Chapter XXXV. In which the novel of The Ill-Advised Curiosity is brought to an end
Little more of the novel was left to read when Sancho Panza came rushing out of the attic where Don Quixote was resting, all in an uproar, shouting:
“Come quick, gentlemen, and help my master, for he’s caught up in the fiercest, hardest-fought battle my eyes have ever seen. As God lives, he’s given the giant who’s the enemy of the lady Princess Micomicona such a slash that he’s sliced his head clean off, right through, as if it were a turnip!”
“What are you saying, brother?” said the priest, leaving off reading what remained of the novel. “Are you in your right mind, Sancho? How the devil can what you say be, when the giant is two thousand leagues from here?”
At this they heard a great noise in the room, and Don Quixote shouting:
“Hold, thief, miscreant, caitiff, for I have you here, and your scimitar shall not avail you!”
And it seemed he was dealing great slashes at the walls. And Sancho said:
“There’s no call to stand there listening; go in and break up the fight, or help my master; though there’ll be no need now, because, beyond any doubt, the giant is dead already and giving God an account of his past wicked life, for I saw the blood running over the floor, and the head cut off and fallen to one side, and it’s as big as a great wineskin.”
“May they kill me,” said the innkeeper at this, “if Don Quixote, or Don Devil, hasn’t slashed one of the skins of red wine that were standing full at the head of his bed, and the spilled wine must be what looks like blood to this good man.”
And with this he went into the room, and all of them after him, and they found Don Quixote in the strangest attire in the world: he had nothing on but his shirt, which in front fell short of covering his thighs altogether and behind was six fingers shorter still; his legs, very long and thin, were hairy and none too clean; on his head sat a small, greasy red cap, the innkeeper’s property; around his left arm he had wrapped the blanket from the bed, against which Sancho bore a grudge, and he knew very well why; and in his right hand he held his naked sword, with which he was slashing in every direction, uttering words as if he were truly fighting some giant. And the best of it is that his eyes were not open, because he was asleep and dreaming that he was in battle with the giant; for so intense was his imagining of the adventure he was going to bring to an end that he dreamed he was already in the kingdom of Micomicón and was already in the fight with his enemy. And he had dealt so many slashes at the wineskins, believing he was dealing them at the giant, that the whole room was full of wine; and the innkeeper, seeing this, flew into such a rage that he rushed at Don Quixote and began to rain so many blows on him with his clenched fist that, if Cardenio and the priest had not pulled him off, he would have finished the giant’s war himself; and, with all that, the poor gentleman did not wake, until the barber fetched a big pot of cold well water and dashed the whole of it over him at once, at which Don Quixote woke; but not so fully awake as to notice the state he was in.
Dorotea, seeing how short and how thin his clothing was, would not go in to watch the battle between her champion and his adversary.
Sancho went searching all over the floor for the giant’s head, and, since he could not find it, he said:
“Now I know that everything in this house is enchantment; for the other time, in this same place where I am now, they gave me a lot of punches and whacks without my knowing who was giving them to me, and I never could see anybody; and now this head I saw cut off with my very own eyes doesn’t turn up anywhere around here, and the blood was running from the body as if from a fountain.”
“What blood and what fountain are you talking about, you enemy of God and his saints?” said the innkeeper. “Can’t you see, you thief, that the blood and the fountain are nothing but these skins that are slit open here and the red wine this room is swimming in, and may I see the soul of the man who slit them swimming in hell!” “I don’t know anything,” answered Sancho. “All I know is that I’m going to end up so unlucky that, because I can’t find this head, my earldom is going to melt away on me like salt in water.”
And Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep: such was the state his master’s promises had put him in. The innkeeper was beside himself to see the squire’s sluggishness and the master’s mischief, and he swore that it would not be like the last time, when they went off without paying; and that this time the privileges of his knighthood would not get him out of paying for the one thing and the other, even down to what the patches might cost that would have to be put on the torn skins.
The priest was holding Don Quixote by the hands, and he, believing that he had now finished the adventure and that he was standing before Princess Micomicona, went down on his knees before the priest, saying:
“Your greatness, high and famous lady, may well live from this day forth secure from any harm this ill-born creature could do you; and I too, from this day forth, am quit of the word I gave you, since, with the help of God on high and by the favor of her for whom I live and breathe, I have fulfilled it so well.”
“Didn’t I say so?” said Sancho, hearing this. “I wasn’t drunk, was I? Look whether my master hasn’t got the giant salted down already! The bulls are a sure thing: my earldom’s as good as made!”
Who would not have laughed at the nonsense of the two of them, master and man? Everyone laughed except the innkeeper, who was cursing himself to the devil. But at last the barber, Cardenio, and the priest managed, with no little trouble, to get Don Quixote into bed, where he fell asleep, showing signs of the greatest weariness. They left him to sleep, and went out to the gateway of the inn to console Sancho Panza for not having found the giant’s head; though they had more to do in pacifying the innkeeper, who was in despair over the sudden death of his wineskins. And the innkeeper’s wife was crying out at the top of her voice: “It was an evil moment and an unlucky hour when this knight-errant came into my house, and I wish my eyes had never seen him, for he costs me so dear. The last time he went off with the cost of a night, of supper, bed, straw, and barley, for himself and for his squire, and a nag and a donkey, saying he was a knight-adventurer (and may God give bad venture to him and to every adventurer there is in the world) and that because of this he wasn’t obliged to pay anything, for so it was written in the tariffs of knight-errantish chivalry. And now, on his account, this other gentleman came and carried off my tail, and he’s given it back to me with more than two cuartillos’ worth of damage, all plucked bare, so that it’s no good for what my husband wants it for. And, to finish and crown it all, breaking my skins and spilling my wine; and may I see his blood spilled! Well, let him not think it; for, by my father’s bones and by my mother’s soul in glory, they’re going to pay me for it one cuarto on top of another, or my name isn’t what it is and I’m not my father’s daughter!”
These and other such words the innkeeper’s wife was saying in great anger, and her good servant Maritornes was helping her. The daughter was silent, and every now and then she smiled. The priest calmed everything down, promising to make good their loss as best he could, both of the skins and of the wine, and above all of the damage to the tail, which they made so much of. Dorotea consoled Sancho Panza, telling him that whenever it should turn out to be true that his master had beheaded the giant, she promised him, once she found herself in peaceful possession of her kingdom, to give him the best earldom there was in it. Sancho was consoled by this, and assured the princess that she could take it for certain that he had seen the giant’s head, and that, to be exact about it, it had a beard that reached down to its waist; and that if it did not turn up, it was because everything that happened in that house happened by way of enchantment, as he had proved the other time he had lodged there. Dorotea said that she believed it, and that he should not grieve, for everything would turn out well and happen just as he could wish. When everyone had calmed down, the priest wanted to finish reading the novel, because he saw that little was left. Cardenio, Dorotea, and all the rest begged him to finish it. He, wishing to please them all, and for the pleasure he himself took in reading it, went on with the tale, which ran as follows:
It happened, then, that, because of the satisfaction Anselmo had in Camila’s goodness, he lived a contented and carefree life, and Camila, on purpose, showed Lotario a sour face, so that Anselmo would understand the opposite of the feelings she had for him; and, to confirm the deed further, Lotario asked leave not to come to his house, since the distress Camila felt at the sight of him was plain to see; but the deceived Anselmo told him that on no account should he do such a thing. And so, in a thousand ways, Anselmo was the fashioner of his own dishonor, believing he was fashioning his own pleasure.
Meanwhile Leonela’s pleasure at seeing her love affair given countenance grew so great that, heeding nothing else, she went after it with a slack rein, trusting that her mistress covered for her, and even advised her how she might carry it on with little fear. At last, one night Anselmo heard footsteps in Leonela’s room, and, wanting to go in to see who was making them, he felt the door being held against him, a thing that made him all the more eager to open it; and he pushed so hard that he opened it, and went in just in time to see a man jumping out of the window into the street; and, rushing quickly to catch him or recognize him, he could manage neither the one nor the other, because Leonela threw her arms around him, saying:
“Calm yourself, my lord, and don’t be alarmed, and don’t go after the man who jumped from here; it’s my affair, and so much so that he’s my husband.”
Anselmo would not believe it; instead, blind with anger, he drew his dagger and was about to wound Leonela, ordering her to tell him the truth on pain of death. Frightened, and hardly knowing what she said, she told him:
“Don’t kill me, my lord, for I’ll tell you things of more importance than you can imagine.”
“Tell them at once,” said Anselmo; “otherwise you are dead.”
“For now it will be impossible,” said Leonela, “I’m so upset; leave me till tomorrow, for then you’ll learn things from me that will astonish you; and rest assured that the one who jumped out of this window is a young man from this city who’s given me his hand to be my husband.”
Anselmo was calmed by this and was willing to wait for the time she asked, because he did not expect to hear anything that might be against Camila, being so satisfied and sure of her goodness; and so he left the room and left Leonela locked in it, telling her she would not come out of it until she had told him what she had to tell.
He went at once to see Camila and to tell her, as he did, everything that had passed between him and her maid, and the word she had given him to tell him great things of importance. Whether Camila was alarmed or not there is no need to say, for so great was the fear that seized her, believing truly—and it was to be believed—that Leonela was going to tell Anselmo everything she knew of her faithlessness, that she had not the courage to wait and see whether her suspicion proved false or not. And that same night, when she thought Anselmo was asleep, she gathered up the best jewels she had and some money, and, without being heard by anyone, left the house and went to Lotario’s, to whom she told what was happening, and begged him to put her in a safe place, or for the two of them to go away where they could be safe from Anselmo. The confusion Camila threw Lotario into was such that he could not answer her a word, still less make up his mind what to do.
At last he decided to take Camila to a convent, of which a sister of his was prioress. Camila consented to it, and, with the speed the case demanded, Lotario took her and left her in the convent, and he likewise left the city at once, without letting anyone know of his departure.
When day broke, Anselmo, without noticing that Camila was missing from his side, in his eagerness to know what Leonela wanted to tell him, got up and went to where he had left her locked in. He opened the door and went into the room, but did not find Leonela in it: he found only some knotted sheets tied to the window, a sign and token that she had let herself down that way and gone. He went back at once, very sad, to tell Camila of it, and, not finding her in her bed or anywhere in the house, he was thunderstruck. He asked the servants of the house about her, but no one could give him any account of what he was asking.
While searching for Camila, he happened to see that her chests were open and that most of her jewels were missing from them, and with this he finally understood his misfortune, and that Leonela was not the cause of his unhappiness. And, just as he was, without finishing dressing, sad and thoughtful, he went to tell his friend Lotario of his misfortune. But when he did not find him, and his servants told him that he had been missing from home since that night and had taken with him all the money he had, he thought he would lose his mind. And, to finish with everything, when he went back to his house, he found in it not one of all the menservants or maidservants he had, but only the house deserted and empty.
He did not know what to think, what to say, or what to do, and little by little his wits were turning. He saw himself and considered himself, in an instant, without wife, without friend, and without servants; forsaken, as it seemed to him, by the heaven that covered him, and above all without honor, because in Camila’s absence he saw his ruin.
At last, after a long while, he resolved to go to his friend’s village, where he had been when he gave room for the whole of that misfortune to be contrived. He shut the doors of his house, mounted his horse, and set off with failing spirit; and he had scarcely gone halfway when, harried by his thoughts, he had to get down and tether his horse to a tree, and he let himself drop at the foot of its trunk, heaving tender and sorrowful sighs, and there he stayed until almost nightfall; and at that hour he saw a man on horseback coming from the city, and, after greeting him, he asked him what news there was in Florence. The citizen answered:
“The strangest that have been heard there for many days; for it is said publicly that Lotario, that great friend of Anselmo the rich, who lived by San Juan, carried off Camila, Anselmo’s wife, last night, and Anselmo cannot be found either. All this was told by a maid of Camila’s, whom the governor found last night letting herself down by a sheet from the windows of Anselmo’s house. Indeed, I do not know exactly how the business went; I know only that the whole city is astonished at this event, because such a deed could not have been expected from the great and intimate friendship of the two, which they say was so great that they were called the two friends.”
“Is it known, by any chance,” said Anselmo, “which road Lotario and Camila have taken?”
“Not in the least,” said the citizen, “though the governor has used great diligence in looking for them.”
“God go with you, sir,” said Anselmo.
“And may he stay with you,” answered the citizen, and went on his way.
At such unhappy news Anselmo very nearly came to the point not only of losing his wits but of ending his life. He got up as best he could and reached his friend’s house, who did not yet know of his misfortune; but, seeing him arrive pale, wasted, and withered, he understood that he came worn down by some grave trouble. Anselmo asked at once to be put to bed and to be given writing things. This was done, and they left him in bed and alone, because he wished it so, and even wished them to shut the door on him. Finding himself alone, then, he began to load his imagination so heavily with his misfortune that he saw clearly his life was coming to an end; and so he arranged to leave word of the cause of his strange death; and, beginning to write, before he had finished putting down all he wanted, his breath failed him and he gave up his life into the hands of the grief his ill-advised curiosity had caused him.
The master of the house, seeing that it was now late and that Anselmo did not call, decided to go in and learn whether his indisposition was getting worse, and found him stretched face down, half his body on the bed and the other half on the writing table, on which lay the paper written and open, and he still had the pen in his hand. His host came up to him, having first called to him; and, taking him by the hand, seeing that he did not answer and finding him cold, he saw that he was dead. He was amazed and distressed beyond measure, and called the people of the house to see the misfortune that had befallen Anselmo; and, finally, he read the paper, which he recognized as written in Anselmo’s own hand, and which contained these words:
A foolish and ill-advised desire took away my life. If the news of my death should reach Camila’s ears, let her know that I forgive her, for she was not obliged to work miracles, nor had I any need to want her to work them; and, since I was the fashioner of my own dishonor, there is no reason why…
Thus far Anselmo wrote, from which it could be seen that at that point, without being able to finish the sentence, he finished his life. The next day his friend informed Anselmo’s kinsfolk of his death, who already knew of his misfortune, and knew the convent where Camila was, she being all but ready to follow her husband on that journey no one escapes, not because of the news of her dead husband but because of what she learned of the absent friend. It is said that, although she found herself a widow, she would not leave the convent, nor, still less, take the vows of a nun, until, not many days afterward, news came to her that Lotario had died in a battle that Monsieur de Lautrec fought at that time against the Great Captain Gonzalo Fernández de Córdoba in the kingdom of Naples, where the too-late-repentant friend had ended up; and Camila, learning this, took her vows, and in a few days ended her life at the harsh hands of sorrows and melancholy. This was the end they all came to, born of so senseless a beginning.
“I like this novel well enough,” said the priest, “but I cannot persuade myself that it is true; and if it is invented, the author invented badly, because it is impossible to imagine that there could be a husband so foolish as to want to make so costly an experiment as Anselmo. If this case were set between a gallant and his lady, it might pass, but between husband and wife it has something of the impossible about it; and, as for the manner of telling it, it does not displease me.”