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VOLUME[ PART 2  ]  

CHAPTER[ XXIII. OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE

PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH

CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL

It was about four in the afternoon when the sun, veiled in clouds, with

subdued light and tempered beams, enabled Don Quixote to relate, without

heat or inconvenience, what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos to his

two illustrious hearers, and he began as follows:

"A matter of some twelve or fourteen times a man's height down in this

pit, on the right-hand side, there is a recess or space, roomy enough to

contain a large cart with its mules. A little light reaches it through

some chinks or crevices, communicating with it and open to the surface of

the earth. This recess or space I perceived when I was already growing

weary and disgusted at finding myself hanging suspended by the rope,

travelling downwards into that dark region without any certainty or

knowledge of where I was going, so I resolved to enter it and rest myself

for a while. I called out, telling you not to let out more rope until I

bade you, but you cannot have heard me. I then gathered in the rope you

were sending me, and making a coil or pile of it I seated myself upon it,

ruminating and considering what I was to do to lower myself to the

bottom, having no one to hold me up; and as I was thus deep in thought

and perplexity, suddenly and without provocation a profound sleep fell

upon me, and when I least expected it, I know not how, I awoke and found

myself in the midst of the most beautiful, delightful meadow that nature

could produce or the most lively human imagination conceive. I opened my

eyes, I rubbed them, and found I was not asleep but thoroughly awake.

Nevertheless, I felt my head and breast to satisfy myself whether it was

I myself who was there or some empty delusive phantom; but touch,

feeling, the collected thoughts that passed through my mind, all

convinced me that I was the same then and there that I am this moment.

Next there presented itself to my sight a stately royal palace or castle,

with walls that seemed built of clear transparent crystal; and through

two great doors that opened wide therein, I saw coming forth and

advancing towards me a venerable old man, clad in a long gown of

mulberry-coloured serge that trailed upon the ground. On his shoulders

and breast he had a green satin collegiate hood, and covering his head a

black Milanese bonnet, and his snow-white beard fell below his girdle. He

carried no arms whatever, nothing but a rosary of beads bigger than

fair-sized filberts, each tenth bead being like a moderate ostrich egg;

his bearing, his gait, his dignity and imposing presence held me

spellbound and wondering. He approached me, and the first thing he did

was to embrace me closely, and then he said to me, 'For a long time now,

O valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, we who are here enchanted in

these solitudes have been hoping to see thee, that thou mayest make known

to the world what is shut up and concealed in this deep cave, called the

cave of Montesinos, which thou hast entered, an achievement reserved for

thy invincible heart and stupendous courage alone to attempt. Come with

me, illustrious sir, and I will show thee the marvels hidden within this

transparent castle, whereof I am the alcaide and perpetual warden; for I

am Montesinos himself, from whom the cave takes its name.'

"The instant he told me he was Montesinos, I asked him if the story they

told in the world above here was true, that he had taken out the heart of

his great friend Durandarte from his breast with a little dagger, and

carried it to the lady Belerma, as his friend when at the point of death

had commanded him. He said in reply that they spoke the truth in every

respect except as to the dagger, for it was not a dagger, nor little, but

a burnished poniard sharper than an awl."

"That poniard must have been made by Ramon de Hoces the Sevillian," said

Sancho.

"I do not know," said Don Quixote; "it could not have been by that

poniard maker, however, because Ramon de Hoces was a man of yesterday,

and the affair of Roncesvalles, where this mishap occurred, was long ago;

but the question is of no great importance, nor does it affect or make

any alteration in the truth or substance of the story."

"That is true," said the cousin; "continue, Senor Don Quixote, for I am

listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the world."

"And with no less do I tell the tale," said Don Quixote; "and so, to

proceed--the venerable Montesinos led me into the palace of crystal,

where, in a lower chamber, strangely cool and entirely of alabaster, was

an elaborately wrought marble tomb, upon which I beheld, stretched at

full length, a knight, not of bronze, or marble, or jasper, as are seen

on other tombs, but of actual flesh and bone. His right hand (which

seemed to me somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign of great strength in its

owner) lay on the side of his heart; but before I could put any question

to Montesinos, he, seeing me gazing at the tomb in amazement, said to me,

'This is my friend Durandarte, flower and mirror of the true lovers and

valiant knights of his time. He is held enchanted here, as I myself and

many others are, by that French enchanter Merlin, who, they say, was the

devil's son; but my belief is, not that he was the devil's son, but that

he knew, as the saying is, a point more than the devil. How or why he

enchanted us, no one knows, but time will tell, and I suspect that time

is not far off. What I marvel at is, that I know it to be as sure as that

it is now day, that Durandarte ended his life in my arms, and that, after

his death, I took out his heart with my own hands; and indeed it must

have weighed more than two pounds, for, according to naturalists, he who

has a large heart is more largely endowed with valour than he who has a

small one. Then, as this is the case, and as the knight did really die,

how comes it that he now moans and sighs from time to time, as if he were

still alive?'

"As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud voice:

O cousin Montesinos!

  'T was my last request of thee,

When my soul hath left the body,

  And that lying dead I be,

With thy poniard or thy dagger

  Cut the heart from out my breast,

And bear it to Belerma.

  This was my last request."

On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before the

unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, 'Long since, Senor

Durandarte, my beloved cousin, long since have I done what you bade me on

that sad day when I lost you; I took out your heart as well as I could,

not leaving an atom of it in your breast, I wiped it with a lace

handkerchief, and I took the road to France with it, having first laid

you in the bosom of the earth with tears enough to wash and cleanse my

hands of the blood that covered them after wandering among your bowels;

and more by token, O cousin of my soul, at the first village I came to

after leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled a little salt upon your heart to

keep it sweet, and bring it, if not fresh, at least pickled, into the

presence of the lady Belerma, whom, together with you, myself, Guadiana

your squire, the duenna Ruidera and her seven daughters and two nieces,

and many more of your friends and acquaintances, the sage Merlin has been

keeping enchanted here these many years; and although more than five

hundred have gone by, not one of us has died; Ruidera and her daughters

and nieces alone are missing, and these, because of the tears they shed,

Merlin, out of the compassion he seems to have felt for them, changed

into so many lakes, which to this day in the world of the living, and in

the province of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of Ruidera. The seven

daughters belong to the kings of Spain and the two nieces to the knights

of a very holy order called the Order of St. John. Guadiana your squire,

likewise bewailing your fate, was changed into a river of his own name,

but when he came to the surface and beheld the sun of another heaven, so

great was his grief at finding he was leaving you, that he plunged into

the bowels of the earth; however, as he cannot help following his natural

course, he from time to time comes forth and shows himself to the sun and

the world. The lakes aforesaid send him their waters, and with these, and

others that come to him, he makes a grand and imposing entrance into

Portugal; but for all that, go where he may, he shows his melancholy and

sadness, and takes no pride in breeding dainty choice fish, only coarse

and tasteless sorts, very different from those of the golden Tagus. All

this that I tell you now, O cousin mine, I have told you many times

before, and as you make no answer, I fear that either you believe me not,

or do not hear me, whereat I feel God knows what grief. I have now news

to give you, which, if it serves not to alleviate your sufferings, will

not in any wise increase them. Know that you have here before you (open

your eyes and you will see) that great knight of whom the sage Merlin has

prophesied such great things; that Don Quixote of La Mancha I mean, who

has again, and to better purpose than in past times, revived in these

days knight-errantry, long since forgotten, and by whose intervention and

aid it may be we shall be disenchanted; for great deeds are reserved for

great men.'

"'And if that may not be,' said the wretched Durandarte in a low and

feeble voice, 'if that may not be, then, my cousin, I say "patience and

shuffle;"' and turning over on his side, he relapsed into his former

silence without uttering another word.

"And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, accompanied by

deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, and through the crystal wall

I saw passing through another chamber a procession of two lines of fair

damsels all clad in mourning, and with white turbans of Turkish fashion

on their heads. Behind, in the rear of these, there came a lady, for so

from her dignity she seemed to be, also clad in black, with a white veil

so long and ample that it swept the ground. Her turban was twice as large

as the largest of any of the others; her eyebrows met, her nose was

rather flat, her mouth was large but with ruddy lips, and her teeth, of

which at times she allowed a glimpse, were seen to be sparse and ill-set,

though as white as peeled almonds. She carried in her hands a fine cloth,

and in it, as well as I could make out, a heart that had been mummied, so

parched and dried was it. Montesinos told me that all those forming the

procession were the attendants of Durandarte and Belerma, who were

enchanted there with their master and mistress, and that the last, she

who carried the heart in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her

damsels, four days in the week went in procession singing, or rather

weeping, dirges over the body and miserable heart of his cousin; and that

if she appeared to me somewhat ill-favoured or not so beautiful as fame

reported her, it was because of the bad nights and worse days that she

passed in that enchantment, as I could see by the great dark circles

round her eyes, and her sickly complexion; 'her sallowness, and the rings

round her eyes,' said he, 'are not caused by the periodical ailment usual

with women, for it is many months and even years since she has had any,

but by the grief her own heart suffers because of that which she holds in

her hand perpetually, and which recalls and brings back to her memory the

sad fate of her lost lover; were it not for this, hardly would the great

Dulcinea del Toboso, so celebrated in all these parts, and even in the

world, come up to her for beauty, grace, and gaiety.'

"'Hold hard!' said I at this, 'tell your story as you ought, Senor Don

Montesinos, for you know very well that all comparisons are odious, and

there is no occasion to compare one person with another; the peerless

Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the lady Dona Belerma is what she

is and has been, and that's enough.' To which he made answer, 'Forgive

me, Senor Don Quixote; I own I was wrong and spoke unadvisedly in saying

that the lady Dulcinea could scarcely come up to the lady Belerma; for it

were enough for me to have learned, by what means I know not, that you

are her knight, to make me bite my tongue out before I compared her to

anything save heaven itself.' After this apology which the great

Montesinos made me, my heart recovered itself from the shock I had

received in hearing my lady compared with Belerma."

"Still I wonder," said Sancho, "that your worship did not get upon the

old fellow and bruise every bone of him with kicks, and pluck his beard

until you didn't leave a hair in it."

"Nay, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "it would not have been right

in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay respect to the aged, even

though they be not knights, but especially to those who are, and who are

enchanted; I only know I gave him as good as he brought in the many other

questions and answers we exchanged."

"I cannot understand, Senor Don Quixote," remarked the cousin here, "how

it is that your worship, in such a short space of time as you have been

below there, could have seen so many things, and said and answered so

much."

"How long is it since I went down?" asked Don Quixote.

"Little better than an hour," replied Sancho.

"That cannot be," returned Don Quixote, "because night overtook me while

I was there, and day came, and it was night again and day again three

times; so that, by my reckoning, I have been three days in those remote

regions beyond our ken."

"My master must be right," replied Sancho; "for as everything that has

happened to him is by enchantment, maybe what seems to us an hour would

seem three days and nights there."

"That's it," said Don Quixote.

"And did your worship eat anything all that time, senor?" asked the

cousin.

"I never touched a morsel," answered Don Quixote, "nor did I feel hunger,

or think of it."

"And do the enchanted eat?" said the cousin.

"They neither eat," said Don Quixote; "nor are they subject to the

greater excrements, though it is thought that their nails, beards, and

hair grow."

"And do the enchanted sleep, now, senor?" asked Sancho.

"Certainly not," replied Don Quixote; "at least, during those three days

I was with them not one of them closed an eye, nor did I either."

"The proverb, 'Tell me what company thou keepest and I'll tell thee what

thou art,' is to the point here," said Sancho; "your worship keeps

company with enchanted people that are always fasting and watching; what

wonder is it, then, that you neither eat nor sleep while you are with

them? But forgive me, senor, if I say that of all this you have told us

now, may God take me--I was just going to say the devil--if I believe a

single particle."

"What!" said the cousin, "has Senor Don Quixote, then, been lying? Why,

even if he wished it he has not had time to imagine and put together such

a host of lies."

"I don't believe my master lies," said Sancho.

"If not, what dost thou believe?" asked Don Quixote.

"I believe," replied Sancho, "that this Merlin, or those enchanters who

enchanted the whole crew your worship says you saw and discoursed with

down there, stuffed your imagination or your mind with all this rigmarole

you have been treating us to, and all that is still to come."

"All that might be, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "but it is not so, for

everything that I have told you I saw with my own eyes, and touched with

my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you now how, among the

countless other marvellous things Montesinos showed me (of which at

leisure and at the proper time I will give thee an account in the course

of our journey, for they would not be all in place here), he showed me

three country girls who went skipping and capering like goats over the

pleasant fields there, and the instant I beheld them I knew one to be the

peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, and the other two those same country girls

that were with her and that we spoke to on the road from El Toboso! I

asked Montesinos if he knew them, and he told me he did not, but he

thought they must be some enchanted ladies of distinction, for it was

only a few days before that they had made their appearance in those

meadows; but I was not to be surprised at that, because there were a

great many other ladies there of times past and present, enchanted in

various strange shapes, and among them he had recognised Queen Guinevere

and her dame Quintanona, she who poured out the wine for Lancelot when he

came from Britain."

When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready to take leave of

his senses, or die with laughter; for, as he knew the real truth about

the pretended enchantment of Dulcinea, in which he himself had been the

enchanter and concocter of all the evidence, he made up his mind at last

that, beyond all doubt, his master was out of his wits and stark mad, so

he said to him, "It was an evil hour, a worse season, and a sorrowful

day, when your worship, dear master mine, went down to the other world,

and an unlucky moment when you met with Senor Montesinos, who has sent

you back to us like this. You were well enough here above in your full

senses, such as God had given you, delivering maxims and giving advice at

every turn, and not as you are now, talking the greatest nonsense that

can be imagined."

"As I know thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I heed not thy words."

"Nor I your worship's," said Sancho, "whether you beat me or kill me for

those I have spoken, and will speak if you don't correct and mend your

own. But tell me, while we are still at peace, how or by what did you

recognise the lady our mistress; and if you spoke to her, what did you

say, and what did she answer?"

"I recognised her," said Don Quixote, "by her wearing the same garments

she wore when thou didst point her out to me. I spoke to her, but she did

not utter a word in reply; on the contrary, she turned her back on me and

took to flight, at such a pace that crossbow bolt could not have

overtaken her. I wished to follow her, and would have done so had not

Montesinos recommended me not to take the trouble as it would be useless,

particularly as the time was drawing near when it would be necessary for

me to quit the cavern. He told me, moreover, that in course of time he

would let me know how he and Belerma, and Durandarte, and all who were

there, were to be disenchanted. But of all I saw and observed down there,

what gave me most pain was, that while Montesinos was speaking to me, one

of the two companions of the hapless Dulcinea approached me on one

without my having seen her coming, and with tears in her eyes said to me,

in a low, agitated voice, 'My lady Dulcinea del Toboso kisses your

worship's hands, and entreats you to do her the favour of letting her

know how you are; and, being in great need, she also entreats your

worship as earnestly as she can to be so good as to lend her half a dozen

reals, or as much as you may have about you, on this new dimity petticoat

that I have here; and she promises to repay them very speedily.' I was

amazed and taken aback by such a message, and turning to Senor Montesinos

I asked him, 'Is it possible, Senor Montesinos, that persons of

distinction under enchantment can be in need?' To which he replied,

'Believe me, Senor Don Quixote, that which is called need is to be met

with everywhere, and penetrates all quarters and reaches everyone, and

does not spare even the enchanted; and as the lady Dulcinea del Toboso

sends to beg those six reals, and the pledge is to all appearance a good

one, there is nothing for it but to give them to her, for no doubt she

must be in some great strait.' 'I will take no pledge of her,' I replied,

'nor yet can I give her what she asks, for all I have is four reals;

which I gave (they were those which thou, Sancho, gavest me the other day

to bestow in alms upon the poor I met along the road), and I said, 'Tell

your mistress, my dear, that I am grieved to the heart because of her

distresses, and wish I was a Fucar to remedy them, and that I would have

her know that I cannot be, and ought not be, in health while deprived of

the happiness of seeing her and enjoying her discreet conversation, and

that I implore her as earnestly as I can, to allow herself to be seen and

addressed by this her captive servant and forlorn knight. Tell her, too,

that when she least expects it she will hear it announced that I have

made an oath and vow after the fashion of that which the Marquis of

Mantua made to avenge his nephew Baldwin, when he found him at the point

of death in the heart of the mountains, which was, not to eat bread off a

tablecloth, and other trifling matters which he added, until he had

avenged him; and I will make the same to take no rest, and to roam the

seven regions of the earth more thoroughly than the Infante Don Pedro of

Portugal ever roamed them, until I have disenchanted her.' 'All that and

more, you owe my lady,' the damsel's answer to me, and taking the four

reals, instead of making me a curtsey she cut a caper, springing two full

yards into the air."

"O blessed God!" exclaimed Sancho aloud at this, "is it possible that

such things can be in the world, and that enchanters and enchantments can

have such power in it as to have changed my master's right senses into a

craze so full of absurdity! O senor, senor, for God's sake, consider

yourself, have a care for your honour, and give no credit to this silly

stuff that has left you scant and short of wits."

"Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho," said Don

Quixote; "and not being experienced in the things of the world,

everything that has some difficulty about it seems to thee impossible;

but time will pass, as I said before, and I will tell thee some of the

things I saw down there which will make thee believe what I have related

now, the truth of which admits of neither reply nor question."

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