Chap. VI Of the Diverting and Minute Scrutiny Performed by the Curate and the Barber, in the Library of Our Sagacious Hero
While the knight was asleep, his friends came and demanded of his niece the key of the closet in which those books, the authors of his misfortune, were kept; and she delivering it with great chearfulness, they went into it in a body, housekeeper and all, and found upwards of a hundred volumes, great and small, extremely well bound; which were no sooner perceived by the governante, than she ran out with great eagerness, and immediately returned with a porringer of holy water, and a sprig of hyssop, saying—‘Here, Master Licentiate, pray take and sprinkle the closet, lest some one of the many inchanters contained in these books should exercise his art upon us, as a punishment for our burning and banishing them from the face of the earth.’
The licentiate, smiling at the old housekeeper’s simplicity, desired the barber to hand him the books one by one, that he might see of what subjects they treated, because they might possibly find some that did not deserve to be purged by fire. ‘There is not one of them,’ replied the niece, ‘which deserves the least mercy, for they are all full of mischief and deceit. You had better, therefore, throw them out of the window into the court-yard, and there set fire to them in a heap: or let them be carried into the back-yard, where the bonfire may be made, and the smoke will offend nobody.’ The housekeeper assented to this proposal, so eager were they both to destroy those innocents; but the curate would by no means encourage such barbarity, without reading first, if possible, the title-pages.
The first that Master Nicolas delivered into his hand, were the four volumes of Amadis de Gaul. ‘There is,’ said the good man, ‘something mysterious in this circumstance; for, as I have heard, that was the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, from which all the rest have derived their origin and plan; and therefore, in my opinion, we ought to condemn him to the fire, without hesitation, as the law-giver of such a pernicious sect.’—‘By no means,’ cried the barber; ‘for I have also heard, that this is the best book of the kind that was ever composed; and therefore ought to be pardoned, as an original and model in its way.’—‘Right,’ said the curate; ’and for that reason he shall be spared for the present. Let us see that author who stands next to him.’—‘This,’ says the barber, ‘contains the atchievements of Esplandian, the lawful son of Amadis de Gaul.’—‘Truly, then,’ said the curate, ‘the virtues of the father shall not avail the son. Here, Mrs Housekeeper, open that window, and toss him into the yard, where he shall serve as a foundation for the bonfire we intend to make.’
This talk the housekeeper performed with infinite satisfaction; and the worthy Esplandian took his flight into the yard, to wait in patience for the fire with which he was threatened. ‘Proceed,’ cried the curate. ‘This that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is Amadis of Greece; and I believe all the authors on this shelf are of the same family.’—‘To the yard, then, with all of them,’ replied the curate; ‘for rather than not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel with his eclogues, together with the unintelligible and bedevilled discourses of his author; I would even consume the father who begat me, should he appear in the figure of a knight-errant.’—‘I am of your opinion,’ said the barber. ’And I,’ cried the niece. ‘Since that is the case,’ said the housekeeper, ‘to the yard with them immediately.’ Accordingly, they delivered a number into her hands; and she, out of tenderness for the stair-case, sent them all out of the window.
‘Who may that tun-like author be?’ said the curate. ‘This here,’ answered the barber, ‘is Don Olivante de Laura.’—‘The very same,’ replied the curate, ‘who composed the Garden of Flowers; and truly it is hard to determine, which of his two books is the most true, or rather which of them is least false: all that I know is, that he shall go to the pile for his arrogance and folly.’—‘He that follows,’ says the barber, ’is Florismarte of Hircania.’—‘What, Signior Florismarte?’ replied the curate: ‘in faith, then he must prepare for his fate; notwithstanding his surprizing birth, and mighty adventures, and the unparalleled stiffness and sterility of his stile.—Down with him, Mistress Housekeeper! and take this other along with you also.’—‘With all my heart, dear Sir!’ replied the governante; who executed his commands with vast alacrity.
‘He that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is the knight Platir.’—‘That is an old book,’ said the clergyman; ‘but as I can find nothing in him that deserves the least regard, he must e’en keep the rest company.’ He was accordingly doomed to the flames, without farther question. The next book they opened was intituled, The Knight of the Cross; which the curate having read, ‘The ignorance of this author,’ said he, ‘might be pardoned, on account of his holy title; but according to the proverb, “The devil skulks behind the cross;” and therefore let him descend into the fire.’ Master Nicolas taking up another book, found it was the Mirror of Chivalry. ‘Oh, ho!’ cried the curate, ‘I have the honour to know his worship. Away with Signior Rinaldo de Mont-alban, with his friends and companions, who were greater thieves than Cacus; not forgetting the Twelve Peers, together with Turpin, their candid historian. Though, truly, in my opinion, their punishment ought not to exceed perpetual banishment, because they contain some part of the invention of the renowned Matteo Boyardo, on which was weaved the ingenious web of the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto; to whom, should I find him here speaking in any other language than his own, I would pay no regard; but, if he talks in his own idiom, I will place him on my head, in token of respect.’—‘I have got him at home,’ said the barber, ‘in Italian, but I don’t understand that language.’—‘Nor is it necessary you should,’ replied the curate: ’and here let us pray Heaven to forgive the captain, who has impoverished him so much, by translating him into Spanish, and making him a Castilian. And, indeed, the same thing will happen to all those who pretend to translate books of poetry into a foreign language; for, in spite of all their care and ability, they will find it impossible to give the translation the same energy which is found in the original. In short, I sentence this book, and all those which we shall find treating of French matters, to be thrown and deposited in a dry well, until we can determine at more leisure what fate they must undergo, except Bernardo del Carpio, and another called Roncesvalles, which if they fall into my hands, shall pass into those of the housekeeper, and thence into the fire, without any mitigation.’
This was approved of as an equitable decision, and accordingly confirmed by the barber, who knew the curate to be such a good Christian, and so much a friend to truth, that he would not be guilty of an equivocation for the whole universe. The next volume he opened was Palmerin D’Oliva; and hard by him stood another, called Palmerin of England; which was no sooner perceived by the licentiate, than he cried, ‘Let that Oliva be hewn in pieces, and burned; so as not so much as a cinder of him shall remain; but let the English Palmerin be defended, and preferred as an inestimable jewel, and such another casket be made for him as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius, and destined as a case for the works of Homer. That book, neighbour, is venerable for two reasons, first, because it is in itself excellent; and, secondly, because it is said to have been composed by an ingenious king of Portugal. All the adventures of the castle of Miraguarda are incomparable, and contrived with infinite art; the language perspicuous and elegant, and the characters supported with great propriety of sentiment and decorum. I propose, Mr. Nicolas, saving your better judgment, to exempt this book and Amadis de Gaul from the flames, and let all the rest perish without farther enquiry.’
‘Pardon me, neighbour,’ replied the barber, ‘I have here got in my hand the renowned Don Bellianis.’—‘Even he,’ answered the priest, ‘with the second, third, and fourth parts, stands very much in need of a little rhubarb to purge his excessive choler, and ought to be pruned of that whole Castle of Fame, and other more important impertinences. For which reason, let the sentence be changed into transportation; and, according as he reforms he shall be treated with lenity and justice. In the mean time, friend Nicolas, keep him safe in your house, out of the reach of every reader.’—‘With all my soul!’ answered the barber; and without giving themselves the trouble of reading any more titles, they ordered the housekeeper to dismiss all the large books into the yard.
This direction was not given to a person who was either doating or deaf, but to one who was much more inclined to perform that office than to compose the largest and finest web that ever was seen. Taking up, therefore, seven or eight at a time, she heaved them out of the window, with incredible dispatch. While she was thus endeavouring to lift a good many together, one of them chanced to fall at the feet of the barber, who being seized with an inclination of knowing the contents, found upon examination, that it was called the History of the famous Knight Tirante the White. ‘Heaven be praised!’ cried the curate, aloud, ‘that we have discovered Tirante the White in this place: pray give it me, neighbour; for in this book I reckon I have found a treasure of satisfaction, and a rich mine of amusement. Here is the famous Godamercy40, of Mont-alban, and his brother Thomas of Mont-alban, and the knight Fonseca, as also an account of the battle fought between Alano and the valiant Detriante, together with the Witticisms of the Young Lady, Joy of my Life, with the amorous stratagems of the Widow Quiet, and her highness the Empress who was enamoured of her Squire Hippolito. I do assure you, upon my word, Mr. Nicolas, that, in point of stile, this is the best book that ever was written. Here the knights eat, sleep, and die, in their beds, after having made their wills, with many circumstances that are wanting in other books of the same kind. Notwithstanding, the author who composed it certainly deserved to be sent to the gallies for life, for having spent his time in writing so much nonsense. Take and read him at home, and you shall find what I say to be true.’—‘Very like,’ replied the barber: ‘what shall we do with these small books that remain?’
‘These,’ said the curate, ‘cannot be books of chivalry, but must be poems.’ Accordingly, opening one, he found it was the Diana of George de Monte-major, and taking it for granted that all the rest were of the same kind, said, ‘These books do not deserve to be burnt with the rest; for they neither are nor ever will be guilty of so much mischief, as those of chivalry have done; being books of entertainment, and no ways prejudicial to religion.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the niece, ‘be so good as to order these to be burnt with the rest; for my uncle will no sooner be cured of his knight-errantry, than by reading these, he will turn shepherd, and wander about the groves and meadows, piping and singing. Nay, what is worse, perhaps turn poet, which they say is an infectious and incurable distemper.’—‘The young woman is in the right,’ said the curate; ’and therefore it won’t be amiss to remove this temptation and stumbling block out of our friend’s way. Since we have therefore begun with the Diana of Monte-major, I am of opinion that we should not burn him, but only expunge what relates to the sage Felicia, and the inchanted water, together with all the larger poems, and leave to him, a God’s name, all the prose, and the honour of being the ring-leader of the writers of that class.’
‘This that follows,’ said the barber, ‘is called Diana the Second of Salmantino, and this other that bears the same name, is written by Gil Polo.’—‘Let Salmantino,’ replied the curate, ‘increase the number of those that are already condemned to the yard; but let Gil Polo be preserved as carefully as if it was the production of Apollo himself. Proceed, friend Nicolas, and let us dispatch, for it grows late.’—‘This here book,’ said the barber, opening the next, ’is called the ten books of the Fortune of Love, the production of Antonio Lofrasco, a Sardinian poet.’—‘By my holy orders,’ cried the curate, ‘since Phœbus was Apollo, the Muses the daughters of Jove, and bards delighted in poetry, there never was such a pleasant and comical performance composed as this, which is the best and most original of the kind which ever saw the light; and he who has not read it may assure himself, that he has never read any thing of taste: reach it me, neighbour; it gives me more pleasure to have found this, than if I had received a cassock of Florence silk.’
Accordingly, he laid it carefully by with infinite pleasure, and the barber proceeded in his talk, saying; ‘Those that come next are the Shepherd of Iberia, the Nymphs of Henares, and the Undeceptions of Jealousy.’—‘Then there is no more to do,’ said the priest, ‘but to deliver them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper; and do not ask me why, else we shall never have done.’—‘Here comes the Shepherd of Filida.’—‘He is no shepherd,’ cried the curate, ‘but a very elegant courtier, and therefore preserve him as a precious jewel.’ Then the barber laid hold of a very large volume, which was entitled, The Treasure of Poetry. ‘If there was not so much of him, he would be more esteemed,’ said the licentiate, ‘that book ought to be weeded and cleared of certain meannesses, which have crept into the midst of its excellencies: take care of it, for the author is my friend, and deserves regard for some other more heroick and elevated works, which he has composed.’—’And this,’ continued the barber, ’is a Collection of Songs, by Lopez Maldonado.’—‘That author is my very good friend also,’ replied the curate; ’and his own verses out of his own mouth are the admiration of every body; for he chants them with so sweet a voice, that the hearers are inchanted. His eclogues are indeed a little diffuse, but there cannot be too much of a good thing. Let them be preserved among the elect: but, pray what book is that next to it?’ When the barber told him it was the Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes; ‘That same Cervantes,’ said he, ‘has been an intimate friend of mine these many years, and is to my certain knowledge more conversant with misfortunes than poetry. There is a good vein of invention in his book, which proposes something, though it concludes nothing. We must wait for the second part, which he promises, and then perhaps his amendment may deserve a full pardon, which is now denied: until that happens, let him be close confined in your closet.’
‘With all my heart,’ replied the barber; ‘but here come three more together, the Araucana of Don Alonzo de Ercilla, the Austriada of Juan Ruso Jurado de Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christoval de Virues, a Valentian poet.’—‘These three books,’ said the curate, ‘are the best epic poems in the Castilian language, and may be compared with the most renowned performances of Italy. Let them be kept as the inestimable pledges of Spanish poetry.’ The curate grew tired of examining more books, and would have condemned all the rest, contents unknown, if the barber had not already opened another, which was called the Tears of Angelica. ‘I should have shed tears for my rashness,’ said the curate, hearing the name, ‘if I had ordered that book to be burned: for its author was one of the most celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but of the whole world; and, in particular, extremely successful in translating some of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.’