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THE married couple made wonderful much of Don Quixote, obliged thereunto for the willingness he
showed to defend their cause, and with his valour they paralleled his discretion, accounting him a Cid in arms and a
Cicero in eloquence. The good Sancho recreated himself three days at the bridegroom’s charge, and now knew that
Quiteria knew nothing of the feigned wounding, but that it was a trick of Basiius, who hoped for the success that
hath been showed. True it was that he had made some of his loving friends acquainted with his purpose, that they
might help him at need, and make good his deceit.
‘They cannot be called deceits,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘that are done to a virtuous end, and that the marriage of a
loving couple was an end most excellent. But, by the way, you must know that the greatest opposite that love hath is
want and continual necessity; for love is all mirth, content, and gladsomeness, and the more when he that loves
enjoys the thing loved, against which necessity and poverty are open and declared enemies.’ All this he spoke with a
purpose to advise Basilius that he should leave exercising his youthful abilities; that, although they got him a
name, yet they brought no wealth; and that he should look to lay up something now by lawful and industrious means,
which are never wanting to those that will be wary and apply themselves. ‘The honest poor man, if so be the poor man
may be called honest, hath a jewel of a fair woman, which if any man bereave him of, dishonours him and kills her.
She that is fair and honest when her husband is poor deserves to be crowned with laurel and triumphant bays. Beauty
alone attracts the eyes of all that behold it, and the princely eagles and high-flying birds do stoop to it as to
the pleasing lure; but, if extreme necessity be added to that beauty, then kites and crows will grapple with it, and
other ravenous birds; but she that is constant against all these assaults doth well deserve to be her husband’s
crown. Mark, wise Basiius,’ proceeds Don Quixote, ‘it was an opinion of I know not what sage man, that there was but
one good woman in the world; and his advice was that every man should think, that was married, that his wife was
she, and so he should be sure to live contented. I never yet was married, neither have I any thought hitherto that
way; notwithstanding, I could be able to give any man counsel herein that should ask it, and how he should choose
his wife. First of all I would have him rather respect fame than wealth; for the honest woman gets not a good name
only with being good, but in appearing so; for your public looseness and liberty doth more prejudice a woman’s
honesty than her sinning secretly. If you bring her honest to your house, ‘tis easy keeping her so, and to better
her in that goodness; but if you bring her dishonest, ‘tis hard mending her, for it is not very pliable to pass from
one extreme into another, — I say not impossible, but I hold it to be very difficult.’
Sancho heard all this, and said to himself, ‘This master of mine, when I speak matters of marrow and substance, is
wont to tell me that I may take a pulpit in hand, and preach my fine knacks up and down the world; but I may say of
him that when he once begins to thread his sentences he may not only take a pulpit in hand, but in each finger too,
and go up and down the market-place, and cry, “Who buys my ware?“ The devil take thee for a knight-errant, how wise
he is! On my soul, I thought he had known only what belonged to his knight-errantry; but he snaps at all, and there
is no boat that he hath not an oar in.
Sancho spoke this somewhat aloud, and his master overheard him, and asked, ‘What is that thou art grumbling,
Sancho?’ ‘I say nothing, neither do I grumble,’ quoth he; ‘I was only saying to myself that I would I had heard you
before I was married, and perhaps I might now have said, “The sound man needs no physician.”’ ‘Is Teresa so bad,
Sancho?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Not very bad,’ said Sancho, ‘and yet not very good — at least, not so good as I would
have her.’ ‘Thou dost ill, Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘to speak ill of thy wife, who is indeed mother of thy
children.’ ‘There’s no love lost,’ quoth Sancho, ‘for she speaks ill of me too when she list, especially when she is
jealous; for then the devil himself will not cope with her.’
Well, three days they stayed with the married couple, where they were welcomed like princes. Don Quixote desired the
skilful parson to provide him a guide that might show him the way to Montesinos’ Cave, for he had a great desire to
enter into it, and to see with his own eyes if those wonders that were told of it up and down the country were true.
The parson told him that a cousin-german of his, a famous student and much addicted to books of knighthood, should
go with him, who should willingly carry him to the mouth of the cave, and should show the famous lake of Ruydera,
telling him he would be very good company for him, by reason he was one that knew how to publish books and direct
them to great men.
By and by the young student comes me upon an ass with foal, with a coarse packing-cloth or doubled carpet upon his
pack-saddle. Sancho saddled Rozinante, and made ready his Dapple, furnished his wallets, and carried the student’s
too, as well provided; and so taking leave and bidding all God be with you, they went on, holding their course to
Montesinos’ Cave. By the way Don Quixote asked the scholar of what kind or quality the exercises of his profession
and study were. To which he answered that his profession was humanity, his exercises and study to make books for the
press, which were very beneficial to himself and no less grateful to the commonwealth; that one of his books was
intituled The Book of the Liveries, ‘where are set down seven hundred and three sorts of liveries, with their
colours, mottoes, and ciphers, from whence any may be taken at festival times and shows by courtiers, without
begging them from anybody, or distilling, as you would say, from their own brains to suit them to their desires and
intentions; for I give to the jealous, to the forsaken, to the forgotten, to the absent, the most agreeable, that
will fit them as well as their punks. Another book I have, which I mean to call the Metamorphosis, or Spanish
Ovid, of a new and rare invention; for, imitating Ovid in it, by way of mocking, I show who the Giralda of
Seville was, the Angel of the Magdalena, who was the pipe of Vecinguerra of Cordova, who the bulls of Guisando,
Sierra Morena, the springs of Leganitos and Lavapies in Madrid;1 not forgetting that of Pioio, that of
the gilded pipe and of the abbess; and all this with the allegories, metaphors, and translations, that they delight,
suspend, and instruct all in a moment. Another book I have, which I call a Supply to Polydore Virgil, concerning the
invention of things, which is of great reading and study, by reason that I do verify many matters of weight that
Polydore omitted, and declare them in a very pleasing style. Virgil forgot to tell us who was the first that had a
catarrh in the world, and the first that was anointed for the French disease, and I set it down presently after I
propose it, and authorise it with at least four-and-twenty writers, that you may see whether I have taken good
pains, and whether the said book may not be profitable to the world.’
Sancho, that was very attentive to the scholar’s narration, asked him, ‘Tell me, sir, so God direct your right hand
in the impression of your books, — can you tell me (for I know you can, since you know all) who was the first man
that scratched his head, for I believe it was our first father Adam?’ ‘Yes, marry, was it,’ said he; ‘for Adam, no
doubt, had both head and hair, and, being the first man in the world, would sometimes scratch himself.’ ‘I believe
it,’ quoth Sancho; but tell me now, who was the first vaulter in the world?’ ‘Truly, brother,’ said he, ‘I cannot at
present resolve you; I will study it when I come to my books, and then I’ll satisfy you when we see one another
again; for I hope this will not be the last time.’ ‘Well, sir,’ said Sancho, ‘never trouble yourself with this, for
now I can resolve the doubt: know that the first tumbler in the world was Lucifer, when he was cast out of heaven,
and came tumbling down to hell.’ ‘You say true,’ quoth the scholar. And Don Quixote said, ‘This answer, Sancho, is
none of thine; thou hast heard somebody say so.’ ‘Peace, sir,’ quoth Sancho, ‘for, if I fall to question and answer,
I shall not make an end between this and morning; and to ask foolish questions, and answer unlikelihoods, I want no
help of my neighbours.’ ‘Thou hast spoken more, Sancho, than thou thinkest for,’ quoth Don Quixote; ‘for you have
some that are most busied in knowing and averring things, whose knowledge and remembrance is not worth a button.’
All that day they passed in these and other delightful discourses, and at night they lodged in a little village,
from whence the scholar told them they had but two little leagues to Montesinos’ Cave, and that if he meant to enter
it he must be provided of ropes to tie and let himself down into the depth. Don Quixote said that, though it were as
deep as hell, he would see whither it reached; so they bought an hundred fathom of cordage, and the next day at two
of the clock they came to the cave, whose mouth is wide and spacious, but full of briars and brambles, and wild
fig-trees, and weeds so intricate and thick that they altogether blind and dam it up. When they came to it, Sancho
and the scholar alighted, and Don Quixote whom they tied strongly with the cordage; and, whilst they were swathing
and binding of him, Sancho said to him, ‘Take heed, sir, what you do; do not bury yourself alive, and do not hang
yourself, like a bottle to be cooled in some well, for it neither concerns nor belongs to you to search this place,
worse than a dungeon.’ ‘Bind me and peace,’ quoth Don Quixote; ‘for such an enterprise as this, Sancho, was reserved
for me.’ Then said the guide, ‘I beseech you, Signior Don Quixote, that you take heed, and look about you with an
hundred eyes, to see what is within; for perhaps you may meet with things that will be fit for me to put in my book
of Transformations.’ ‘He hath his instrument in his hand,’ quoth Sancho, ‘that knows how to use it.’
This said, and Don Quixote’s binding ended, which was not upon his harness, but upon his arming-doublet, he said,
‘We did unadvisedly in not providing ourselves of some small bell, that might have been tied with me to the same
cord, by whose sound you might know that I were still toward the bottom and alive; but, since there is now no
remedy, God be our good speed!’ And straight he kneeled upon his knees, and made a soft prayer to God Almighty,
desiring His aid, and to give him good success in that (to see to) dangerous and strange adventure; and then
straightways he cried aloud, ‘O thou mistress of my actions and motions, most excellent, peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso! if it be possible that the prayers and requests of this thy happy lover come to thine ears, hearken, I
beseech thee, by thy unheard-of beauty; deny not now unto me thy favour and protection, which I so much need. I go
to cast myself headlong to a plunge, and sink myself into the abyssus that presents itself to me, that the
world may know that if thou favour me there shall be nothing impossible for me to undergo and end.’
And in saying this he came to the mouth, but saw he could not come near to be let down, except it were by making way
with main force, or with cutting through; and so, laying hand on his sword, he began to cut and slash the weeds that
were at the mouth of the cave, at whose rushing and noise there came out an infinite company of crows and daws, so
thick and so hastily that they tumbled Don Quixote on the ground; and, if he had been as superstitious as good
Christian, he would have taken it for an ill sign, and not have proceeded.
Well, he rose, and seeing the crows were all gone, and that there were no other night-birds, as bats, that came out
amongst the crows, Sancho and the scholar let him down to search the bottom of that fearful cave; but Sancho first
bestowed his benediction on him, and, making a thousand crosses over him, said, ‘God and the Rock of France,
together with the Trinity of Gaeta,2 guide thee, thou flower, cream, and scum of knights-errant. There
thou goest, hackster of the world, heart of steel, and arms of brass; God again be thy guide, and deliver thee sound
and without scar to the light of this world which thou leavest, to bury thyself in the obscurity which thou
seekest.’
The scholar did, as it were, make the same kind of wishes and deprecations. Don Quixote cried out that they should
yet give him more rope, which they gave by little and little; and when his voice, that was stopt in the gutters of
the cave, could be no longer heard, and that they had let down their hundred fathom of rope, they were of opinion to
hoist him up again, since they could give him no more cord; for all that, they stayed some half an hour, and then
began easily to draw up the rope, and without any weight, which made them think Don Quixote was within; and Sancho
believing it wept bitterly, and drew up apace, that he might be satisfied; but, coming somewhat near fourscore
fathom, they felt a weight, which made them very much rejoice. At length, when they came to ten, they plainly saw
Don Quixote, to whom Sancho cried out, saying, ‘You are well returned, sir, for we thought you had stayed there for
breed.’
But Don Quixote did not answer a word, but, drawing him altogether out, they saw that his eyes were shut, as if he
were asleep; they stretched him on the ground and unbound him, and for all this he awaked not. But they so turned,
tossed, and shaked him that a pretty while after he came to himself, lazing himself, as if he had wakened out of a
great and profound sleep, and, looking wildly around about him, said, ‘God forgive you, friends, for you have raised
me from one of the delicatest and pleasingest lives and sights that ever was seen by human eye. Now at length I
perceive that all the delights of this world do pass like a shadow or dream, or wither like a flower of the field. O
unhappy Montesinos! O ill-wounded Durandarte! O luckless Belerma! O mournful Guadiana! and you, unfortunate
daughters of Ruydera, that show by your waters those your fair eyes wept!’
The scholar and Sancho gave ear to these words which Don Quixote spake, as if with great pain they came from his
very entrails; they desired him to let them know his meaning, and to tell them what he had seen in that hellish
place. ‘Hellish, call ye it?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Well, call it not so, for it deserves not the name, as straight you
shall hear.’ He desired them to give him somewhat to eat, for he was exceeding hungry. They laid the scholar’s
coarse wrapper upon the green grass, and went to the spence of their wallets; and, all three of them being set like
good fellows, eat their bever, and supped all together. The cloth taken up, Don Quixote said, ‘Sit still, ho! let
none of you rise, and mark me attentively.’
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