Chapter VI. Of the delightful and thorough inquisition that the priest and the barber held in the library of our ingenious hidalgo

who was still asleep. The priest asked the niece for the keys to the room where the books were, the authors of the harm, and she gave them to him very willingly. They all went in, and the housekeeper with them, and they found more than a hundred volumes of large books, very well bound, and other small ones; and as soon as the housekeeper saw them, she turned and hurried out of the room, and came back at once with a bowl of holy water and a sprinkler, and said:

“Here, your grace, Señor Licentiate: sprinkle this room, in case there is some enchanter in here, one of the many these books hold, and they put a spell on us, to punish us for the punishment we mean to give them by putting them out of the world.”

The housekeeper’s simplicity made the licentiate laugh, and he told the barber to hand him those books one by one, so that he could see what they were about, since there might be some that did not deserve the punishment of fire.

“No,” said the niece, “there’s no reason to spare a single one, because all of them have been the wrongdoers; it would be better to throw them out the windows into the courtyard and make a pile of them and set fire to it; or else take them out to the yard, and make the bonfire there, and the smoke won’t bother anyone.”

The housekeeper said the same, so eager were the two of them for the death of those innocents; but the priest would not agree to it without first reading at least the titles. And the first one Master Nicolás put into his hands was The Four Books of Amadís of Gaul, and the priest said:

“There seems to be something mysterious about this; for, from what I have heard, this was the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, and all the others took their beginning and origin from it; and so it seems to me that, as the heresiarch of so evil a sect, we ought to condemn it to the fire without any excuse.”

“No, sir,” said the barber, “for I have heard too that of all the books ever written in this line it is the best; and so, as the only one of its kind, it ought to be pardoned.”

“That is true,” said the priest, “and for that reason its life is granted for now. Let us see that other one next to it.”

“It is,” said the barber, “The Exploits of Esplandián, the legitimate son of Amadís of Gaul.”

“Well, in truth,” said the priest, “the father’s goodness shall not avail the son. Here, Mistress Housekeeper: open that window and throw it into the yard, and let it be the beginning of the heap for the bonfire we are to make.”

The housekeeper did so with great satisfaction, and the good Esplandián went flying into the yard, there to await with all patience the fire that threatened him.

“Next,” said the priest.

“This one that comes now,” said the barber, “is Amadís of Greece; and in fact all the ones on this side, as far as I can tell, are of the same lineage of Amadís.”

“Then off to the yard with all of them,” said the priest, “for, in exchange for burning Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel and his eclogues, and the devilish, tangled speeches of their author, I would burn along with them the father who begot me, if he went about in the guise of a knight-errant.”

“I am of that opinion,” said the barber.

“And so am I,” added the niece.

“Then, since that’s how it is,” said the housekeeper, “bring them here, and into the yard with them.”

They handed them to her, and there were many of them, and she saved herself the stairs and sent them flying down out the window.

“Who is that great cask?” said the priest.

“This,” answered the barber, “is Don Olivante de Laura.”

“The author of that book,” said the priest, “was the same one who composed Garden of Flowers; and in truth I cannot decide which of the two books is the truer, or, better said, the less mendacious; I can only tell you that this one will go to the yard for being absurd and arrogant.”

“This one that follows is Florimorte of Hircania,” said the barber.

“Is Señor Florimorte there?” replied the priest. “Then on my faith he shall soon end up in the yard, in spite of his strange birth and his far-famed adventures, for the hardness and dryness of his style leave room for nothing else. Into the yard with him and with that other one, Mistress Housekeeper.”

“With pleasure, sir,” she would answer; and with great glee she carried out what she was told.

“This is The Knight Platir,” said the barber.

“This is an old book,” said the priest, “and I find nothing in it that deserves pardon. Let it keep the others company, and no appeal.”

And so it was done. Another book was opened, and they saw that its title was The Knight of the Cross.

“For so holy a name as this book bears, its ignorance might be forgiven; but it is also commonly said, ‘behind the cross stands the devil’; to the fire with it.”

The barber, taking up another book, said:

“This is Mirror of Chivalry.”

“I know his grace already,” said the priest. “In it rides Señor Reinaldos of Montalbán with his friends and companions, bigger thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers, with the truthful historian Turpin; and in truth I am inclined to condemn them to no more than perpetual exile, if only because they have a share in the invention of the famous Mateo Boyardo, from which the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto also wove his cloth; and him, if I find him here speaking a language not his own, I will show no respect at all; but if he speaks in his own tongue, I will set him on my head.”

“Well, I have him in Italian,” said the barber, “but I don’t understand him.”

“Nor would it be good for you to understand him,” answered the priest, “and we could well have spared the captain the trouble of bringing him to Spain and making a Castilian of him; for he took away much of his native worth, and the same will be done by all those who try to turn books of verse into another language: for however much care they take and skill they show, they will never reach the height those books have in their first birth. I say, in effect, that this book, and all those that may be found dealing with these matters of France, be thrown and deposited in a dry well, until it is seen with more deliberation what is to be done with them, excepting one Bernardo del Carpio that is going around, and another called Roncesvalles; for these, once they reach my hands, shall pass into the housekeeper’s, and from hers into the fire’s, without any reprieve.”

The barber confirmed it all, and held it good and very well judged, for he knew the priest to be so good a Christian and so devoted to the truth that he would not say anything else for all the world. And, opening another book, he saw that it was Palmerín de Oliva, and next to it was another called Palmerín of England; and when the licentiate saw this, he said:

“Let that olive be split into kindling at once and burned, so that not even its ashes remain; but that palm of England, let it be guarded and preserved as something unique, and let another casket be made for it like the one Alexander found among the spoils of Darius, which he set apart to keep the works of the poet Homer in. This book, neighbor, has authority for two reasons: the one, because it is very good in itself, and the other, because the story goes that a wise king of Portugal wrote it. The adventures at the castle of Miraguarda are all excellent and most artfully made; the speeches courtly and clear, observing and respecting the decorum of whoever is speaking, with great propriety and understanding. I say, then, saving your better judgment, Master Nicolás, that this one and Amadís of Gaul be spared from the fire, and that all the rest, without further probing and tasting, perish.”

“No, neighbor,” replied the barber, “for this one I have here is the famous Don Belianís.”

“Well, that one,” replied the priest, “with its second, third, and fourth parts, needs a little rhubarb to purge its excess of bile, and all that business of the castle of Fame and other impertinences of greater weight must be taken out of it, for which a term is granted them as long as for those overseas, and according as they mend, so shall they be dealt with in mercy or in justice; and meanwhile, neighbor, keep them at your house, but do not let anyone read them.”

“With pleasure,” answered the barber.

And, not wanting to tire himself any further reading books of chivalry, the priest ordered the housekeeper to gather up every one of the big books and pitch them into the yard. This was not said to a dullard or a deaf woman, but to one who was keener to burn them than to weave a piece of cloth, however large and fine; and, seizing nearly eight at a time, she threw them out the window. Because she took so many together, one fell at the barber’s feet, and he felt a wish to see whose it was, and he saw that it said: History of the Famous Knight Tirante the White.

“God save us!” said the priest, with a great shout. “To think that Tirante the White is here! Give it to me, neighbor; for I reckon I have found in it a treasure of delight and a mine of pastimes. Here is Don Quirieleisón of Montalbán, a valiant knight, and his brother Tomás of Montalbán, and the knight Fonseca, with valiant Tirante’s fight against the mastiff, and the clever sayings of the damsel Placerdemivida, with the loves and tricks of the widow Reposada, and the lady Empress in love with Hipólito, her squire. I tell you truly, neighbor, that for its style this is the best book in the world: here the knights eat and sleep, and die in bed, and draw up their wills before they die, along with other things that all the other books of this kind lack. For all that, I tell you that the man who wrote it deserved, since he did not commit so many follies on purpose, to be sent to the galleys for all the days of his life. Take it home and read it, and you will see that everything I have told you about it is true.”

“So I will,” answered the barber, “but what shall we do with these small books that are left?”

“These,” said the priest, “must not be books of chivalry, but of poetry.”

And, opening one, he saw that it was the Diana of Jorge de Montemayor, and he said, believing that all the rest were of the same kind:

“These do not deserve to be burned like the others, because they do not and will not do the harm that the books of chivalry have done; they are books of the understanding, without prejudice to any third party.”

“Oh, sir!” said the niece. “Your grace may as well have them burned like the rest, because it would be no wonder if, once my uncle is cured of the chivalry sickness, he took it into his head, from reading these, to become a shepherd and go wandering through the woods and meadows singing and piping; and, what would be worse, to become a poet, which, they say, is a disease that is incurable and catching.”

“This maiden speaks the truth,” said the priest, “and it will be well to remove this stumbling block and occasion from our friend’s path. And, since we are beginning with Montemayor’s Diana, I am of the opinion that it should not be burned, but that everything dealing with the wise Felicia and the enchanted water should be taken out of it, and nearly all the long-measure verses, and let it keep its prose, and welcome, and the honor of being the first of such books.”

“This one that follows,” said the barber, “is the Diana called the second, by the Salmantino; and this, another with the same name, whose author is Gil Polo.”

“Well, the Salmantino’s,” answered the priest, “let it join and swell the number of those condemned to the yard, and let Gil Polo’s be kept as if it were by Apollo himself; and go on, neighbor, and let us make haste, for it is getting late.”

“This book,” the barber said as he opened another, “is The Ten Books of the Fortune of Love, composed by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian poet.”

“By the holy orders I received,” said the priest, “since Apollo was Apollo, and the Muses Muses, and poets poets, no book so amusing or so absurd as that one has ever been written, and in its own way it is the best and most singular of all of this kind that have come out into the light of the world; and whoever has not read it may take it that he has never read anything to his taste. Give it here, neighbor, for I value finding it more than if they had given me a cassock of Florentine serge.”

He set it aside with the greatest pleasure, and the barber went on, saying:

“These that follow are The Shepherd of Iberia, Nymphs of Henares, and Jealousy Undeceived.”

“Then there is nothing more to be done,” said the priest, “but hand them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper; and let no one ask me why, for that would be never to finish.”

“This one that comes now is The Shepherd of Fílida.”

“That is no shepherd,” said the priest, “but a most accomplished courtier; let it be kept as a precious jewel.”

“This big one here,” said the barber, “is entitled Treasury of Divers Poems.”

“If there were not so many of them,” said the priest, “they would be more esteemed; this book needs to be weeded and cleared of some low things that it holds among its lofty ones. Let it be kept, because its author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other more heroic and elevated works he has written.”

“This,” the barber went on, “is The Songbook of López Maldonado.”

“The author of that book too,” replied the priest, “is a great friend of mine, and his verses in his own mouth amaze whoever hears them; and such is the sweetness of the voice in which he chants them that he enchants. He runs somewhat long in the eclogues, but the good was never too much: let it be kept with the chosen. But what book is that one next to it?”

“The Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes,” said the barber.

“That Cervantes has been a great friend of mine for many years, and I know that he is more versed in misfortunes than in verses. His book has something of good invention; it proposes something and concludes nothing: we shall have to wait for the promised second part; it may be that once amended it will win in full the mercy that is now denied it; and in the meantime, until this is seen, keep it shut away in your lodging, neighbor.”

“With pleasure,” answered the barber. “And here come three, all together: La Araucana of Don Alonso de Ercilla, La Austríada of Juan Rufo, magistrate of Córdoba, and El Monserrato of Cristóbal de Virués, a Valencian poet.”

“All three of those books,” said the priest, “are the best that have been written in heroic verse in the Castilian tongue, and they can compete with the most famous of Italy: let them be kept as the richest jewels of poetry that Spain possesses.”

The priest grew tired of looking at more books; and so, wholesale, he wanted all the rest burned; but the barber already had one open, which was called The Tears of Angelica.

“I would weep them myself,” said the priest on hearing the title, “if I had ordered such a book burned; for its author was among the famous poets of the whole world, not of Spain alone, and he was most happy in translating some of the fables of Ovid.”