CHAPTER XXI — IN WHICH CAMACHO’S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL — INCIDENTS

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While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the discussion set forth
the last chapter, they heard loud shouts and a great noise, which were
uttered and made by the men on the mares as they went at full gallop,
shouting, to receive the bride and bridegroom, who were approaching
with musical instruments and pageantry of all sorts around them, and
accompanied by the priest and the relatives of both, and all the most
distinguished people of the surrounding villages. When Sancho saw the
bride, he exclaimed, “By my faith, she is not dressed like a country
girl, but like some fine court lady; egad, as well as I can make out,
the patena she wears rich coral, and her green Cuenca stuff is
thirty-pile velvet; and then the white linen trimming—by my oath, but
it’s satin! Look at her hands—jet rings on them! May I never have luck
if they’re not gold rings, and real gold, and set with pearls as white
as a curdled milk, and every one of them worth an eye of one’s head!
Whoreson baggage, what hair she has! if it’s not a wig, I never saw
longer or fairer all the days of my life. See how bravely she bears
herself—and her shape! Wouldn’t you say she was like a walking palm
tree loaded with clusters of dates? for the trinkets she has hanging
from her hair and neck look just like them. I swear in my heart she is
a brave lass, and fit ‘to pass over the banks of Flanders.’”

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s boorish eulogies and thought that,
saving his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he had never seen a more beautiful
woman. The fair Quiteria appeared somewhat pale, which was, no doubt,
because of the bad night brides always pass dressing themselves out for
their wedding on the morrow. They advanced towards a theatre that stood
on one side of the meadow decked with carpets and boughs, where they
were to plight their troth, and from which they were to behold the
dances and plays; but at the moment of their arrival at the spot they
heard a loud outcry behind them, and a voice exclaiming, “Wait a
little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are hasty!” At these words all
turned round, and perceived that the speaker was a man clad in what
seemed to be a loose black coat garnished with crimson patches like
flames. He was crowned (as was presently seen) with a crown of gloomy
cypress, and in his hand he held a long staff. As he approached he was
recognised by everyone as the gay Basilio, and all waited anxiously to
see what would come of his words, in dread of some catastrophe in
consequence of his appearance at such a moment. He came up at last
weary and breathless, and planting himself in front of the bridal pair,
drove his staff, which had a steel spike at the end, into the ground,
and, with a pale face and eyes fixed on Quiteria, he thus addressed her
in a hoarse, trembling voice:

“Well dost thou know, ungrateful Quiteria, that according to the holy
law we acknowledge, so long as live thou canst take no husband; nor art
thou ignorant either that, in my hopes that time and my own exertions
would improve my fortunes, I have never failed to observe the respect
due to thy honour; but thou, casting behind thee all thou owest to my
true love, wouldst surrender what is mine to another whose wealth
serves to bring him not only good fortune but supreme happiness; and
now to complete it (not that I think he deserves it, but inasmuch as
heaven is pleased to bestow it upon him), I will, with my own hands, do
away with the obstacle that may interfere with it, and remove myself
from between you. Long live the rich Camacho! many a happy year may he
live with the ungrateful Quiteria! and let the poor Basilio die,
Basilio whose poverty clipped the wings of his happiness, and brought
him to the grave!”

And so saying, he seized the staff he had driven into the ground, and
leaving one half of it fixed there, showed it to be a sheath that
concealed a tolerably long rapier; and, what may be called its hilt
being planted in the ground, he swiftly, coolly, and deliberately threw
himself upon it, and in an instant the bloody point and half the steel
blade appeared at his back, the unhappy man falling to the earth bathed
in his blood, and transfixed by his own weapon.

His friends at once ran to his aid, filled with grief at his misery and
sad fate, and Don Quixote, dismounting from Rocinante, hastened to
support him, and took him in his arms, and found he had not yet ceased
to breathe. They were about to draw out the rapier, but the priest who
was standing by objected to its being withdrawn before he had confessed
him, as the instant of its withdrawal would be that of this death.
Basilio, however, reviving slightly, said in a weak voice, as though in
pain, “If thou wouldst consent, cruel Quiteria, to give me thy hand as
my bride in this last fatal moment, I might still hope that my rashness
would find pardon, as by its means I attained the bliss of being
thine.”

Hearing this the priest bade him think of the welfare of his soul
rather than of the cravings of the body, and in all earnestness implore
God’s pardon for his sins and for his rash resolve; to which Basilio
replied that he was determined not to confess unless Quiteria first
gave him her hand in marriage, for that happiness would compose his
mind and give him courage to make his confession.

Don Quixote hearing the wounded man’s entreaty, exclaimed aloud that
what Basilio asked was just and reasonable, and moreover a request that
might be easily complied with; and that it would be as much to Señor
Camacho’s honour to receive the lady Quiteria as the widow of the brave
Basilio as if he received her direct from her father.

“In this case,” said he, “it will be only to say ‘yes,’ and no
consequences can follow the utterance of the word, for the nuptial
couch of this marriage must be the grave.”

Camacho was listening to all this, perplexed and bewildered and not
knowing what to say or do; but so urgent were the entreaties of
Basilio’s friends, imploring him to allow Quiteria to give him her
hand, so that his soul, quitting this life in despair, should not be
lost, that they moved, nay, forced him, to say that if Quiteria were
willing to give it he was satisfied, as it was only putting off the
fulfillment of his wishes for a moment. At once all assailed Quiteria
and pressed her, some with prayers, and others with tears, and others
with persuasive arguments, to give her hand to poor Basilio; but she,
harder than marble and more unmoved than any statue, seemed unable or
unwilling to utter a word, nor would she have given any reply had not
the priest bade her decide quickly what she meant to do, as Basilio now
had his soul at his teeth, and there was no time for hesitation.

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On this the fair Quiteria, to all appearance distressed, grieved, and
repentant, advanced without a word to where Basilio lay, his eyes
already turned in his head, his breathing short and painful, murmuring
the name of Quiteria between his teeth, and apparently about to die
like a heathen and not like a Christian. Quiteria approached him, and
kneeling, demanded his hand by signs without speaking. Basilio opened
his eyes and gazing fixedly at her, said, “O Quiteria, why hast thou
turned compassionate at a moment when thy compassion will serve as a
dagger to rob me of life, for I have not now the strength left either
to bear the happiness thou givest me in accepting me as thine, or to
suppress the pain that is rapidly drawing the dread shadow of death
over my eyes? What I entreat of thee, O thou fatal star to me, is that
the hand thou demandest of me and wouldst give me, be not given out of
complaisance or to deceive me afresh, but that thou confess and declare
that without any constraint upon thy will thou givest it to me as to
thy lawful husband; for it is not meet that thou shouldst trifle with
me at such a moment as this, or have recourse to falsehoods with one
who has dealt so truly by thee.”

While uttering these words he showed such weakness that the bystanders
expected each return of faintness would take his life with it. Then
Quiteria, overcome with modesty and shame, holding in her right hand
the hand of Basilio, said, “No force would bend my will; as freely,
therefore, as it is possible for me to do so, I give thee the hand of a
lawful wife, and take thine if thou givest it to me of thine own free
will, untroubled and unaffected by the calamity thy hasty act has
brought upon thee.”

“Yes, I give it,” said Basilio, “not agitated or distracted, but with
unclouded reason that heaven is pleased to grant me, thus do I give
myself to be thy husband.”

“And I give myself to be thy wife,” said Quiteria, “whether thou livest
many years, or they carry thee from my arms to the grave.”

“For one so badly wounded,” observed Sancho at this point, “this young
man has a great deal to say; they should make him leave off billing and
cooing, and attend to his soul; for to my thinking he has it more on
his tongue than at his teeth.”

Basilio and Quiteria having thus joined hands, the priest, deeply moved
and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the blessing upon them, and
implored heaven to grant an easy passage to the soul of the newly
wedded man, who, the instant he received the blessing, started nimbly
to his feet and with unparalleled effrontery pulled out the rapier that
had been sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were astounded, and
some, more simple than inquiring, began shouting, “A miracle, a
miracle!” But Basilio replied, “No miracle, no miracle; only a trick, a
trick!” The priest, perplexed and amazed, made haste to examine the
wound with both hands, and found that the blade had passed, not through
Basilio’s flesh and ribs, but through a hollow iron tube full of blood,
which he had adroitly fixed at the place, the blood, as was afterwards
ascertained, having been so prepared as not to congeal. In short, the
priest and Camacho and most of those present saw they were tricked and
made fools of. The bride showed no signs of displeasure at the
deception; on the contrary, hearing them say that the marriage, being
fraudulent, would not be valid, she said that she confirmed it afresh,
whence they all concluded that the affair had been planned by agreement
and understanding between the pair, whereat Camacho and his supporters
were so mortified that they proceeded to revenge themselves by
violence, and a great number of them drawing their swords attacked
Basilio, in whose protection as many more swords were in an instant
unsheathed, while Don Quixote taking the lead on horseback, with his
lance over his arm and well covered with his shield, made all give way
before him. Sancho, who never found any pleasure or enjoyment in such
doings, retreated to the wine-jars from which he had taken his
delectable skimmings, considering that, as a holy place, that spot
would be respected.

“Hold, sirs, hold!” cried Don Quixote in a loud voice; “we have no
right to take vengeance for wrongs that love may do to us: remember
love and war are the same thing, and as in war it is allowable and
common to make use of wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemy, so in
the contests and rivalries of love the tricks and devices employed to
attain the desired end are justifiable, provided they be not to the
discredit or dishonour of the loved object. Quiteria belonged to
Basilio and Basilio to Quiteria by the just and beneficent disposal of
heaven. Camacho is rich, and can purchase his pleasure when, where, and
as it pleases him. Basilio has but this ewe-lamb, and no one, however
powerful he may be, shall take her from him; these two whom God hath
joined man cannot separate; and he who attempts it must first pass the
point of this lance;” and so saying he brandished it so stoutly and
dexterously that he overawed all who did not know him.

But so deep an impression had the rejection of Quiteria made on
Camacho’s mind that it banished her at once from his thoughts; and so
the counsels of the priest, who was a wise and kindly disposed man,
prevailed with him, and by their means he and his partisans were
pacified and tranquillised, and to prove it put up their swords again,
inveighing against the pliancy of Quiteria rather than the craftiness
of Basilio; Camacho maintaining that, if Quiteria as a maiden had such
a love for Basilio, she would have loved him too as a married woman,
and that he ought to thank heaven more for having taken her than for
having given her.

Camacho and those of his following, therefore, being consoled and
pacified, those on Basilio’s side were appeased; and the rich Camacho,
to show that he felt no resentment for the trick, and did not care
about it, desired the festival to go on just as if he were married in
reality. Neither Basilio, however, nor his bride, nor their followers
would take any part in it, and they withdrew to Basilio’s village; for
the poor, if they are persons of virtue and good sense, have those who
follow, honour, and uphold them, just as the rich have those who
flatter and dance attendance on them. With them they carried Don
Quixote, regarding him as a man of worth and a stout one. Sancho alone
had a cloud on his soul, for he found himself debarred from waiting for
Camacho’s splendid feast and festival, which lasted until night; and
thus dragged away, he moodily followed his master, who accompanied
Basilio’s party, and left behind him the flesh-pots of Egypt; though in
his heart he took them with him, and their now nearly finished
skimmings that he carried in the bucket conjured up visions before his
eyes of the glory and abundance of the good cheer he was losing. And
so, vexed and dejected though not hungry, without dismounting from
Dapple he followed in the footsteps of Rocinante.

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CHAPTER XXII.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE
HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY
TERMINATION

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Many and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote by the newly
married couple, who felt themselves under an obligation to him for
coming forward in defence of their cause; and they exalted his wisdom
to the same level with his courage, rating him as a Cid in arms, and a
Cicero in eloquence. Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for three days at
the expense of the pair, from whom they learned that the sham wound was
not a scheme arranged with the fair Quiteria, but a device of
Basilio’s, who counted on exactly the result they had seen; he
confessed, it is true, that he had confided his idea to some of his
friends, so that at the proper time they might aid him in his purpose
and insure the success of the deception.

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“That,” said Don Quixote, “is not and ought not to be called deception
which aims at virtuous ends;” and the marriage of lovers he maintained
to be a most excellent end, reminding them, however, that love has no
greater enemy than hunger and constant want; for love is all gaiety,
enjoyment, and happiness, especially when the lover is in the
possession of the object of his love, and poverty and want are the
declared enemies of all these; which he said to urge Señor Basilio to
abandon the practice of those accomplishments he was skilled in, for
though they brought him fame, they brought him no money, and apply
himself to the acquisition of wealth by legitimate industry, which will
never fail those who are prudent and persevering. The poor man who is a
man of honour (if indeed a poor man can be a man of honour) has a jewel
when he has a fair wife, and if she is taken from him, his honour is
taken from him and slain. The fair woman who is a woman of honour, and
whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned with the laurels and
crowns of victory and triumph. Beauty by itself attracts the desires of
all who behold it, and the royal eagles and birds of towering flight
stoop on it as on a dainty lure; but if beauty be accompanied by want
and penury, then the ravens and the kites and other birds of prey
assail it, and she who stands firm against such attacks well deserves
to be called the crown of her husband. “Remember, O prudent Basilio,”
added Don Quixote, “it was the opinion of a certain sage, I know not
whom, that there was not more than one good woman in the whole world;
and his advice was that each one should think and believe that this one
good woman was his own wife, and in this way he would live happy. I
myself am not married, nor, so far, has it ever entered my thoughts to
be so; nevertheless I would venture to give advice to anyone who might
ask it, as to the mode in which he should seek a wife such as he would
be content to marry. The first thing I would recommend him, would be to
look to good name rather than to wealth, for a good woman does not win
a good name merely by being good, but by letting it be seen that she is
so, and open looseness and freedom do much more damage to a woman’s
honour than secret depravity. If you take a good woman into your house
it will be an easy matter to keep her good, and even to make her still
better; but if you take a bad one you will find it hard work to mend
her, for it is no very easy matter to pass from one extreme to another.
I do not say it is impossible, but I look upon it as difficult.”

Sancho, listening to all this, said to himself, “This master of mine,
when I say anything that has weight and substance, says I might take a
pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine sermons; but I
say of him that, when he begins stringing maxims together and giving
advice not only might he take a pulpit in hand, but two on each finger,
and go into the market-places to his heart’s content. Devil take you
for a knight-errant, what a lot of things you know! I used to think in
my heart that the only thing he knew was what belonged to his chivalry;
but there is nothing he won’t have a finger in.”

Sancho muttered this somewhat aloud, and his master overheard him, and
asked, “What art thou muttering there, Sancho?”

“I’m not saying anything or muttering anything,” said Sancho; “I was
only saying to myself that I wish I had heard what your worship has
said just now before I married; perhaps I’d say now, ‘The ox that’s
loose licks himself well.’”

“Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?”

“She is not very bad,” replied Sancho; “but she is not very good; at
least she is not as good as I could wish.”

“Thou dost wrong, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “to speak ill of thy wife;
for after all she is the mother of thy children.” “We are quits,”
returned Sancho; “for she speaks ill of me whenever she takes it into
her head, especially when she is jealous; and Satan himself could not
put up with her then.”

In fine, they remained three days with the newly married couple, by
whom they were entertained and treated like kings. Don Quixote begged
the fencing licentiate to find him a guide to show him the way to the
cave of Montesinos, as he had a great desire to enter it and see with
his own eyes if the wonderful tales that were told of it all over the
country were true. The licentiate said he would get him a cousin of his
own, a famous scholar, and one very much given to reading books of
chivalry, who would have great pleasure in conducting him to the mouth
of the very cave, and would show him the lakes of Ruidera, which were
likewise famous all over La Mancha, and even all over Spain; and he
assured him he would find him entertaining, for he was a youth who
could write books good enough to be printed and dedicated to princes.
The cousin arrived at last, leading an ass in foal, with a pack-saddle
covered with a parti-coloured carpet or sackcloth; Sancho saddled
Rocinante, got Dapple ready, and stocked his alforjas, along with which
went those of the cousin, likewise well filled; and so, commending
themselves to God and bidding farewell to all, they set out, taking the
road for the famous cave of Montesinos.

On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and character his
pursuits, avocations, and studies were, to which he replied that he was
by profession a humanist, and that his pursuits and studies were making
books for the press, all of great utility and no less entertainment to
the nation. One was called “The Book of Liveries,” in which he
described seven hundred and three liveries, with their colours,
mottoes, and ciphers, from which gentlemen of the court might pick and
choose any they fancied for festivals and revels, without having to go
a-begging for them from anyone, or puzzling their brains, as the saying
is, to have them appropriate to their objects and purposes; “for,” said
he, “I give the jealous, the rejected, the forgotten, the absent, what
will suit them, and fit them without fail. I have another book, too,
which I shall call ‘Metamorphoses, or the Spanish Ovid,’ one of rare
and original invention, for imitating Ovid in burlesque style, I show
in it who the Giralda of Seville and the Angel of the Magdalena were,
what the sewer of Vecinguerra at Cordova was, what the bulls of
Guisando, the Sierra Morena, the Leganitos and Lavapies fountains at
Madrid, not forgetting those of the Piojo, of the Cano Dorado, and of
the Priora; and all with their allegories, metaphors, and changes, so
that they are amusing, interesting, and instructive, all at once.
Another book I have which I call ‘The Supplement to Polydore Vergil,’
which treats of the invention of things, and is a work of great
erudition and research, for I establish and elucidate elegantly some
things of great importance which Polydore omitted to mention. He forgot
to tell us who was the first man in the world that had a cold in his
head, and who was the first to try salivation for the French disease,
but I give it accurately set forth, and quote more than five-and-twenty
authors in proof of it, so you may perceive I have laboured to good
purpose and that the book will be of service to the whole world.”

Sancho, who had been very attentive to the cousin’s words, said to him,
“Tell me, señor—and God give you luck in printing your books—can you
tell me (for of course you know, as you know everything) who was the
first man that scratched his head? For to my thinking it must have been
our father Adam.”

“So it must,” replied the cousin; “for there is no doubt but Adam had a
head and hair; and being the first man in the world he would have
scratched himself sometimes.”

“So I think,” said Sancho; “but now tell me, who was the first tumbler
in the world?”

“Really, brother,” answered the cousin, “I could not at this moment say
positively without having investigated it; I will look it up when I go
back to where I have my books, and will satisfy you the next time we
meet, for this will not be the last time.”

“Look here, señor,” said Sancho, “don’t give yourself any trouble about
it, for I have just this minute hit upon what I asked you. The first
tumbler in the world, you must know, was Lucifer, when they cast or
pitched him out of heaven; for he came tumbling into the bottomless
pit.”

“You are right, friend,” said the cousin; and said Don Quixote,
“Sancho, that question and answer are not thine own; thou hast heard
them from someone else.”

“Hold your peace, señor,” said Sancho; “faith, if I take to asking
questions and answering, I’ll go on from this till to-morrow morning.
Nay! to ask foolish things and answer nonsense I needn’t go looking for
help from my neighbours.”

“Thou hast said more than thou art aware of, Sancho,” said Don Quixote;
“for there are some who weary themselves out in learning and proving
things that, after they are known and proved, are not worth a farthing
to the understanding or memory.”

In this and other pleasant conversation the day went by, and that night
they put up at a small hamlet whence it was not more than two leagues
to the cave of Montesinos, so the cousin told Don Quixote, adding, that
if he was bent upon entering it, it would be requisite for him to
provide himself with ropes, so that he might be tied and lowered into
its depths. Don Quixote said that even if it reached to the bottomless
pit he meant to see where it went to; so they bought about a hundred
fathoms of rope, and next day at two in the afternoon they arrived at
the cave, the mouth of which is spacious and wide, but full of thorn
and wild-fig bushes and brambles and briars, so thick and matted that
they completely close it up and cover it over.

On coming within sight of it the cousin, Sancho, and Don Quixote
dismounted, and the first two immediately tied the latter very firmly
with the ropes, and as they were girding and swathing him Sancho said
to him, “Mind what you are about, master mine; don’t go burying
yourself alive, or putting yourself where you’ll be like a bottle put
to cool in a well; it’s no affair or business of your worship’s to
become the explorer of this, which must be worse than a Moorish
dungeon.”

“Tie me and hold thy peace,” said Don Quixote, “for an emprise like
this, friend Sancho, was reserved for me;” and said the guide, “I beg
of you, Señor Don Quixote, to observe carefully and examine with a
hundred eyes everything that is within there; perhaps there may be some
things for me to put into my book of ‘Transformations.’”

“The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well enough,” said
Sancho Panza.

When he had said this and finished the tying (which was not over the
armour but only over the doublet) Don Quixote observed, “It was
careless of us not to have provided ourselves with a small cattle-bell
to be tied on the rope close to me, the sound of which would show that
I was still descending and alive; but as that is out of the question
now, in God’s hand be it to guide me;” and forthwith he fell on his
knees and in a low voice offered up a prayer to heaven, imploring God
to aid him and grant him success in this to all appearance perilous and
untried adventure, and then exclaimed aloud, “O mistress of my actions
and movements, illustrious and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, if so be
the prayers and supplications of this fortunate lover can reach thy
ears, by thy incomparable beauty I entreat thee to listen to them, for
they but ask thee not to refuse me thy favour and protection now that I
stand in such need of them. I am about to precipitate, to sink, to
plunge myself into the abyss that is here before me, only to let the
world know that while thou dost favour me there is no impossibility I
will not attempt and accomplish.” With these words he approached the
cavern, and perceived that it was impossible to let himself down or
effect an entrance except by sheer force or cleaving a passage; so
drawing his sword he began to demolish and cut away the brambles at the
mouth of the cave, at the noise of which a vast multitude of crows and
choughs flew out of it so thick and so fast that they knocked Don
Quixote down; and if he had been as much of a believer in augury as he
was a Catholic Christian he would have taken it as a bad omen and
declined to bury himself in such a place. He got up, however, and as
there came no more crows, or night-birds like the bats that flew out at
the same time with the crows, the cousin and Sancho giving him rope, he
lowered himself into the depths of the dread cavern; and as he entered
it Sancho sent his blessing after him, making a thousand crosses over
him and saying, “God, and the Peña de Francia, and the Trinity of Gaeta
guide thee, flower and cream of knights-errant. There thou goest, thou
dare-devil of the earth, heart of steel, arm of brass; once more, God
guide thee and send thee back safe, sound, and unhurt to the light of
this world thou art leaving to bury thyself in the darkness thou art
seeking there;” and the cousin offered up almost the same prayers and
supplications.

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Don Quixote kept calling to them to give him rope and more rope, and
they gave it out little by little, and by the time the calls, which
came out of the cave as out of a pipe, ceased to be heard they had let
down the hundred fathoms of rope. They were inclined to pull Don
Quixote up again, as they could give him no more rope; however, they
waited about half an hour, at the end of which time they began to
gather in the rope again with great ease and without feeling any
weight, which made them fancy Don Quixote was remaining below; and
persuaded that it was so, Sancho wept bitterly, and hauled away in
great haste in order to settle the question. When, however, they had
come to, as it seemed, rather more than eighty fathoms they felt a
weight, at which they were greatly delighted; and at last, at ten
fathoms more, they saw Don Quixote distinctly, and Sancho called out to
him, saying, “Welcome back, señor, for we had begun to think you were
going to stop there to found a family.” But Don Quixote answered not a
word, and drawing him out entirely they perceived he had his eyes shut
and every appearance of being fast asleep.

They stretched him on the ground and untied him, but still he did not
awake; however, they rolled him back and forwards and shook and pulled
him about, so that after some time he came to himself, stretching
himself just as if he were waking up from a deep and sound sleep, and
looking about him he said, “God forgive you, friends; ye have taken me
away from the sweetest and most delightful existence and spectacle that
ever human being enjoyed or beheld. Now indeed do I know that all the
pleasures of this life pass away like a shadow and a dream, or fade
like the flower of the field. O ill-fated Montesinos! O sore-wounded
Durandarte! O unhappy Belerma! O tearful Guadiana, and ye O hapless
daughters of Ruidera who show in your waves the tears that flowed from
your beauteous eyes!”

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The cousin and Sancho Panza listened with deep attention to the words
of Don Quixote, who uttered them as though with immense pain he drew
them up from his very bowels. They begged of him to explain himself,
and tell them what he had seen in that hell down there.

“Hell do you call it?” said Don Quixote; “call it by no such name, for
it does not deserve it, as ye shall soon see.”

He then begged them to give him something to eat, as he was very
hungry. They spread the cousin’s sackcloth on the grass, and put the
stores of the alforjas into requisition, and all three sitting down
lovingly and sociably, they made a luncheon and a supper of it all in
one; and when the sackcloth was removed, Don Quixote of La Mancha said,
“Let no one rise, and attend to me, my sons, both of you.”

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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

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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, Señor 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?’

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

O cousin Montesinos!
’Twas 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, Señor
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.

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“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, Señor 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 Doña Belerma is what
she is and has been, and that’s enough.’ To which he made answer,
‘Forgive me, Señor 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, Señor 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, señor?” 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, señor?” 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, señor, 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 Señor 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 Quintañona, 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 Señor 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 Señor Montesinos I asked him, ‘Is it possible, Señor
Montesinos, that persons of distinction under enchantment can be in
need?’ To which he replied, ‘Believe me, Señor 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 señor, señor, 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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