CHAPTER 23
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 con-
tain 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 disgust-
ed at finding myself hanging suspended by the rope, travelling downwards
into that dark region without any certainty or knowledge of where I was go-
ing, 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 pro-
found 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 mead-
ow that nature could produce or the most lively human imagination con-
ceive. 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 im-
posing 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 achieve-
ment reserved for thy invincible heart and stupendous courage alone to at-
tempt. Come with me, illustrious sir, and I will show thee the marvels hid-
den 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 sharp-
er 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 pro-
ceed—the venerable Montesinos led me into the palace of crystal, where, in
a lower chamber, strangely cool and entirely of alabaster, was an elaborate-
ly 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 gaz-
ing 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 en-
chanter 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:
{verse
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.”
{verse
On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before the
unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, ‘Long since, Senor Duran-
darte, 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 acquain-
tances, 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 heav-
en, 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 Por-
tugal; but for all that, go where he may, he shows his melancholy and sad-
ness, 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 disen-
chanted; for great deeds are reserved for great men.’
“‘And if that may not be,’ said the wretched Durandarte in a low and fee-
ble 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 ut-
tering 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 al-
monds. 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 atten-
dants 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 Mon-
tesinos, 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 en-
chanted; 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 re-
gions 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 Dul-
cinea 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 en-
chanter 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 recom-
mended 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 cav-
ern. 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 com-
panions 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 en-
treats 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 al-
low 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 an-
nounced 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.”
