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Cide Hamete goes on to say that this marvelous device lasted ten or twelve days, but word spread throughout the city that Don Antonio had an enchanted head in his house that would answer every question asked of it, and fearing that the rumors would reach the ears of the alert guardians of our Faith, he informed the inquisitors of the matter and was ordered to dismantle it and not to use it in the future lest it cause turmoil among the ignorant common people; but in the opinion of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the head was still enchanted and responsive, more to the satisfaction of Don Quixote than of Sancho.

The gentlemen of the city, in order to please Don Antonio and to entertain Don Quixote and give him the opportunity to reveal his madness, arranged to hold a tilting of the ring in six days’ time, but it did not take place because of an accident that will be recounted later. Don Quixote wanted to go out into the city in a simple manner, and on foot, fearing that if he went on horseback, he would be pursued by boys, and so he and Sancho, and two servants offered to him by Don Antonio, went out for a walk.

As he was going down a street, Don Quixote happened to look up, and over a door he saw written, in very large letters: Books Printed Here,5 which made him very happy because he had never visited a print shop, and he wished to know what it was like. He went in with his entourage, and he saw them printing in one place, correcting in another, typesetting here, revising there, in short, all of the procedures that can be seen in large printing houses. Don Quixote approached one section and asked what they were doing there; the workmen told him, he marveled, and moved on. He went up to another workman and asked him what he was doing. He responded:

“Señor, this gentleman here”—and he pointed to a rather serious man of fine appearance and figure—“has translated a Tuscan book into our Castilian language, and I’m setting the type so that it can be printed.”

“What is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote.

To which the translator replied:

“Señor, in Tuscan the book is called Le Bagatele.”6

“And what does le bagatele mean in our Castilian?” asked Don Quixote.

“Le bagatele,” said the translator, “would be like our saying the playthings, and though this book has a humble name, it contains and includes very good and substantive things.”

“I,” said Don Quixote, “know a little Tuscan, and take pride in singing some stanzas by Ariosto. But tell me, Señor—and I do not say this because I wish to test your grace’s abilities but simply out of curiosity—in your translating, has your grace ever come across the word pignata?”

“Yes, many times,” responded the translator.

“And how does your grace translate it into Castilian?” asked Don Quixote.

“How would I translate it,” replied the translator, “except by saying stew pot?”

“By God,” said Don Quixote, “how well your grace knows the Tuscan language! I would wager a good sum that where the Tuscan says piace, your grace says please in Castilian, and where it says piu, you say more, and su you render as above, and giu as below.”

“Yes, I do, certainly,” said the translator, “because those are the corresponding words.”

“And I shall be so bold as to swear,” said Don Quixote, “that your grace is not well-known in the world, which is always unwilling to reward rare talents and praiseworthy efforts. What abilities are lost there! What talents ignored! What virtues scorned! But despite all this, it seems to me that translating from one language to another, unless it is from Greek and Latin, the queens of all languages, is like looking at Flemish tapestries from the wrong side, for although the figures are visible, they are covered by threads that obscure them, and cannot be seen with the smoothness and color of the right side; translating easy languages does not argue for either talent or eloquence, just as transcribing or copying from one paper to another does not argue