Chap. VI Of the Wonderful Incidents Recounted by the Extravagant Don Quixote, Who Pretended to Have Seen Them in the Profound Cave of Montesinos; From the Greatness and Impossibility of Which This Adventure Has Been Deemed Apocryphal
It might be about four o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun retiring behind a cloud, so as to emit a scanty light and temperate rays, gave Don Quixote an opportunity of relating coolly and comfortably to his two illustrious hearers the particulars he had seen in the cave of Montesinos; and he accordingly began to recite what follows.
‘About twelve or fourteen fathoms below the mouth of this dungeon, there is a concavity on the right hand, wide enough to contain a large waggon with its cattle, and illuminated by a small stream of light that descends through corresponding cracks and crannies, which open at a distance on the surface of the earth: this spacious cavity I perceived, when I was tired and out of humour at finding myself hanging and descending by a rope, through that dark and dreary dungeon, without knowing any certain and determined way; I therefore resolved to enter it, and repose myself a little, and called to you to leave off lowering the rope, until I should give you farther notice; but I suppose you did not hear me, so that I gathered up the cord you let down, and making it into an heap or coil, sat down upon it in a very pensive mood, to consider how I should descend to the bottom, having no person to support my weight. While I sat musing on this misfortune, I was all of a sudden overpowered by a most profound sleep, and without dreaming of the matter, or knowing how, or wherefore, I awoke, and found myself in the midst of the most beautiful, charming and delightful meadow that nature could create, or the most fertile imagination conceive. I rubbed and wiped my eyes, so as to see that far from sleeping I was broad awake: nevertheless, I felt my head, and fumbled in my bosom, in order to be assured, whether it was really my identical self or some unsubstantial phantom and counterfeit; but the touch, the reflection, and connected discourse I held with myself, concurred to convince me, that I was the same at that time as I find myself at present. Then was my view regaled with a sumptuous palace or castle, with walls and battlements of clear, transparent chrystal, and two large folding gates, which, opening, there came forth, advancing towards me, a venerable old man, clad in a long cloak of purple baize, that trailed upon the ground: his shoulders and breast were girded with a collegiate scarf of green sattin; his head was covered with a black Milan cap; and his beard, white as the drifted snow, descended to his middle. He wore no arms, but held in his hand a rosary of beads as large as walnuts; though the tens were as big as ostrich-eggs; and his deportment, air, gravity, and dignified presence, filled me with surprize and veneration. Coming up to me, the first thing he did was to hug me closely in his arms; then he said, “Long, very long, most valiant knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, have we, who are inchanted in these solitudes, expected thy arrival, that thou mayest inform the world of what is contained and concealed in this profound cavern, which is called the cave of Montesinos; an adventure hitherto reserved on purpose to be atchieved by thy invincible heart and most stupendous courage. Follow me, illustrious Signior, and I will shew thee the wonders that lie hid in this transparent castle, of which I am governor and perpetual warder, as being that identical Montesinos, from whom the cavern takes its name.” No sooner had he told me who he was, than I asked if it was true, what the world above related of him, namely, that he had, with a small dagger, cut out the heart of his great friend Durandarte, and carried it to the Lady Belerma, according to his own desire, while he was in the agonies of death. He answered, every circumstance was true, except that of the dagger; for it was neither a dagger, nor small in its dimensions, but a polished poignard as sharp as an awl.’
Here Sancho interposing, observed, that such a poignard must have been made by Raymond de Hozes of Seville. ‘I do not know who was the maker,’ said the knight, ‘but it could not be that sword-cutler; for Raymond de Hozes was living t’other day; whereas many years are elapsed since the battle of Roncesvalles, where that misfortune happened; but this enquiry is of no importance; nor does it disturb or alter the truth and evidence of the story.’—‘No, surely,’ cried the scholar, ‘pray good your worship Don Quixote proceed; for I listen to your narration with infinite pleasure.’—’And I feel no less in recounting it,’ answered the knight.
‘Well, then, the venerable Montesinos led me into the chrystalline palace, where, in a low hall, cool beyond conception, and lined with alabaster, stood a monument of marble of exquisite workmanship, upon which I perceived a knight lying at full length, I do not mean a statue of bronze, marble, or jasper, such as we commonly see on other tombs, but a man of real flesh and bones; he held his right-hand, which being muscular and hairy, denoted the great strength of the owner, over the region of the heart; and before I had time to ask any questions, Montesinos seeing me astonished, and gazing attentively at the sepulchre, “This is my friend Durandarte,” said he, “the flower and mirrour of all the valiant and enamoured knights of his time: here he is kept inchanted as well as myself, and many others of both sexes, by Merlin, that French inchanter, who is said to have been begotten by the devil; though, for my own part, I believe he is not really the devil’s son, but that, according to the proverb, He knows one point more than the devil. How, or for what reason he inchanted us, nobody knows, but time will discover the mystery; and, in my opinion, that time is not far off: what surprizes me is, I know as certainly as the sun shines, that Durandarte breathed his last in my arms, and after he was dead, I with my own individual hands took out his heart, which must certainly have weighed a couple of pounds; for, according to the observation of naturalists, the man who has a large heart is endowed with more valour than he whose heart is of smaller dimensions: this being the case, and the knight certainly dead, how comes he, even at this day, to sigh and complain, from time to time, as if he was actually alive?”
‘He had no sooner pronounced these words, than the wretched Durandarte cried, in a loud voice, “O cousin Montesinos! the last favour I requested of you, was, that when my soul should quit my body, you would extract my heart either with poignard or dagger, and carry it to Belerma.” The venerable Montesinos, hearing this apostrophe, kneeled before the piteous knight, and with tears in his eyes, replied, “Already, Signior Durandarte, my dearest cousin! already have I executed what you commanded me to perform, on that unlucky day of our defeat: I extracted your heart as well as I could, without leaving the smallest particle of it in your breast; I wiped it with a laced handkerchief, and set out with it full gallop for France, after having first committed you to the bosom of the earth with such a flood of tears as was sufficient to bathe and wash my hands of the blood they had contracted by raking in your bowels; and as a surer token, dear cousin of my soul! at the first place I reached, in my way from Roncesvalles, I sprinkled your heart with a little salt, that it might not acquire a bad smell, and continue, if not quite fresh, at least tolerably sweet, until it could be presented to the Lady Belerma, who, together with you and me, and your squire Guadiana, the duenna Ruydera, her seven daughters, and two nieces, and many others of your friends and acquaintance, have been long inchanted in this place by the sage Merlin; and although five hundred years are elapsed, not one of us is dead; though we have lost Ruydera with her daughters and nieces, who, by weeping, are, through the compassion of Merlin, converted into so many lakes, which, in the world above, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of Ruydera; the Seven Sisters belong to the king of Spain, and the Two Nieces to the knights of a very holy order, called St. John. Your squire Guadiana bewailing likewise your misfortune, was changed into a river of the same name, which, when it reached the surface of the earth, and saw the sun of the other sky, was so grieved at the thoughts of leaving you, that he sunk down into the bowels of the globe; but, as it was not possible for him to resist his natural current, he from time to time rises up, shewing himself to the sun, and to the nations: he receives a reinforcement from the waters of the forementioned lakes, with which, and many others that join his stream, he enters Portugal in majesty and pomp. Nevertheless, wheresoever he runs, he discovers a sullen melancholy, and does not pique himself upon breeding within his channel fish of dainty relish and esteem; but only such as are coarse and unsavoury, and widely different from those of the golden Tagus. What I now say, my dear cousin, I have often expressed, and as you make no reply, I conclude you either do not hear or do not give credit to my words: a circumstance which, as Heaven doth know, overwhelms me with affliction. I will at present make you acquainted with one piece of news, which, if it does not alleviate your sorrow, can surely, in no shape, tend to its augmentation. Know then, here stands in your presence (open your eyes and behold him) that great knight of whom so many things have been prophesied by the sage Merlin; that Don Quixote de La Mancha, I say, who has renewed, and, with greater advantages than in times past, raised again from oblivion the long forgotten chivalry, by the means and favour of whom, perhaps, we ourselves may be disenchanted; for great men such great achievements are reserved.”—“And if that should not be the case,” replied the afflicted Durandarte, in a faint and languid tone; “and if that should not be the case, cousin, I say, patience, and shuffle the cards.” Then turning himself upon one side, he relapsed into his usual silence, without speaking another word.
‘At that instant, hearing a great noise of shrieks and lamentations, accompanied by doleful sighing and dismal sobbing, I turned about, and saw through the chrystal walls into another apartment, through which a procession passed, consisting of two flies of most beautiful damsels in mourning, with white turbans on their heads, in the Turkish manner; in the rear of these came a lady, for such, by her stately demeanour, she seemed to be, cloathed like the rest in black, with a veil so full and long that it kissed the ground: her turban was twice as large as the largest of the others, her eye brows met above her nose, which was flattish; her mouth was large, but her lips retained the colour of vermillion; her teeth, which she sometimes disclosed, were thin and ill-set, though white as blanched almonds; and in her hand she held a fine linen cloth, in which, as near as I could guess, was an heart so dried and shrivelled, that it seemed to be of perfect mummy. Montesinos gave me to understand, that all those of the procession were domesticks of Durandarte and Belarma, inchanted in that place, together with their lord and lady; and that the last who carried the heart in the napkin, was Belerma herself, who, with her damsels, never failed to appear in that procession four days in the week, and sung, or rather howl, dirges over the body, and the woeful heart of his cousin: and that, if she now seemed a little homely, or not quite so beautiful as fame reported her, the change proceeded from the bad nights and worse days she passed in that state of inchantment, as I might perceive in her large wrinkles and wan complexion; nor did that yellowness and those furrows proceed from any irregularity in the monthly disorder incident to women; for many months and even years had passed since she had the least shew of any such evacuation; but solely from the anguish of her heart, occasioned by that which she holds incessantly in her hand, and which renews and recalls to her memory the misfortune of her ill-fated lover: had it not been for that mischance, scarce would she have been equalled in beauty, sprightliness, and grace, even by the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, celebrated as she is not only in this country, but also through the whole universe.
‘“Softly, Signior Don Montesinos,” said I, interrupting him at the period, “be so good as to tell your story as it ought to be told; for you know all comparisons are odious, and therefore there is no occasion to compare any person with another; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the Lady Donna Belerma is likewise what she is and has been, and there let the matter rest.” To this remonstrance he replied, “Pardon me, Signior Don Quixote; I confess I have been to blame, and egregiously erred, in saying, the Lady Dulcinea would scarce equal the Lady Belerma; seeing, my having known by certain guesses that your worship is the knight of Dulcinea, was sufficient to have induced me to bite off my tongue, rather than compare her with any thing but Heaven itself.” Such satisfaction from the great Montesinos allayed the disgust that my heart received in hearing Belerma compared with my mistress.’
‘I marvel much,’ said Sancho, ‘that your worship did not fall upon the old hunks, and break every bone in his skin; aye, and pull his beard in such a manner as not to leave one single hair.’—‘By no means, friend Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘it would not have become me to behave in that manner; for we are all obliged to respect our seniors, although they are not knights; but more especially those who are really of that quality, and besides in a state of inchantment. This I know full well, that there was nothing left unpaid on either side, in the course of the questions and answers that passed between us.’
Here the scholar, interposing, ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘Signior Don Quixote, how your worship, in such a short time as that you have spent below, could see so many things, and ask and answer such a number of questions.’—‘How long is it since I descended?’ said the knight. ‘Little more than an hour,’ replied the squire. ‘That’s impossible,’ resumed Don Quixote; ‘for night fell, and morning dawned, and darkness and light succeeded each other three times; so that, by my reckoning, I must have remained three days in those sequestered shades, which are hidden from our view.’—‘My master must be in the right,’ said Sancho, ‘for as all those things have happened by inchantment, perhaps what appeared but one hour to us, might seem three days and nights to your worship.’—‘It may be so,’ answered the knight. Then the student asking if his worship had eaten any thing in all that time, ‘I have not tasted one mouthful,’ said he, ‘nor had I the least sensation of hunger.’—’And do those who are inchanted, eat?’ resumed the scholar, ‘They do not eat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘nor do they void the larger excrements, though, it is supposed, that their nails, beards, and hair, are always growing.’
Here Sancho desired to know, if ever those inchanted gentry enjoyed the benefit of sleep. To which interrogation his master replied, ‘No, surely; at least, in those three days that I passed among them, neither they nor myself once closed an eye.’—‘Here then,’ said the squire, ‘we may conveniently trust in the proverb, Tell me your company, and I’ll tell you your manners. While your worship keeps company with inchanted people, who are always fasting and watching, it is no great wonder if you neither eat nor sleep while you are among them; but really, Signior, your worship must forgive me, if I say, that of all you have told us, God take me, I was going to say the devil, if I believe one circumstance.’—‘How!’ cried the scholar, ‘then Signior Don Quixote must have lyed: who even if we could entertain such a supposition, has not had time to compose and contrive such a number of fables.’—‘I do not believe that my master tells lies,’ answered Sancho. ‘What, then, is thy conception?’ said the knight. ‘I conceive,’ replied Sancho, ‘that Merlin, or those magicians who have inchanted the whole rabble which your worship hath seen and discoursed with below, have likewise stuffed your noddle or memory with all that nonsense which you have already recounted, as well as what you have left untold.’—‘That might be the case,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but I assure you it is not so at present; for what I have recounted I saw with my own eyes, and touched with my own hands. But, what wilt thou say, when I now tell thee, that among an infinite number of other wonderful things, which I shall relate hereafter in the course of our travels, as they do not all belong to this place, Montesinos shewed me three country-wenches, leaping and skipping like so many goats through those delightful plains; and scarce had I set eyes on them, when I recognize them to be the peerless Dulcinea, and those two individual young women, with whom we spoke in the neighbourhood of Toboso. When I asked Montesinos if he knew them, he answered in the negative, but said he took them to be some inchanted ladies of quality; for they had appeared but a few days in that meadow; nor ought I to wonder at that circumstance, forasmuch as in the same place there were many ladies of the past and present age, inchanted in different and strange forms; among whom he recollected Queen Ginebra and her duenna Quintanona, who was skinker to Lancelot, when he came from Britain.’ Sancho, hearing his master talk in this manner, was ready to run distracted, or burst with laughing; for, knowing the truth of the feigned inchantment of Dulcinea, of which indeed he himself had been the author and evidence, he was convinced beyond all doubt, that his master was stark-staring mad; and in that persuasion exclaimed, ‘In evil hour, accursed season, and unlucky day, my dear master, did your worship go down to the other world; and in a mischievous moment did you meet with Signior Montesinos, who has sent you back in such a woeful condition. Well was your worship here above, in your sound judgment, such as God had bestowed upon you, saying sentences, and giving counsel at every turn, and not as at present, venting a heap of the greatest nonsense, that was ever conceived.’—‘I know thee too well, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to mind what thou sayest.’—’And I, in like manner,’ replied the squire, ‘know you too well to regard what you say: wound me, or confound me, or kill me if you will, for what I have said, and what I mean to say, if your worship does not mend and correct your own speeches; but, now we are at peace, pray tell me how or by what token you came to know our lady mistress, and if you spoke to her, what answer she made?’
‘I knew her again,’ replied the knight, ‘by the same cloaths she wore when thou thyself didst shew her to my astonished eyes; I likewise addressed myself to her, but she answered not a syllable; on the contrary, she turned about, and fled so swiftly, that an arrow would not have overtaken her: nevertheless, I wished to follow, and would certainly have pursued her, had not Montesinos advised me not to fatigue myself; for it would be to no purpose, and besides, it was time for me to return to the light above. He likewise told me, that, in process of time, he would give me notice in what manner he, Durandarte, Belerma, and all the rest, in those sequestered shades, were to be disenchanted. But what of all I saw and observed gave me the greatest pain was this; while I was engaged in this conversation with Montesinos, one of the hapless Dulcinea’s companions came up to me, unperceived, and with tears in her eyes, thus accosted me, in a low and whimpering voice: “My Lady Dulcinea Del Toboso kisses your worship’s hands, and begs your worship will be pleased to let her know how your worship does; moreover, being in great necessity, she supplicates your worship, in the most earnest manner, to be pleased to lend her, upon this her new cotton under petticoat, half a dozen rials, or any small matter your worship can spare, which upon her honest word, shall be restored in a very short time.” This message filled me with surprize and concern; and turning to the sage, “Is it possible, Signior Montesinos,” said I, “that people of condition are exposed to necessity, in a state of inchantment?” To this question he replied, “Take my word for it, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, that which we call necessity is known in all states, extending to all conditions, prevailing among every class of people, and not even sparing those who are inchanted; and since Signora Dulcinea Del Toboso sends to beg these six rials, and the pledge seems to be well worth the money, you had better let her have them; for she must certainly be in great trouble.”—“The pledge I will not touch,” said I, “nor indeed can I comply with her request; for I have not above four rials!” which I gave her; and these were the very individual pieces which I received from thee, Sancho, t’other day, in order to give away in charity to the poor I might meet with on the road, “Sweet-heart,” said I, “tell your lady that her distress affects me to the very soul, and I wish I were as rich as Fouckar158 to remove it; let her know, that I neither can, nor will enjoy health while deprived of her agreeable presence and improving conversation; and that I fervently and earnestly beg her goodness will be pleased to indulge with her company, this her captive servant and afflicted knight. Tell her also, that, when least she dreams of any such matter, she shall hear that I have made a vow, like that which was sworn by the Marquis of Mantua, to revenge his cousin Valdovinos; when he found him at the last gasp, in the middle of the mountain; namely, that he would not eat from off a table-cloth, together with some whimsical additions, until he should have revenged his death; and, in like manner, I will swear never to be quiet, but traverse the seven divisions of the globe, more punctually than did the infant Don Pedro of Portugal159, until she be restored to the upper world.”—“All that and much more you owe to my lady,” said the damsel; who, taking the rials instead of curtseying, cut a caper in the air two yards high.’
‘O holy God!’ cried Sancho, with a loud voice, ‘is it possible that those inchanters and enchantments should have such power to change the good sense of my master into such nonsensical madness! O Signior, Signior! for the love of God, look to yourself, have some respect for your own honour, and give no credit to those vanities, which have diminished and disturbed your senses.’—‘Thy regard for me, Sancho, makes thee talk in that manner,’ answered the knight: ‘and as thou art not experienced in the events of this world, every thing that is uncommon, to thee seems impossible; but the time will come, as I have already observed, when I shall recount some circumstances which I saw below, that will compel thee to believe what I have now related, the truth of which neither admits of dispute or reply.’