley for his hack and donkey, saying that he was a knight adventurer—and may God give a bad venture to him and to all the other adventurers there are in the world!—and for that reason he didn’t have to pay anything, because it was written in the laws of knight errantry. So now, because of him, this other fellow came and took my tail away, and returned it with two cuartillos of damage, virtually hairless so it’s no good anymore for what my husband wants it. And to top it all off, he slashes my wineskins and spills my wine—may I see his blood spilled. But don’t think—by the bones of my father and by the life of my mother—that he won’t pay me for everything, every single cuarto, or my name isn’t what it is nor am I my parents’ daughter.”
The innkeeper’s wife said these and other words in great anger, backed up by her good maid Maritornes. Her daughter said nothing but just smiled from time to time. The priest calmed everyone down, promising to pay for their losses as well as he could, not only for the wineskins, but also for the wine, and especially for the damage done to the tail that such a fuss was made about. Dorotea consoled Sancho Panza, telling him that if it appeared certain that his master had beheaded the giant, she promised, once she was peacefully settled in her kingdom, to give him the best county in it. Sancho was consoled with that, and he assured the princess that she could be sure that he’d seen the giant’s head, and that, the way it looked, he had a beard that went down to his waist, and if it was no longer around, it was because everything happened in that place by enchantment, as he’d proven on another occasion when he’d been lodged there. Dorotea said she believed him, and for him not to worry, for everything would turn out as he wished.
Now that everyone was calmed down, the priest wanted to finish reading the novella because he saw very little remained. Cardenio, Dorotea, and everyone else begged him to finish it. He was willing to give them the same pleasure he had in reading it, and continued the story, which went like this:
It happened, then, owing to the confidence Anselmo felt about Camila’s virtue, he lived a contented and carefree life, and Camila showed herself outwardly cold, on purpose, toward Lotario, so Anselmo might think her feelings toward him were the opposite of what they were. To reinforce their scheme, Lotario asked Anselmo’s permission not to come to his house because he clearly saw Camila’s displeasure when she saw him. But the deceived Anselmo said that he wouldn’t hear of such a thing. And in a thousand ways Anselmo was the architect of his own dishonor, while he thought he was the author of his happiness.
Meanwhile, the pleasure that Leonela had in finding herself empowered to continue her affair came to the point that, not caring about anything else, she pursued it with a free rein, confident her mistress would conceal it, and even tell her how she could manage it safely and with little fear. Finally one night, Anselmo heard footsteps in Leonela’s room, and went to see who it was, but he found that the door was barred against him, which made him all the more determined to open it. So with all his strength he finally opened it, and he went in just as a man was leaping from the window to the street. He ran over to try to catch him or at least see who he was, but could do neither because Leonela grabbed him saying: “Calm down, señor mío, and don’t get excited or try to pursue the man who just jumped from here. It’s my business; in fact, he’s my husband.”
Anselmo refused to believe it, and blind with rage he took out his dagger and tried to stab her, demanding that she tell him the truth or he would kill her. She was so afraid, without realizing what she was saying, blurted out: “Don’t kill me, señor, and I’ll tell you things that are more important than you can imagine.”
“Tell me right now!” said Anselmo. “If you don’t, you’re dead.”
“For the moment it’s impossible,” said Leonela, “because I’m so worked up. Give me until the morning, and then you’ll learn things that will astonish you, and rest assured that the man who leapt out of the window is a lad from this city who has promised to be my husband.”
With this, Anselmo calmed down, and agreed to wait until the time she requested since he didn’t expect to hear anything to the detriment of Camila, because he was so satisfied with, and certain of, her virtue. So, he went out of the bedroom and left Leonela locked inside, telling her she couldn’t leave until she told him what she had to say. He then went to Camila to tell her everything that had happened with her maid, and the promise she’d given him to tell him of great and important matters. There is no need to say whether or not Camila was disturbed, because her fear was so great, believing, as well she should, that Leonela was going to tell Anselmo everything she knew about her infidelity, that she didn’t have the courage to wait to see if her suspicion was false or not. And that very night, when it seemed Anselmo was sleeping, she gathered her best jewelry and some money, and without being heard by anyone, left the house and went to Lotario’s, and told him what had happened, and asked him to help her find a safe place to go, or for the two of them to flee together where they might be safe from Anselmo. The perplexity into which Camila threw Lotario was such that he didn’t say a single word, nor could he make up his mind what to do.
He finally decided to take Camila to a convent where a sister of his was mother superior. Camila agreed, and with the speed that the situation required, Lotario took her to the convent and left her there, and he left the city as well, not telling anyone he was going.
At daybreak, Anselmo, not noticing that Camila wasn’t at his side, and wanting to find out what Leonela was going to tell him, got up and went to where he’d left her locked up. He opened the door and went in, but he couldn’t find her. He only found some sheets knotted together at the window, a sure sign she’d let herself down and fled. Very sad, he returned immediately to tell Camila about it, and when he didn’t find her in bed, or in any part of the house for that matter, he was dumbfounded. He asked the servants about her but no one could give him any explanation.
As he continued his search for Camila, he happened to see her open jewel boxes, and that jewelry was missing; and right then he realized his disgrace, and that Leonela was not the cause of his misfortune. And so, only half-dressed, sad and pensive, he went to tell Lotario about his sorrow. But when he didn’t find him, and his servants told him that he hadn’t been at home the preceding night, and had taken all his money with him, he thought he’d go crazy. To add insult to injury, when he returned home, he couldn’t find any of his own servants, and the house was deserted and empty. He didn’t know what to think. Little by little, his wits started to return. He considered his situation, and in an instant he realized that he was without a wife, without a friend, seemingly abandoned by heaven above, and especially without honor, because in Camila he saw his ruin.
He resolved finally to go to his friend’s village where he’d gone when he’d given the opportunity for all that misfortune to be plotted. He closed the doors of his house, mounted his horse, and with a broken spirit got on the road. He’d hardly gone half way when, beleaguered by his thoughts, he had to dismount and tie his horse to a tree, at the foot of which he lay down, giving tender and doleful sighs, and remained there until nightfall. At that hour, he saw a man approach from the city on horseback, and after greeting him, he asked what news there was in Florence.
The man from the city replied: “The strangest news heard in town for a long time, for it’s said publicly that Lotario, that great friend of Anselmo the Rich, who lives near San Giovanni ran off with Camila, Anselmo’s wife, and he isn’t around either. All this was revealed by a maid of Camila whom the governor found last night lowering herself by a sheet from the windows of Anselmo’s house. Indeed, I don’t know really how it all happened. I only know that the whole city is astonished about the affair, because it would never have been expected from the great and well-known friendship of the two of them, who were so close that they were known as THE TWO FRIENDS.”
“Is it known, by chance,” asked Anselmo, “what road Lotario and Camila took?”
“Not in the least,” said the city dweller, “even though the governor has used great diligence to search for them.”
“God speed to you, señor,” said Anselmo.
With this ill-fated news Anselmo found himself almost on the verge of not only losing his wits, but also of losing his life. He got up as well as he could, and went to the house of his friend, who as yet had heard nothing of his misfortune. But when he saw Anselmo arrive pale, wan, and exhausted, he realized that he’d suffered some great affliction. Anselmo asked to be put to bed and to be given something to write with. That done, he left him resting and alone, because that’s the way he wanted it, and he even wanted the door closed behind him. Finding himself alone, he began to dwell on his misfortune so much that it weighed down upon him, and he clearly saw that his life was ebbing away. So he determined to leave behind the reasons for his bizarre death. He began to write, but before he could put down all he wanted to, his breath failed him, and he left his life in the hands of the pain that his ill-advised curiosity had brought upon him.
When the master of the house saw that it was getting late and that Anselmo had been so silent, he decided to go in to see if his indisposition had increased, but instead, he found him face down, half of his body on the bed and the other half on the writing desk, quill still in hand, on which there was a partially-written message. His host approached, having called out to him first, and seizing him by the hand, seeing he didn’t respond, and finding him cold, he saw that Anselmo was dead. He was astonished, and greatly grieved, he called his servants to bear witness to Anselmo’s sad fate, and finally read the paper he recognized to be in Anselmo’s handwriting, which had these words:
A foolish and ill-advised wish took my life. If the news of my death gets to the ears of Camila, I want her to know that I forgive her, because she was not bound to perform miracles, nor should I have asked her to, and since I was the author of my own dishonor, there’s no reason to
Anselmo had gotten this far, by which one could see that at that point, without completing his thought, his life ended. The next day the friend told Anselmo’s relatives of his death. They already knew of his disgrace, as well as where Camila’s convent was. She, too, was on the point of accompanying her husband on that inevitable voyage, not because of the news of his death, but because she’d learned that her lover had gone. They say that, although she was a widow, she didn’t want to leave the convent, nor become a nun, until just a few days later, when she got news that Lotario had died in a battle that Monsieur de Lautrec was fighting with the Gran Capitán, Gonzalo Fernández de Córdoba, in the Kingdom of Naples, where her late repentant friend had gone. And when Camila heard that news, she became a nun and a few days later she herself died at the rigorous hands of grief and melancholy. Such was the end of them all, born of such a reckless beginning.
“This novella seems good to me,” said the priest, “but I’m not convinced of its truth, and if it’s fiction, the author did a bad job, since one cannot imagine that there is such a foolish husband who would want to try such a costly experiment as Anselmo. If this story were between a lover and his mistress, it might pass; but between husband and wife, it smacks of being impossible. As for its style, I’m not displeased.”