He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of the room where the books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and right willingly she gave them. They all went in, the housekeeper with them, and found more than a hundred volumes of big books very well bound, and some other small ones. The moment the housekeeper saw them she turned about and ran out of the room, and came back immediately with a saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying, “Here, your worship, senor licentiate, sprinkle this room; don’t leave any magician of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in revenge for our design of banishing them from the world.”
The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, and he directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what they were about, as there might be some to be found among them that did not deserve the penalty of fire.
“No,” said the niece, “there is no reason for showing mercy to any of them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling them out of the window into the court and make a pile of them and set fire to them; or else carry them into the yard, and there a bonfire can be made without the smoke giving any annoyance.” The housekeeper said the same, so eager were they both for the slaughter of those innocents, but the curate would not agree to it without first reading at any rate the titles.
The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was “The four books of Amadis of Gaul.” “This seems a mysterious thing,” said the curate, “for, as I have heard say, this was the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, and from this all the others derive their birth and origin; so it seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it to the flames as the founder of so vile a sect.”
“Nay, sir,” said the barber, “I too, have heard say that this is the best of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so, as something singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned.”
“True,” said the curate; “and for that reason let its life be spared for the present. Let us see that other which is next to it.”
“It is,” said the barber, “the ‘Sergas de Esplandian,’ the lawful son of Amadis of Gaul.”
“Then verily,” said the curate, “the merit of the father must not be put down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper; open the window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of the pile for the bonfire we are to make.”
The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the worthy “Esplandian” went flying into the yard to await with all patience the fire that was in store for him.
“Proceed,” said the curate.
“This that comes next,” said the barber, “is ‘Amadis of Greece,’ and, indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis lineage.”
“Then to the yard with the whole of them,” said the curate; “for to have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel and his eclogues, and the bedevilled and involved discourses of his author, I would burn with them the father who begot me if he were going about in the guise of a knight-errant.”
“I am of the same mind,” said the barber.
“And so am I,” added the niece.
“In that case,” said the housekeeper, “here, into the yard with them!”
They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she spared herself the staircase, and flung them down out of the window.
“Who is that tub there?” said the curate.
“This,” said the barber, “is ‘Don Olivante de Laura.’”
“The author of that book,” said the curate, “was the same that wrote ‘The Garden of Flowers,’ and truly there is no deciding which of the two books is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less lying; all I can say is, send this one into the yard for a swaggering fool.”
“This that follows is ‘Florismarte of Hircania,’” said the barber.
“Senor Florismarte here?” said the curate; “then by my faith he must take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style deserve nothing else; into the yard with him and the other, mistress housekeeper.”
“With all my heart, senor,” said she, and executed the order with great delight.
“This,” said the barber, “is The Knight Platir.’”
“An old book that,” said the curate, “but I find no reason for clemency in it; send it after the others without appeal;” which was done.
Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, “The Knight of the Cross.”
“For the sake of the holy name this book has,” said the curate, “its ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, ‘behind the cross there’s the devil; to the fire with it.”
Taking down another book, the barber said, “This is ‘The Mirror of Chivalry.’”
“I know his worship,” said the curate; “that is where Senor Reinaldos of Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades, greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France with the veracious historian Turpin; however, I am not for condemning them to more than perpetual banishment, because, at any rate, they have some share in the invention of the famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his web, to whom, if I find him here, and speaking any language but his own, I shall show no respect whatever; but if he speaks his own tongue I will put him upon my head.”
“Well, I have him in Italian,” said the barber, “but I do not understand him.”
“Nor would it be well that you should understand him,” said the curate, “and on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had not brought him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed him of a great deal of his natural force, and so do all those who try to turn books written in verse into another language, for, with all the pains they take and all the cleverness they show, they never can reach the level of the originals as they were first produced. In short, I say that this book, and all that may be found treating of those French affairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry well, until after more consideration it is settled what is to be done with them; excepting always one ‘Bernardo del Carpio’ that is going about, and another called ‘Roncesvalles;’ for these, if they come into my hands, shall pass at once into those of the housekeeper, and from hers into the fire without any reprieve.”
To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as right and proper, being persuaded that the curate was so staunch to the Faith and loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say anything opposed to them. Opening another book he saw it was “Palmerin de Oliva,” and beside it was another called “Palmerin of England,” seeing which the licentiate said, “Let the Olive be made firewood of at once and burned until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm of England be kept and preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let such another case be made for it as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius and set aside for the safe keeping of the works of the poet Homer. This book, gossip, is of authority for two reasons, first because it is very good, and secondly because it is said to have been written by a wise and witty king of Portugal. All the adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent and of admirable contrivance, and the language is polished and clear, studying and observing the style befitting the speaker with propriety and judgment. So then, provided it seems good to you, Master Nicholas, I say let this and ‘Amadis of Gaul’ be remitted the penalty of fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without further question or query.”
“Nay, gossip,” said the barber, “for this that I have here is the famous ‘Don Belianis.’”
“Well,” said the curate, “that and the second, third, and fourth parts all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of bile, and they must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of Fame and other greater affectations, to which end let them be allowed the over-seas term, and, according as they mend, so shall mercy or justice be meted out to them; and in the mean time, gossip, do you keep them in your house and let no one read them.”
“With all my heart,” said the barber; and not caring to tire himself with reading more books of chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take all the big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to one dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than weaving the broadest and finest web that could be; and seizing about eight at a time, she flung them out of the window.
In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found it said, “History of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco.”
“God bless me!” said the curate with a shout, “‘Tirante el Blanco’ here! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of Montalvan, a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and the knight Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with the mastiff, and the witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and the loves and wiles of the widow Reposada, and the empress in love with the squire Hipolito — in truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the best book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds, and make their wills before dying, and a great deal more of which there is nothing in all the other books. Nevertheless, I say he who wrote it, for deliberately composing such fooleries, deserves to be sent to the galleys for life. Take it home with you and read it, and you will see that what I have said is true.”
“As you will,” said the barber; “but what are we to do with these little books that are left?”
“These must be, not chivalry, but poetry,” said the curate; and opening one he saw it was the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor, and, supposing all the others to be of the same sort, “these,” he said, “do not deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor can do the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of entertainment that can hurt no one.”
“Ah, senor!” said the niece, “your worship had better order these to be burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after being cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took a fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and piping; or, what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is an incurable and infectious malady.”
“The damsel is right,” said the curate, “and it will be well to put this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend’s way. To begin, then, with the ‘Diana’ of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should not be burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the sage Felicia and the magic water, and of almost all the longer pieces of verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of being the first of books of the kind.”
“This that comes next,” said the barber, “is the ‘Diana,’ entitled the ‘Second Part, by the Salamancan,’ and this other has the same title, and its author is Gil Polo.”
“As for that of the Salamancan,” replied the curate, “let it go to swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo’s be preserved as if it came from Apollo himself: but get on, gossip, and make haste, for it is growing late.”
“This book,” said the barber, opening another, “is the ten books of the ‘Fortune of Love,’ written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian poet.”
“By the orders I have received,” said the curate, “since Apollo has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been poets, so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written, and in its way it is the best and the most singular of all of this species that have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be sure he has never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I make more account of having found it than if they had given me a cassock of Florence stuff.”
He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber went on, “These that come next are ‘The Shepherd of Iberia,’ ‘Nymphs of Henares,’ and ‘The Enlightenment of Jealousy.’”
“Then all we have to do,” said the curate, “is to hand them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall never have done.”
“This next is the ‘Pastor de Filida.’”
“No Pastor that,” said the curate, “but a highly polished courtier; let it be preserved as a precious jewel.”
“This large one here,” said the barber, “is called ‘The Treasury of various Poems.’”
“If there were not so many of them,” said the curate, “they would be more relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain vulgarities which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved because the author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other more heroic and loftier works that he has written.”
“This,” continued the barber, “is the ‘Cancionero’ of Lopez de Maldonado.”
“The author of that book, too,” said the curate, “is a great friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration of all who hear them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he enchants when he chants them: it gives rather too much of its eclogues, but what is good was never yet plentiful: let it be kept with those that have been set apart. But what book is that next it?”
“The ‘Galatea’ of Miguel de Cervantes,” said the barber.
“That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine, and to my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in verses. His book has some good invention in it, it presents us with something but brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the Second Part it promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in winning the full measure of grace that is now denied it; and in the mean time do you, senor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters.”
“Very good,” said the barber; “and here come three together, the ‘Araucana’ of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the ‘Austriada’ of Juan Rufo, Justice of Cordova, and the ‘Montserrate’ of Christobal de Virues, the Valencian poet.”
“These three books,” said the curate, “are the best that have been written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may compare with the most famous of Italy; let them be preserved as the richest treasures of poetry that Spain possesses.”
The curate was tired and would not look into any more books, and so he decided that, “contents uncertified,” all the rest should be burned; but just then the barber held open one, called “The Tears of Angelica.”
“I should have shed tears myself,” said the curate when he heard the title, “had I ordered that book to be burned, for its author was one of the famous poets of the world, not to say of Spain, and was very happy in the translation of some of Ovid’s fables.”
书房里进行了别有风趣的大检查
唐吉诃德还在睡觉。神甫向唐吉诃德的外甥女要那个存放着罪孽书籍的房间的钥匙，他的外甥女欣然拿出了钥匙。大家进了房间，女管家也跟着进去了。他们看到有一百多册装帧精美的大书和一些小书。看到这些书，女管家赶紧跑出房间，然后拿回一碗圣水和一把刷子，说：
“拿着，神甫大人，请你把圣水洒在这个房间里，别留下这些书中的任何一个魔鬼，它会让我们中邪的。我们对它们的惩罚就是把它们清除出人世。”
女管家考虑得如此简单，神甫不禁笑了，他让理发师把那些书一本一本地递给他，看看都是什么书，也许有些书不必处以火刑。
“不，”外甥女说，“一本都不要宽恕，都是害人的书。”最好把它们都从窗户扔到院子里，做一堆烧掉。要不然就把它们弄到畜栏去，在那儿烧，免得烟呛人。”
女管家也这么说，兴许，让那些无辜者去死是她们的共同愿望。不过神甫不同意，他起码要先看看那些书的名字。理发师递到他手里的第一本书是《高卢的阿马迪斯四卷集》。神甫说：
“简直不可思议，据我所知，这本书是在西班牙印刷的第一部骑士小说，其他小说都是步它的后尘。我觉得，对这样一部传播如此恶毒的宗派教义的书，我们应该火烧无赦。”
“不，大人，”理发师说，“据我所知，此类书中，数这本写得最好。它在艺术上无与伦比，应该赦免。”
“说得对，”神甫说，“所以现在先放它一条生路。咱们再来看旁边的那一本吧。”
理发师说：“这本是《埃斯普兰迪安的功绩》，此人是高卢的阿马迪斯的嫡亲儿子。”
“实际上，”神甫说，“父亲的功绩无助于儿子。拿着，管家夫人，打开窗户，把它扔到畜栏去。咱们要烧一堆书呢，就用它垫底吧。”
女管家非常高兴地把书扔了，《埃斯普兰迪安的功绩》被扔进了畜栏，耐心地等候烈火焚身。
“下一部。”神甫说。
“这本是《希腊的阿马迪斯》。”理发师说，“我觉得这边的书都是阿马迪斯家族的。”
“那就都扔到畜栏去。”神甫说，“什么平蒂基内斯特拉女王、达里内尔牧人以及他的牧歌，还有作者的种种丑恶悖谬，统统烧掉。即便是养育了我的父亲打扮成游侠骑士的模样，也要连同这些东西一起烧掉。”
“我也这样认为。”理发师说。
“我也是。”外甥女说。
“是这样，”女管家说，“来吧，让它们都到畜栏去。”
大家都往外搬书，书很多，女管家干脆不用楼梯了，直接把书从窗口扔下去。
“那本大家伙是什么？”神甫问。
理发师回答说：“是《劳拉的唐奥利万》。”
“这本书的作者就是写《芳菲园》的那个人。我也不知道这两本书里究竟哪一本真话多，或者最好说，哪一本书说假话少。我只知道这本胡言乱语、目空一切的书也应该扔到畜栏去。”
“下一本是《伊尔卡尼亚的弗洛里斯马尔特》。”理发师说。
“怎么，还有弗洛里斯马尔特大人？”神甫说，“虽然他身世诡怪，经历奇特，可是文笔生硬枯涩。把它和另外那本书都扔到畜栏去，管家夫人。”
“很荣幸，我的大人。”女管家高高兴兴地去执行委派给她的事情。
“这本是《普拉蒂尔骑士》。”理发师说。
“那是本古书，”神甫说，“我没发现它有什么可以获得宽恕的内容。别费话，也一起扔出去。”
然后，神甫又打开一本书，书名叫《十字架骑士》。
“此书名字神圣，可以宽恕它的无知。不过常言道：‘十字架后有魔鬼。’烧了它！”
理发师又拿起另一本书，说：
“这是《骑士宝鉴》。”
“我知道这部大作，”神甫说，“写的是雷纳尔多斯·德蒙塔尔万和他的伙伴，个个比卡科还能偷。还有十二廷臣和真正的历史学家图尔平。说实话，我准备判它个终身流放，因为他们一部分是著名的马泰奥·博亚尔多的杜撰，接着又由基督教诗人卢多维科·阿里奥斯托来添枝加叶。如果我在这儿碰到他，他竟对我讲他母语之外的其他语言，我就对他不客气；他要是讲自己的语言，我就把他奉若上宾。”
“我倒有本意大利文的，”理发师，“不过我看不懂。”
“你不懂更好，”神甫说，“这回咱们就宽恕卡皮坦先生吧，他并没有把这本书带到西班牙来，翻成西班牙文。那会失掉作品很多原意，所有想翻译诗的人都如此。尽管他们小心备至，技巧娴熟，也绝不可能达到原文的水平。依我说，实际上，把这本书和你们找到的其他谈论法兰西这类事情的书，都扔到枯井里存着，待商量好怎样处理再说。不过，那本《贝纳尔多·德尔卡皮奥》和另一本叫《龙塞斯巴列斯》的例外。只要这两本书到了我手里，就得交给女管家，再扔到火里，绝不放过。”
理发师觉得这样做很对，完全正确，觉得神甫是一位善良的基督教徒，热爱真理，对世上之事绝不乱说，所以他完全赞同。再翻开一本书，是《奥利瓦的帕尔梅林》，旁边还有一本《英格兰的帕尔梅林》。神甫看到书便说：
“把那本《奥利瓦》撕碎烧掉，连灰烬也别剩。那本《英格兰》留下，当作稀世珍宝保存起来，再给它做个盒子，就像亚历山大从大流士①那儿缴获的战利品盒子一样。亚历山大用那个盒子装诗人荷马的著作。这部书，老兄，以两点见长。其一是本身写得非常好，其二是作者身为葡萄牙的一位思维敏捷的国王，所以颇有影响。米拉瓜尔达城堡里的种种惊险，精彩至极，引人入胜。这部书的语言文雅明快，贴切易懂，非常得体。所以我说，尼古拉斯师傅，这部书和《高卢的阿马迪斯》应该免遭火焚，其他书就不必再审看了，统统烧掉，您看怎样？”
①大流士是波斯帝国阿契美尼德王朝的国王。
“不行，老兄，”理发师说，“我这本是名著《唐贝利亚尼斯》。”
神甫持异议：“对第二、三、四部需要加点大黄，去去它的旺肝火。所有关于法马城堡的内容和其他严重的不实之处也得去掉，再补以外来语。修改之后，再视情况决定是宽恕还是审判它。现在，老兄，你先把它放在你家，不过别让任何人阅读它。”
“我愿意。”理发师说。他不想再劳神看那些骑士小说了，就吩咐女管家把所有大本书都敛起来，扔到畜栏去。
女管家不傻也不聋，而且她烧书之心胜于织布之心，不管那是多宽多薄的布。听了理发师的话，她一下子抓起八本书，从窗口扔出去。因为拿得太多，有一本掉在理发师脚旁。理发师想看看是谁写的书，一看原来是《著名白人骑士蒂兰特传》。
“上帝保佑！”神甫大喊一声，说道，“白人骑士蒂兰特竟在这里！递给我，老兄，我似乎在这本书里找到了欢乐的宝库，娱乐的源泉。这里有勇敢的骑士基列莱松·德蒙塔尔万和他的兄弟托马斯·德蒙塔尔万以及丰塞卡骑士，有同疯狗战斗的英雄蒂兰特，有刻薄的少女普拉塞尔·德米比达，谈情说爱、招摇撞骗的寡妇雷波萨达，还有爱上了侍从伊波利托的女皇。说句实话，老兄，论文笔，它堪称世界最佳。书里的骑士也吃饭，睡在床上，死在床上，临死前也立遗嘱，还有其他事情。这些都是其他此类书所缺少的。尽管如此，作者故意编造这些乱七八糟的故事，还是应该罚他终生做划船苦役。你把它拿回家去看看，就知道我对你说的这些都是千真万确的了。”
“是这样，”理发师说，“不过，剩下的这些小书怎么办呢？”
神甫说：“这些书不会是骑士小说，大概是诗集。”说着他打开一本，是豪尔赫·德蒙特马约尔的《迪亚娜》，就说恐怕其他的也都是这类书。
“这些书不必像其他书那样都烧掉，它不像骑士小说那样害人或者将要害人，都是些供消遣的书，不会坑害其他人。”
外甥女说：“哦，大人，您完全可以下令像对其他书一样把这些书都烧掉。否则过不了多久，我舅舅洽好骑士病后，读这些书，又会心血来潮地想当牧人，游历森林和草原，边唱边伴奏，或者更糟糕，想当诗人，那病就没法治了，而且还传染呢。”
“小姐说得对，”神甫说，“最好提前解除这种不幸和危险。咱们就先从蒙特马约尔的《迪亚娜》下手吧。我觉得书可以不烧，不过，所有关于仙姑费丽西亚和魔水的内容以及大部分长诗都得删掉，适当保留散文，这样它仍然不失为此类小说中的一流作品。”
“接着这本又是《迪丽娜》，题为《萨拉曼卡人续集》，”理发师说，“另一本也叫《迪亚娜》，作者是吉尔·波罗。”
“萨拉曼卡人的那本，让它跟着那些该扔到畜栏去的书一起去充数吧。”神甫说，“吉尔·波罗的那本要当作阿波罗的作品保存起来。咱们得快点，老兄，时间不早了。”
“这本书，”理发师说着打开了另一本书，“是撒丁岛人安东尼奥·德洛弗拉索写的《爱运女神十书》。”
“我凭我的教职发誓，”神甫说，“自从有了阿波罗、缪斯和诗人以来，从没有任何著作像这部书这样既有趣又荒诞。由此说来，它也是所有这类书中最优秀绝世之作。没读过这部书，就等于没有读过任何有趣的东西。给我吧，老兄，这比给我一件佛罗伦萨呢绒教士服还珍贵呢。”
神甫极其高兴地把书放在一旁。理发师又继续说道：“后面这几本是《伊比利亚牧人》、《草地仙女》和《情嫉醒悟》。”
神甫说：“没别的，把它们都交给女管家。别问我为什么，否则就说个没完了。”
“下面这本是《菲利达牧人》。”
“那不是收人，”神甫说，“而是个谨小慎微的大臣。把它当成珍品收藏起来。”
“这部大书名为《诗库举要》。”理发师说。
神甫说：“诗不多，所以很珍贵，不过要从这部书的精华里剔除糟粕。这个作者是我的朋友。看在他还写过一些如史诗一般高尚的著作份上，就把这本书留下吧。”
“这本是《洛佩斯·马尔多纳多诗歌集》。”理发师接着说。
“这本书的作者也是我的好朋友。他的诗一经他口，就倾倒听者。他朗诵的声调十分和婉，很迷人。就是田园诗长了些，不过好东西不怕长。把它和挑出来的那儿本放在一起。旁边那本是什么？”
“是米格尔·德·塞万提斯的《加拉特亚》。”理发师说。
“这个塞万提斯是我多年的至交。我知道他最有体会的不是诗，而是不幸。他的书有所创新，有所启示，却不做结论。不过，得等等第二部，他说过要续写的。也许修改以后，现在反对他的那些人能够谅解他。现在，你先把这本书锁在你家。”
“我很高兴，老兄。”理发师说，“这儿有三本放在一起了。它们是唐阿隆索·德阿尔西利亚的《阿拉乌加人》、科尔多瓦的陪审员胡安·鲁福的《澳大科亚人》和巴伦西亚诗人克里斯托瓦尔·德比鲁埃斯的《蒙塞拉特》。”
“这三本书，”神甫说，“是西班牙语里最优秀的史诗，可以同意大利最著名的史诗媲美，把它作为西班牙诗歌最珍贵的诗歌遗产保存起来。”
神甫已没心思再看其它书，想把剩下的所有书都烧掉。可这时理发师又打开了一本，是《天使的眼泪》。
“如果把这本书烧了，我倒要流眼泪呢。”神甫说，“这个作者是西班牙乃至全世界最著名的诗人之一。他曾翻译过奥维德的几个神话故事，译得非常通顺。”