Don Quixote

OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE
OF THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA’S WOOING
We left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which the music of
the enamourned maid Altisidora had given rise to. He went to bed with
them, and just like fleas they would not let him sleep or get a
moment’s rest, and the broken stitches of his stockings helped them.
But as Time is fleet and no obstacle can stay his course, he came
riding on the hours, and morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don
Quixote quitted the soft down, and, nowise slothful, dressed himself in
his chamois suit and put on his travelling boots to hide the disaster
to his stockings. He threw over him his scarlet mantle, put on his head
a montera of green velvet trimmed with silver edging, flung across his
shoulder the baldric with his good trenchant sword, took up a large
rosary that he always carried with him, and with great solemnity and
precision of gait proceeded to the antechamber where the duke and
duchess were already dressed and waiting for him. But as he passed
through a gallery, Altisidora and the other damsel, her friend, were
lying in wait for him, and the instant Altisidora saw him she pretended
to faint, while her friend caught her in her lap, and began hastily
unlacing the bosom of her dress.

Don Quixote observed it, and approaching them said, “I know very well
what this seizure arises from.”

“I know not from what,” replied the friend, “for Altisidora is the
healthiest damsel in all this house, and I have never heard her
complain all the time I have known her. A plague on all the
knights-errant in the world, if they be all ungrateful! Go away, Señor
Don Quixote; for this poor child will not come to herself again so long
as you are here.”
To which Don Quixote returned, “Do me the favour, señora, to let a lute
be placed in my chamber to-night; and I will comfort this poor maiden
to the best of my power; for in the early stages of love a prompt
disillusion is an approved remedy;” and with this he retired, so as not
to be remarked by any who might see him there.

He had scarcely withdrawn when Altisidora, recovering from her swoon,
said to her companion, “The lute must be left, for no doubt Don Quixote
intends to give us some music; and being his it will not be bad.”

They went at once to inform the duchess of what was going on, and of
the lute Don Quixote asked for, and she, delighted beyond measure,
plotted with the duke and her two damsels to play him a trick that
should be amusing but harmless; and in high glee they waited for night,
which came quickly as the day had come; and as for the day, the duke
and duchess spent it in charming conversation with Don Quixote.

When eleven o’clock came, Don Quixote found a guitar in his chamber; he
tried it, opened the window, and perceived that some persons were
walking in the garden; and having passed his fingers over the frets of
the guitar and tuned it as well as he could, he spat and cleared his
chest, and then with a voice a little hoarse but full-toned, he sang
the following ballad, which he had himself that day composed:

Mighty Love the hearts of maidens
Doth unsettle and perplex,
And the instrument he uses
Most of all is idleness.

Sewing, stitching, any labour,
Having always work to do,
To the poison Love instilleth
Is the antidote most sure.

And to proper-minded maidens
Who desire the matron’s name
Modesty’s a marriage portion,
Modesty their highest praise.

Men of prudence and discretion,
Courtiers gay and gallant knights,
With the wanton damsels dally,
But the modest take to wife.
There are passions, transient, fleeting,
Loves in hostelries declar’d,
Sunrise loves, with sunset ended,
When the guest hath gone his way.

Love that springs up swift and sudden,
Here to-day, to-morrow flown,
Passes, leaves no trace behind it,
Leaves no image on the soul.

Painting that is laid on painting
Maketh no display or show;
Where one beauty’s in possession
There no other can take hold.

Dulcinea del Toboso
Painted on my heart I wear;
Never from its tablets, never,
Can her image be eras’d.

The quality of all in lovers
Most esteemed is constancy;
’Tis by this that love works wonders,
This exalts them to the skies.

Don Quixote had got so far with his song, to which the duke, the
duchess, Altisidora, and nearly the whole household of the castle were
listening, when all of a sudden from a gallery above that was exactly
over his window they let down a cord with more than a hundred bells
attached to it, and immediately after that discharged a great sack full
of cats, which also had bells of smaller size tied to their tails. Such
was the din of the bells and the squalling of the cats, that though the
duke and duchess were the contrivers of the joke they were startled by
it, while Don Quixote stood paralysed with fear; and as luck would have
it, two or three of the cats made their way in through the grating of
his chamber, and flying from one side to the other, made it seem as if
there was a legion of devils at large in it. They extinguished the
candles that were burning in the room, and rushed about seeking some
way of escape; the cord with the large bells never ceased rising and
falling; and most of the people of the castle, not knowing what was
really the matter, were at their wits’ end with astonishment. Don
Quixote sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword, began making passes
at the grating, shouting out, “Avaunt, malignant enchanters! avaunt, ye
witchcraft-working rabble! I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, against whom
your evil machinations avail not nor have any power.” And turning upon
the cats that were running about the room, he made several cuts at
them. They dashed at the grating and escaped by it, save one that,
finding itself hard pressed by the slashes of Don Quixote’s sword, flew
at his face and held on to his nose tooth and nail, with the pain of
which he began to shout his loudest. The duke and duchess hearing this,
and guessing what it was, ran with all haste to his room, and as the
poor gentleman was striving with all his might to detach the cat from
his face, they opened the door with a master-key and went in with
lights and witnessed the unequal combat. The duke ran forward to part
the combatants, but Don Quixote cried out aloud, “Let no one take him
from me; leave me hand to hand with this demon, this wizard, this
enchanter; I will teach him, I myself, who Don Quixote of La Mancha
is.” The cat, however, never minding these threats, snarled and held
on; but at last the duke pulled it off and flung it out of the window.
Don Quixote was left with a face as full of holes as a sieve and a nose
not in very good condition, and greatly vexed that they did not let him
finish the battle he had been so stoutly fighting with that villain of
an enchanter. They sent for some oil of John’s wort, and Altisidora
herself with her own fair hands bandaged all the wounded parts; and as
she did so she said to him in a low voice. “All these mishaps have
befallen thee, hardhearted knight, for the sin of thy insensibility and
obstinacy; and God grant thy squire Sancho may forget to whip himself,
so that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of thine may never be released
from her enchantment, that thou mayest never come to her bed, at least
while I who adore thee am alive.”

To all this Don Quixote made no answer except to heave deep sighs, and
then stretched himself on his bed, thanking the duke and duchess for
their kindness, not because he stood in any fear of that bell-ringing
rabble of enchanters in cat shape, but because he recognised their good
intentions in coming to his rescue. The duke and duchess left him to
repose and withdrew greatly grieved at the unfortunate result of the
joke; as they never thought the adventure would have fallen so heavy on
Don Quixote or cost him so dear, for it cost him five days of
confinement to his bed, during which he had another adventure,
pleasanter than the late one, which his chronicler will not relate just
now in order that he may turn his attention to Sancho Panza, who was
proceeding with great diligence and drollery in his government.

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