matter how bad it is, it won't be worse than what will happen to me when I'm helped by your grace, and may God curse you and all the knights errant ever born in this world."
Don Quixote was about to get up to punish him, but Andres began running so quickly that no one even attempted to follow him. Don Quixote was mortified by Andres's story, and it was necessary for the others to be very careful not to laugh so as not to mortify him completely.
CHAPTER XXXII
Which recounts what occurred in the inn to the companions of Don Quixote
They finished their meal, saddled their mounts, and without anything worth relating happening to them, on the following day they reached the inn that was the terror and fear of Sancho Panza, but although he would have preferred not to go in, he could not avoid it. The innkeeper's wife, the innkeeper, their daughter, and Maritornes saw Don Quixote and Sancho arriving, and they went out to receive them with displays of great joy; Don Quixote greeted them in a grave and solemn tone and told them to prepare a better bed for him than they had the last time, to which the innkeeper's wife responded that if he paid better than he had the last time, she would provide him with a bed worthy of a prince. Don Quixote said he would, and therefore they prepared a reasonable one for him in the same attic where he had been previously, and he lay down immediately because he felt weakened and dejected.
No sooner had he closed the door than the innkeeper's wife rushed at the barber, seized him by the beard, and said:
"Upon my soul, you can't go on using my oxtail for a beard, and you have to give the tail back to me; it's a shame to see that thing of my husband's on the floor; I mean the comb that I always hung on my nice tail."
The barber refused to give it to her, no matter how hard she pulled, until the licentiate told him to return it, for it was no longer necessary to use the disguise; he could show and reveal himself as he was and tell Don Quixote that when the thieving galley slaves robbed him, he had fled to this inn; if the knight should ask about the princess's squire, they would say she had sent him ahead to inform the people of her kingdom that she was on her way and was bringing their liberator with her. When he heard this, the barber willingly returned the tail to the innkeeper's wife, along with all the other articles they had borrowed for their rescue of Don Quixote. Everyone in the inn was astonished at the beauty of Dorotea and at the fine appearance of young Cardenio. The priest had them prepare whatever food was available at the inn, and the innkeeper, hoping for better payment, quickly prepared a reasonable meal; Don Quixote slept all this time, and they agreed not to wake him because, for the moment, he needed sleep more than food.
During the meal, in the presence of the innkeeper, his wife, their daughter, Maritornes, and the other travelers, they spoke of the strange madness of Don Quixote and the manner in which they had found him. The innkeeper's wife recounted what had happened with him and the muledriver, and after looking around for Sancho, and not seeing him, she told them about his tossing in the blanket, which caused them no small amusement. When the priest said that the books of chivalry that Don Quixote read had made him lose his wits, the innkeeper said:
"I don't know how that can be; the truth is, to my mind, there's no better reading in the world; I have two or three of them, along with some other papers, and they really have put life into me, and not only me but other people, too. Because during the harvest, many of the harvesters gather here during their time off, and there's always a few who know how to read, and one of them takes down one of those books, and more than thirty of us sit around him and listen to him read with so much pleasure that it saves us a thousand gray hairs; at least, as far as I'm concerned, I can tell you that when I hear about those furious, terrible blows struck by the knights, it makes me want to do the same, and I'd be happy to keep hearing about them for days and nights on end."
"The same goes for me," said the innkeeper's wife, "because I never have any peace in my house except when you're listening to somebody read; you get so caught up that you forget about arguing with me."
"That's true," said Maritornes, "and by my faith, I really like to hear those things, too, they're very pretty, especially when they tell about a lady under some orange trees in the arms of her knight, and a duenna's their lookout, and she's dying of envy and scared to death. I think all that's as sweet as honey."
"And you, young lady, what do you think of them?" asked the priest, speaking to the innkeeper's daughter.
"Upon my soul, I don't know, Senor," she responded. "I listen, too, and the truth is that even if I don't understand them, I like to hear them, but I don't like all the fighting that my father likes; I like the laments of the knights when they're absent from their ladies; the truth is that sometimes they make me cry, I feel so sorry for them."
"Then, young lady, would you offer them relief," said Dorotea, "if they were weeping on your account?"
"I don't know what I'd do," the girl responded. "All I know is that some of those ladies are so cruel that their knights call them tigers and lions and a thousand other indecent things. And sweet Jesus, I don't know what kind of people can be so heartless and unfeeling that they don't look at an honorable man, and let him die or lose his mind. I don't know the reason for so much stiffness: if they're so virtuous, let them marry, which is just what their knights want."
"Be quiet, girl," said the innkeeper's wife. "You seem to know a lot about these things, and it's not right for young girls to know or talk so much."
"Since the gentleman asked me," she responded, "I had to answer."
"Well, now," said the priest, "innkeeper, bring me those books; I'd like to see them."
"I'd be glad to," he responded.
He entered his room and brought out an old traveling case, locked with a small chain, and when it was opened, the priest found three large books and some papers written in a very fine hand. He opened the first book and saw that it was Don Cirongilio of Thrace; 1 and the second was Felixmarte of Hyrcania; 2 and the third, The History of the Great Captain Gonzalo Hernandez de Cordoba, and the Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes. 3 As soon as the priest read the first two titles, he turned to the barber and said:
"Our friend's housekeeper and his niece are the people we need here now."
"We don't need them," responded the barber. "I also know how to take them to the corral or the hearth, where there's a good fire burning."
"Then your grace wants to burn my books?" said the innkeeper.
"Only these two," said the priest: "Don Cirongilio and Felixmarte."
"Well," said the innkeeper, "by any chance are my books heretical or phlegmatic, is that why you want to burn them?"
"Schismatic is what you mean, friend," said the barber, "not phlegmatic."
"That's right," replied the innkeeper. "But if you want to burn one, let it be the one about the Great Captain and that Diego Garcia; I'd rather let a child of mine be burned than either one of the others."
"Dear brother," said the priest, "these two books are false and full of foolishness and nonsense, but this one about the Great Captain is truthful history and tells the accomplishments of Gonzalo Hernandez de Cordoba, who, because of his many great feats, deserved to be called Great Captain by everyone, a famous and illustrious name deserved by him alone; Diego Garcia de Paredes was a distinguished nobleman, a native of the city of Trujillo, in Extremadura, a very courageous soldier, and so strong that with one finger he could stop a millwheel as it turned; standing with a broadsword at the entrance to a bridge, he brought an immense army to a halt and would not permit them to cross; and he did other comparable things, and he recounts them and writes about them himself, with the modesty of a gentleman writing his own chronicle, but if another were to write about those feats freely and dispassionately, they would relegate all the deeds of Hector, Achilles, and Roland to oblivion."
"Tell those trifles to my old father!" said the innkeeper. "Look at what amazes you: stopping a millwheel! By God, now your grace ought to read what Felixmarte of Hyrcania did, when with one reverse stroke he split five giants down to the waist like the dolls children make out of beans. Another time he attacked a huge, powerful army that had more than a million six hundred thousand soldiers, all of them armed from head to foot, and he routed them like herds of sheep. And what would you say of the good Don Cirongilio of Thrace, who was so valiant and brave, as you can see in the book where it tells us that once when he was sailing down a river a fiery serpent rose up from the water, and as soon as he saw it he attacked it and straddled it, right across its scaly shoulders, and with both hands he squeezed its throat so tight that the serpent, seeing that he was being strangled, could only dive down to the bottom of the river, taking with him the knight who wouldn't let him go. And when they got down there, he found himself in palaces and gardens that were so pretty they were a marvel to see, and then the serpent turned into an old, old man who told him so many things it was really something to hear. Be quiet, Senor, because if you heard this, you'd go mad with pleasure. I don't give two figs for the Great Captain or that Diego Garcia!"
When Dorotea heard this, she said very quietly to Cardenio:
"Our host doesn't have far to go to be a second Don Quixote."
"I agree," responded Cardenio. "According to what he says, he believes that everything these books say really happened just as written, and not even discalced friars could make him think otherwise."
"Listen, my dear brother," the priest said again, "there never was a Felixmarte of Hyrcania in this world, or a Don Cirongilio of Thrace, or any other knights like them that the books of chivalry tell about, because it is all fiction made up by idle minds, composed to create the effect you mentioned, to while away the time, just as your harvesters amuse themselves by reading them. Really, I swear to you, there never were knights like these in the world, and their great deeds, and all that other nonsense, never happened."
"Throw that bone to another dog!" responded the innkeeper. "As if I didn't know how to add two and three or where my shoe pinches! Your grace shouldn't try to treat me like a child, because, by God, I'm not an idiot. That's really something: your grace wants me to think that everything these good books say is foolishness and lies, when they've been printed with the permission of the gentlemen on the Royal Council, as if they were the kind of people who'd allow the printing of so many lies, and so many battles and so many enchantments it could drive you crazy!"
"I have already told you, my friend," replied the priest, "that these books are intended to amuse our minds in moments of idleness; just as in well-ordered nations games such as chess and ball and billiards are permitted for the entertainment of those who do not have to, or should not, or cannot work, the printing of such books is also permitted, on the assumption, which is true, that no one will be so ignorant as to mistake any of these books for true history. If it were correct for me to do so now, and those present were to request it, I would have something to say about the characteristics that books of chivalry ought to have in order to be good books, and perhaps it would be advantageous and even pleasurable for some, but I hope the time will come when I may communicate this to someone who can remedy it; in the meantime, you should believe, Senor Innkeeper, what I have told you, and take your books, and decide on their truths or lies, and much good may they do you; God willing you won't follow in the footsteps of your guest Don Quixote."
"I won't," responded the innkeeper, "because I wouldn't be crazy enough to become a knight errant; I see very well that these days are different from the old days, when they say those famous knights wandered through the world."
Sancho had returned in the middle of this conversation and was left very confused and bewildered when he heard that nowadays there were no more knights errant and that all the books of chivalry were foolish lies, and he resolved in his heart to wait and see the outcome of the journey his master was about to take; if it did not turn out as well as he hoped, he was determined to leave and go back to his wife and his children and his customary work.
The innkeeper picked up the case and the books, but the priest said:
"Wait, I want to see the papers that are written in such a fine hand."
The innkeeper took them out and gave them to him to read, and the priest saw up to eight full sheets of paper written by hand, and at the beginning was the title in large letters: The Novel of the Man Who Was Recklessly Curious. The priest read three or four lines to himself and said:
"The title of this novel certainly doesn't seem bad, and I think I would like to read all of it."
To which the innkeeper responded:
"Well, your reverence can certainly read it, and you should know that some guests who read it here liked it very much and asked to have it over and over again, but I wouldn't give it to them, because I plan to return it to the man who left this case here by mistake, along with the books and papers; their owner might come back here one day, and though I know I'll miss the books, by my faith I'm going to give them back; I may be an innkeeper, but I'm still a Christian."
"You are absolutely right, my friend," said the priest, "but even so, if I like the novel, you must allow me to copy it."
"I'll be happy to," responded the innkeeper.
While the two men were conversing, Cardenio had picked up the novel and begun to read it, and being of the same opinion as the priest, he asked him to read it aloud so that all of them could hear it.
"I would gladly read it," said the priest, "but it might be better to spend this time sleeping rather than reading."
"It will be very restful for me," said Dorotea, "to spend the time listening to a story, for my spirit is not yet calm enough to let me sleep at the customary time."
"In that case," said the priest, "I do want to read it, if only out of curiosity; perhaps it will have something both pleasing and unusual."
Master Nicolas made the same request, and so did Sancho; seeing this, and thinking that by reading aloud he would both give and receive pleasure, the priest said:
"Well then, pay careful attention, for this is how the novel begins:"
CHAPTER XXXIII
Which recounts the novel of The Man Who Was Recklessly Curious1
In Florence, a rich and famous Italian city in the province called Tuscany, lived two wealthy, eminent gentlemen who were such good friends that they were known by everyone as the two friends. They were bachelors, young men who were of the same age and habits, all of which was sufficient cause for both of them to feel a mutual, reciprocal friendship. True, Anselmo was somewhat more inclined to amorous pursuits than Lotario, whose preferred pastime was the hunt, but when the occasion presented itself, Anselmo would leave his pleasures to follow those of Lotario, and Lotario would leave his to pursue those of Anselmo, and in this fashion their desires were so attuned that a well-adjusted clock did not run as well.
Anselmo was deeply in love with a distinguished and beautiful girl from the same city, the daughter of such excellent parents, and so excellent in and of herself, that he decided, with his friend Lotario's agreement, without which he did nothing, to ask her parents for her hand, which he did; his intermediary was Lotario, and he concluded the arrangements so successfully for his friend that in a short time Anselmo found himself in possession of what he desired; Camila was so happy at having Anselmo for a husband that she unceasingly gave her thanks to heaven, and to Lotario, through whose intervention so much contentment had come to her. In the first days of the nuptial celebrations, which are always filled with joy, Lotario continued to visit the house of his friend Anselmo as he had before, wishing to honor him, congratulate him, and rejoice with him in every way he could, but when the celebrations were over and the frequency of visits and congratulations had diminished, Lotario carefully began to reduce the number of his visits to Anselmo's house, for it seemed to him--as it reasonably would seem to all discerning people--that one should not visit or linger at the houses of married friends as if both were still single; although good and true friendship cannot and should not be suspect for any reason, the honor of the married man is so delicate that it apparently can be offended even by his own brothers, let alone his friends.
Anselmo noticed Lotario's withdrawal and complained to him bitterly, saying that if he had known that matrimony meant they could not communicate as they once had, he never would have married, and if the good relations the two of them had enjoyed when he was a bachelor had earned them the sweet name of the two friends, then he would not, merely for the sake of appearing circumspect and for no other reason, permit so well-known and amiable a name to be lost; therefore he begged Lotario, if such a term could legitimately be used between them, that he make Anselmo's house his own again, and come and go as he had before, assuring him that his wife, Camila, had no wish or desire other than what he wanted her to have, and she, knowing how truly the two men had loved each other, was bewildered at seeing him so aloof.
To these and the many other arguments that Anselmo used to persuade Lotario to visit his house as he had in the past, Lotario responded with so much prudence, discretion, and discernment that Anselmo was satisfied with his friend's good intentions, and they agreed that twice a week and on feast days Lotario would eat with Anselmo in his house, and although this was their agreement, Lotario resolved to do no more than what he thought would enhance the honor of his friend, whose reputation he valued more than he did his own. He said, and rightly so, that the man to whom heaven has granted a beautiful wife had to be as careful about the friends he brought home as he was about the women with whom his wife associated, because those things not done or arranged on open squares, or in temples, or at public festivals, or on devotional visits to churches--activities that husbands may not always deny to their wives--can be arranged and expedited in the house of her most trusted friend or kinswoman.
Lotario also said that a married man needed to have a friend who would alert him to any negligence in his behavior, since it often happens that because of the great love the husband has for his wife, and h