Of the amusing and great inquisition that the priest and barber conducted in the library of our ingenious hidalgo.
DON QUIXOTE was still sleeping. The priest asked the niece for the keys to the room where the books—the authors of the damage—were kept, and she gave them to him most willingly. Everyone went in, including the housekeeper, and they found more than a hundred very large and well-bound books and some other smaller ones. As soon as the housekeeper saw them, she ran out of the room and returned immediately with a bowl of holy water and a sprinkler and said: “Take this, your grace, señor licenciado. Sprinkle the room so that one of the many enchanters that lurk in these books won’t put a hex on us, to punish us for trying to banish them from the world.”
The credulousness of the housekeeper made the priest laugh, and he had the barber give him those books one by one to see what they were about, because it might be they would find some that didn’t deserve punishment by fire.
“No,” said the niece, “there’s no reason to pardon any of them because all of them have done damage. It’d be best to toss them all out the window onto the patio and make a pile of them there, and set fire to them; or take them to the corral and make a fire there so the smoke won’t bother anyone.”
The housekeeper echoed the same thing, such was the ardent wish they both had for the death of those innocents. But the priest wouldn’t agree to it without at least reading the titles. The first one that maese Nicolás put in his hands was The Four Books of Amadís de Gaula.
The priest said: “This is very mysterious, because I’ve heard that this book is the first book of chivalry published in Spain, and all the rest derive from it. So it seems to me that since it’s the founder of such a bad sect, we ought to condemn it to the flames without a second thought.”
“No, señor,” said the barber, “for I’ve heard that it’s the best of all the books of that type that were ever written, and so, as something unique in its art, it ought to be pardoned.”
“That’s the truth,” said the priest, “and for that reason its life will be spared for the time being. Let’s see what’s next to it.”
“This one,” said the barber, “is The Heroic Deeds of Esplandián, legitimate son of Amadís de Gaula.”
“In truth,” said the barber, “the goodness of the father won’t save the son. Take this, señora housekeeper; open the window, throw it into the corral, and start the mound of books for the bonfire.”
The housekeeper did it with pleasure, and the good Esplandián went flying into the corral, patiently awaiting his fiery doom.
“Let’s move on,” said the priest.
“This next one,” said the barber, “ is Amadís de Grecia, and I believe all the rest in this section are of that same lineage of Amadís.”
“Well, throw them all into the corral,” said the priest, “rather than not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra and the shepherd Darinel, I’d burn up the father who begat me, if he went around masquerading as a knight errant.”
“I share your opinion,” said the barber.
“Since that’s the way it is,” said the housekeeper, “let me gather them up, and to the corral with them!”
They gave them to her. She spared the stairs, and tossed them down from the window.
“Who’s that big one?” asked the priest.
“This is,” said the barber, “Don Olivante de Laura.”
“The author of that book,” said the priest, “is the same one who wrote The Garden of Flowers, and in truth I can’t tell which of the two books is more true, or rather, less lying. I can only say that this one will go to the corral because it’s so absurd and arrogant.”
“This next one is Florimorte de Hyrcania,” said the barber.
“So, that’s Florimorte?” replied the priest. “Then by my faith he’ll soon be in the corral, in spite of his strange birth and resounding adventures, because the stiffness and dryness of his style deserve nothing else. To the corral with this one and the next one, señora housekeeper.”
“My pleasure, my good señor,” responded the housekeeper, and with great joy she did what she was told.
“This is The Knight Platir,” said the barber.
“That is an old book,” said the priest, “but I see nothing in it that deserves forgiveness; let it join the rest without reprieve.” And it was done.
Another book was opened, and they saw that it had as its title The Knight of the Cross.
“Since this book has such a holy name, we might pardon its ignorance, but it’s also said that «behind the cross lurks the devil». Away to the fire with it!”
The barber, taking another book, said: “This is The Mirror of Chivalry.”
“I already know his grace,” said the priest. “In it are Reinaldos de Montalbán with his friends and companions—worse thieves than Cacus—and the Twelve Peers, along with the historian Turpin; in truth, I favor condemning it only to perpetual exile, just because those characters were in part responsible for Mateo Boiardo’s work, from which the poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his cloth. And if I find him here speaking a language that’s not his own, I’ll show him no respect, but if he’s in his original language, I’ll put the book on top of my head.”
“I have him in Italian,” said the barber, “but I don’t understand him.”
“And it’s just as well you don’t,” said the priest. “We might forgive the señor Captain if he hadn’t brought him to Spain and made him Spanish, because he took away quite a bit of his original worth. And those who try to translate books in verse into another language will do the same thing—no matter how careful and skillful they are, they cannot make those works as good as when they were born. I say, therefore, that this book and all of them that deal with France should be placed in a dry well until we figure out what to do with them, except Bernardo del Carpio, which must be around here somewhere, and another called Roncesvalles —if I ever get these into my hands, they will soon be in those of the housekeeper, and from there into those of the flames, without any possibility of reprieve.”
The barber approved all this, and he thought it was both good and proper because he knew the priest was such a good Christian and such a friend of the truth, he wouldn’t say anything untrue for the world. And when he opened another book, he saw that it was Palmerín de Oliva, and the one next to it was Palmerín de Ingalaterra. When the licenciado saw this, he said: “That Olive should be torn to shreds right now and burned, and not even the ashes should remain. The Palm of England should be kept and conserved as a unique item, and a box should be made for it like the one Alexander found among the spoils of Darius and chose to hold the works of the poet Homer. This book, señor compadre, deserves veneration for two reasons: first, it’s very good in itself, and second, because it’s said that an ingenious king of Portugal wrote it. All the adventures of the Castle of Miraguarda are very good and artfully done, the dialogues are courteous and clear, and they maintain and reflect the decorum of the person who is speaking with great propriety and understanding. I say this so that, unless you have a different opinion, maese Nicolás, this one and Amadís should stay free from the fire, and all the rest, without further examination, should perish.”
“No, señor compadre,” replied the barber, “for this one I have here is the famous Don Belianís.”
“Well, even he,” replied the priest, “together with his second, third, and fourth parts, needs a bit of rhubarb to purge his excess bile, and all a Valencian poet.
“All three of these books,” said the priest, “are the best ones that have ever been written in heroic verse in Spanish, and they can be compared favorably with the most famous ones from Italy. Keep them as you would Spain’s finest jewels.”
The priest got tired of passing judgment over more books, and so, without examining any others, he wanted all the rest of them burned. But the barber had already opened one called The Tears of Angélica.
“I’d cry similar tears,” said the priest when he heard that title, “if that book had been sent to the flames, because its author was one of the most famous poets in the world, not just in Spain, and he made truly fine translations of some of Ovid’s fables.”