'For many long years, O valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, we who dwell in this enchanted solitude have waited to see thee, so that thou couldst inform the world of what lies contained and hidden in the deep cave which thou hast entered, called the Cave of Montesinos: a feat reserved only for thy invincible heart and wondrous courage. Come thou with me, illustrious knight, for I wish to show thee the marvels hidden within this transparent castle, of which I am warden and perpetual chief guardian, for I am the same Montesinos after whom the cave is named.'
When he told me that he was Montesinos,4 I asked him if the story told about him in the world up here was true: that with a small dagger he had cut out of his chest the heart of his great friend Durandarte5 and carried it to the lady Belerma, as his friend had commanded when he was at the point of death. He responded that everything people said was true except for the dagger, because it was not a dagger and it was not small, but a blade striated on three sides and sharper than an awl."
"That blade," said Sancho, "must have been made by Ramon de Hoces, the Sevillan."
"I do not know," continued Don Quixote, "but it probably was not the work of that knifemaker, since Ramon de Hoces lived yesterday, and the battle at Roncesvalles, where this misfortune occurred, happened many years ago; this inquiry is of no importance, for it does not disturb or confound the truth and validity of the history."
"That is true," responded the cousin. "Your grace should continue, Senor Don Quixote, for I am listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the world."
"With no less pleasure do I recount it," responded Don Quixote. "And so I say that the venerable Montesinos led me into the crystalline palace, where, in a downstairs chamber that was exceptionally cool and made all of alabaster, there was a marble sepulcher crafted with great skill, and on it I saw a knight stretched out to his full length, and made not of bronze, or marble, or jasper, as is usual on other sepulchers, but of pure flesh and pure bone. His right hand, which seemed somewhat hairy and sinewy to me, a sign that its owner was very strong, lay over his heart, and before I could ask anything of Montesinos, who saw me looking with wonder at the figure on the sepulcher, he said:
'This is my friend Durandarte, the flower and model of enamored and valiant knights of his time; here he lies, enchanted, as I and many others are enchanted, by Merlin, the French enchanter who was, people say, the son of the devil; and what I believe is that he was not the son of the devil but knew, as they say, a point or two more than the devil. How and why he enchanted us no one knows, but that will be revealed with the passage of time, and is not too far off now, I imagine. What astonishes me is that I know, as well as I know that it is day, that Durandarte ended the days of his life in my arms, and that when he was dead I removed his heart with my own hands; and the truth is that it must have weighed two pounds, because according to naturalists, the man who has a larger heart has greater courage than the man whose heart is small. If this is the case, and if this knight really died, why does he now moan and sigh from time to time, as if he were alive?'
When this was said, the wretched Durandarte gave a great shout and said:
'O my cousin Montesinos!
The last thing I asked of you
was, when I had breathed my last
and my soul had flown away,
to cut my heart out of my breast
with a dagger or a blade,
and bear it as an offering
to my lady, fair Belerma.'6
Hearing this, the venerable Montesinos fell to his knees before the doleful knight and, with tears in his eyes, said to him:
'Oh, Senor Durandarte, my beloved cousin, I did what you commanded on the ill-fated day of our defeat: I removed your heart the best I could, not leaving any fragments behind in your chest; I cleaned it with a lace handkerchief; I took it and hurried away to France, having first placed you in the bosom of the earth, shedding so many tears that they were enough to wash away the blood that covered my hands after I had put them inside your body; and furthermore, my dearest cousin, in the first village I came to after I left Roncesvalles, I sprinkled a little salt on your heart so that it would not smell bad and would be, if not fresh, at least dried and salted, in the presence of the lady Belerma, who, along with you, and me, and Guadiana, your squire, and her lady-in-waiting, Ruidera, and her seven daughters and two nieces, and many more of your friends and acquaintances the wise Merlin has kept here, enchanted, for many years; and although more than five hundred have passed, none of us has died: the only ones missing are Ruidera and her daughters and nieces, who wept so much that Merlin must have taken pity on them, for he transformed them into lakes, and now, in the world of the living and in the province of La Mancha, they are called the Lakes of Ruidera; seven of them belong to the kings of Spain, and the two nieces belong to the knights of a most holy order called St. John.7 Guadiana, your squire, also lamented your misfortune and was transformed into a river that bears his name; when he reached the surface of the earth and saw the sun in another sky, the grief he felt at leaving you was so great that he descended again to the bowels of the earth; but since it is not possible to resist the natural course of his current, from time to time he emerges and shows himself where the sun and all people may see him. The lakes I have mentioned provide him with their waters, and with these and many others that flow into him, he enters Portugal with magnificence and grandeur. But despite this, wherever he goes he displays his sadness and melancholy, and does not boast of breeding valuable and highly esteemed fish in his waters, but only ones that are coarse and disagreeable, unlike those found in the golden Tajo; and what I am telling you now, my dear cousin, I have told you many times before; and since you do not respond, I imagine that you do not believe me, or do not hear me, and God knows the grief that causes me. Now I wish to give you some news, and if it does not assuage your sorrow, at least it will not increase it in any way. Know that here in your presence--if you open your eyes you will see him--you have that great knight about whom the wise Merlin has made so many prophecies: I mean Don Quixote of La Mancha, who once again, and to greater advantage than in past times, has revived in the present a long-forgotten knight errantry, and through his mediation and by his favor it may be that the spell over us will be broken, for great deeds are reserved for great men.'
'And if this is not the case,' responded the mournful Durandarte in a low, faint voice, 'if this is not the case, dear cousin, I say have patience and shuffle the deck.'
And turning on his side, he resumed his customary silence and did not utter another word. At this point a great weeping and wailing was heard, along with deep moans and anguished sobs; I turned my head and saw through the crystal walls a procession of two lines of beautiful maidens passing through another chamber, all of them dressed in mourning and wearing white turbans on their heads, in the Turkish fashion. At the very end and conclusion of the two lines came a matron, for her gravity made her seem one, also dressed in black, and wearing a white train so lengthy and long it brushed the ground. Her turban was twice as large as the largest of the others; she was beetle-browed and snub-nosed; her mouth was large, but her lips were red; her teeth, which she may have shown, were few in number and crooked, though as white as peeled almonds; in her hands she carried a delicate cloth, and in it, as far as I could tell, was a heart that had been mummified, it looked so dry and shriveled. Montesinos told me that all the people in the procession were servants of Durandarte and Belerma, enchanted along with their master and mistress, and that the last one, who carried the heart in the cloth, was Senora Belerma herself, who along with her maidens walked in that procession four days a week and sang, or rather wept, dirges over the body and wounded heart of his cousin; and if she had seemed rather ugly, and not as beautiful as her fame proclaimed, the cause was the bad nights and worse days she had spent in that enchantment, as one could see in the deep circles under her eyes and her sickly color.
'And her sallow complexion and deep circles arise not from the monthly dist
ress common in women, because for many months, even years, she has not had it nor has it appeared at her portals, but from the sorrow her heart feels for the one she continually holds in her hands, which always renews and brings to mind the affliction of her unfortunate lover; if this were not the case, then the great Dulcinea of Toboso, so celebrated here and in the rest of the world, would barely be her equal in beauty, grace, and charm.'
'Stop right there, Senor Don Montesinos,' I said then. 'Your grace should recount this history in the proper manner, for you know that all comparisons are odious, and there is no reason to compare anyone to anyone else. The peerless Dulcinea of Toboso is who she is, and Senora Belerma is who she is, and who she was, and no more should be said about it.'
To which he responded:
'Senor Don Quixote, may your grace forgive me, for I confess that I erred and misspoke when I said that Senora Dulcinea would barely be the equal of Senora Belerma, for it was enough for me to have realized, by means of I am not certain what conjectures, that your grace is her knight, and I would rather bite my tongue than compare her to anything but heaven itself.'
With this satisfaction given to me by the great Montesinos, my heart recovered from the shock I had received at hearing my lady compared to Belerma."
"What surprises me," said Sancho, "is that your grace didn't jump on the old man and break every bone in his body and pull out his beard until there wasn't a single hair left."
"No, Sancho my friend," responded Don Quixote, "it would not have been right for me to do that, because we are all obliged to have respect for the old, even if they are not knights, but especially if they are, and are enchanted as well; I know very well that nothing was wanting in the many other questions and answers that passed between us."
At this point the cousin said:
"I don't know, Senor Don Quixote, how your grace could have seen so many things and spoken so much and responded to so much in the short amount of time that you were down there."
"How long ago did I go down?" asked Don Quixote.
"A little more than an hour," responded Sancho.
"That cannot be," replied Don Quixote, "because night fell and day broke while I was there, and they fell and broke three times, and so by my count I have spent three days in those remote regions that are hidden from your eyes."
"My master must be telling the truth," said Sancho. "Since all the things that have happened to him have been by enchantment, maybe what seems like an hour to us seems like three days and nights down there."
"That must be so," responded Don Quixote.
"And, Senor, has your grace eaten in all this time?" asked the cousin.
"Not a mouthful has broken my fast," responded Don Quixote, "nor did the thought of hunger even enter my mind."
"Do the enchanted eat?" said the cousin.
"They do not eat," responded Don Quixote, "nor do they have excretory wastes, although some believe that their nails, beards, and hair all grow."
"And by any chance do the enchanted sleep, Senor?" asked Sancho.
"No, certainly not," responded Don Quixote. "At least, in the three days I have been with them not one of them closed an eye, and neither did I."
"Here," said Sancho, "the proverb fits: birds of a feather flock together; your grace flocks with enchanted people who fast and stay awake, so it's no surprise you don't sleep while you're with them. But, Senor, your grace will forgive me if I tell you that may God take me, and I was going to say the devil, if I believe a single one of all the things you've said here."
"What do you mean?" said the cousin. "Would Senor Don Quixote lie? And even if he wanted to, he hasn't had time to invent and imagine so many millions of lies."
"I don't believe my master is lying," responded Sancho.
"If you do not, then what do you believe?" asked Don Quixote.
"I believe," responded Sancho, "that Merlin, or those enchanters who enchanted that whole crowd your grace says you saw and talked to down there, put into your mind or memory the whole story that you've told us, and the rest that you still have to tell."
"That could be true, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "but it is not, because what I have recounted I saw with my own eyes and touched with my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you now that among the infinite things and wonders that Montesinos showed to me, which I shall tell you in the course of our journey, slowly and at the proper time so that they are not all recounted here, Montesinos showed me three peasant girls who were leaping and jumping in those pleasant fields like nanny goats, and as soon as I saw them I recognized one of them as the peerless Dulcinea of Toboso, and the other two as those same peasant girls who came with her, the ones we spoke to as we were leaving Toboso. I asked Montesinos if he knew them; he responded that he did not, but he imagined that they must be distinguished ladies who had been enchanted, for they had appeared in those meadows only a few days before, and this should not surprise me because many other ladies from past and present times were there who had been transformed into many strange figures, among whom he recognized Queen Guinevere and her lady-in-waiting, Quintanona, pouring wine for Lancelot,
When he from Brittany came."8
When Sancho Panza heard his master say this, he thought he would lose his mind or die laughing; since he knew the truth about the feigned enchantment of Dulcinea, for he had been the enchanter and had invented the story, he recognized beyond the shadow of a doubt that his master was out of his mind and completely mad, and so he said:
"It was an evil moment and a worse time and an ill-fated day when your grace went down to the next world, my dear master, and an unlucky meeting that you had with Senor Montesinos, for see how you've come back to us. Your grace was better off up here when you had all your wits, just as God had given them to you, always saying wise things and giving advice, not like now, when you're saying the most foolish things that anybody could imagine."
"Since I know you, Sancho," responded Don Quixote, "I shall ignore your words."
"And I won't pay attention to your grace's," replied Sancho, "not even if you wound me, not even if you kill me on account of the ones I've said to you, or the ones I plan to say if you don't change and correct yours. But tell me, your grace, now that we're at peace: how, and by what signs, did you recognize our lady mistress? If you spoke to her, what did you say, and what did she reply?"
"I knew her," responded Don Quixote, "because she was wearing the same clothing she wore when you showed her to me. I spoke to her, but she did not say a word to me; instead, she turned her back and ran away so quickly that a spear could not have overtaken her. I wanted to follow, and would have done so if Montesinos had not advised me not to bother for it would be in vain, especially since the hour was approaching when I ought to leave the abyss. He also told me that over the course of time he would inform me how the spell on him, and Belerma, and Durandarte, as well as all the others who were there, was to be broken; but of all the grievous things I saw and noted, the one that caused me most sorrow was that as Montesinos was saying these words to me, one of the companions of the unfortunate Dulcinea approached me from the side, without my seeing her, and with her eyes full of tears, and in a low, troubled voice, she said to me:
'My lady Dulcinea of Toboso kisses the hands of your grace, and implores your grace to let her know how you are; and, because she is in great need, she also entreats your grace most earnestly to be so kind as to lend her, accepting as security this new cotton underskirt that I have here, half a dozen reales or whatever amount your grace may have, and she gives her word to return them to you very soon.'
I was astounded and amazed at this message, and turning to Senor Montesinos, I asked:
'Is it possible, Senor Montesinos, that distinguished persons who are enchanted suffer from need?' To which he responded:
'Your grace can believe me, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, that what is called need is found everywhere, and extends to all places, and reaches everyone, and does not excuse even those who a
re enchanted; and since Senora Dulcinea of Toboso has sent someone to ask you for six reales, and the pledge is good, it seems, then you must give them to her, for she undoubtedly is in very great difficulty.'
'Her security, I shall not take,' I responded, 'nor shall I give her what she asks, because I have no more than four reales.'
I gave these to her (they were the ones that you, Sancho, gave me the other day so that I could give alms to the poor whom I met along the road), and I said:
'My friend, tell your mistress that her troubles grieve my heart, and that I should like to be a Fucar9 so that I could solve them, and that I want her to know that I cannot and should not enjoy good health as long as I lack the pleasing sight of her, and her discerning conversation, and I entreat her grace as earnestly as I can that she should be so kind as to allow herself to be seen and spoken to by this her captive servant and wandering knight. Tell her too that when she least expects it she will hear that I have made a vow and taken an oath, in the manner of the one taken by the Marquis of Mantua to avenge his nephew Baldovinos when he found him near death in the heart of the mountains,10 which was not to eat bread at a cloth-covered table, along with the other trifles he mentioned there, until he had avenged him; and I shall do the same, and vow not to rest, and to wander the seven regions of the world more diligently than Don Pedro of Portugal,11 until I break her enchantment.'