Which deals with the high adventure and priceless acquisition of Mambrino’s helmet, with other things that happened to our invincible knight.
At that moment, it began to rain a bit and Sancho suggested that they go into one of the fulling mills, but because don Quixote had developed such a loathing of them owing to the bad joke, he refused to go in under any circumstance. So, as the road twisted off to the right, they came upon a new one similar to the one they had taken the day before.
In a little while don Quixote saw a man riding along wearing something on his head that glittered as if it were made of gold, and hardly had he seen it when he turned toward Sancho and said: “It seems to me, Sancho, that there’s no proverb that isn’t true, because they’re all maxims taken from experience, the mother of all sciences, especially that one that says: «where one door closes, another opens». I say this because if last night Fortune closed the door on the adventure we were seeking by deceiving us with the fulling mills, it has opened wide another better and more certain adventure now; and if I don’t take it on, it will be my own fault, and I won’t be able to blame either my lack of experience with fulling mills or the darkness of the night. I say this because, if I’m not mistaken, a man is coming toward us who is wearing Mambrino’s helmet, about which I made the oath you know about.”
“Watch what you’re saying, your grace, and even more what you’re doing,” said Sancho. “I don’t want it to be more fulling mills that will get the better of us and knock us senseless.”
“The devil take you,” replied don Quixote. “What does the helmet have to do with fulling mills?”
“I don’t know anything,” responded Sancho, “but I swear if I could talk as much as I used to, maybe I’d say things so that your grace would see that you’re mistaken in what you’re saying.”
“How can I be mistaken in what I’m saying, you frightened traitor?” said don Quixote. “Tell me, don’t you see that knight coming toward us on a dappled silver-grey horse who is wearing a golden helmet on his head?”
“What I can make out,” responded Sancho, “is nothing more than a man on a dark-grey donkey, like mine, who is wearing something on his head that’s shining.”
“Well, that’s Mambrino’s helmet!” said don Quixote. “Step to one side and let me at him by myself. You’ll see how I can, without uttering a single word, to save time, finish off this adventure, and the helmet I wanted so much will be mine.”
“I’ll be careful to get out of the way,” responded Sancho, “but I’ll say again, «may God make it oregano», and not turn it into fulling mills.”
“I’ve told you, brother, never even to consider mentioning fulling mills to me again,” said don Quixote, “because I swear to… and I won’t say any more; and may God hammer your very soul.”
Sancho stopped talking, fearing that his master would fulfill the vow that he’d just made, in no uncertain terms.
Here’s what the situation was with the helmet, the horse, and the rider that don Quixote saw: in that region there were two villages, one so small it had neither an apothecary’s shop nor a barber, and another one nearby that did. So, the barber from the larger village served the smaller one; and in the latter village there was a sick person who needed to be bled and another who needed a shave, and for that reason the barber had a basin made of brass with him. As luck would have it, just as he was passing by, it began to rain. So that he wouldn’t spoil his hat (which was probably new), he put the basin on his head, and since it was polished, it shone from half a league away. He was riding a grey donkey, as Sancho said. This was the circumstance that led don Quixote to believe that it was a dappled silver-grey horse, with a knight wearing a golden helmet, since everything he saw he easily tailored to his nonsensical notions of chivalry. When he saw that the poor man was approaching, without exchanging any words with him, he set Rocinante to gallop and lowered his lance, intending to split him in two. But as he got near, maintaining the furious pace of his attack, he shouted to him: “Defend yourself, you vile creature, or hand over of your free will what so rightly belongs to me!”
The barber, who so unexpectedly saw that phantom bear down on him, couldn’t do anything to prevent his being run through with the lance but to drop from his donkey, and hardly had he touched the ground when he jumped up more agile than a deer, and began to run through that field faster than the wind. His basin fell onto the ground, which pleased don Quixote, who said that the pagan had been prudent, and he’d imitated the beaver, who, when pursued by hunters, bites and tears out with his teeth that for which he knows by instinct he’s being hunted. He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and taking it in his hands, he said: “By God, this is a nice basin! It must be worth a real if it’s worth a maravedí!”
When he gave it to his master, he put it on his head right away, turning it about to examine it, and looking for the visor. Seeing that it was missing, he said: “The pagan for whom this helmet was fitted doubtless had a very large head, but what’s worse is that half of it’s missing.”
When Sancho heard the basin being called a helmet, he couldn’t contain his laughter. But when he remembered his master’s anger, he stopped laughing immediately.
“What are you laughing about, Sancho?” said don Quixote.
“I’m laughing,” responded Sancho, “thinking about the big head belonging to the pagan owner of this helmet, which looks perfectly like a barber’s basin.”
“Do you know what I think, Sancho? I think this famous fragment of this enchanted helmet, by some strange accident must have come into the hands of someone who couldn’t recognize or appreciate its value, and without realizing what he was doing, seeing that it was cast from purest gold, must have melted the other half for what it might be worth, and from this half he made what looks like a barber’s basin, just as you say. But no matter, since I recognize what it is, the transformation makes no difference. I’ll have it repaired in the first village with a blacksmith, so that the one that the god of smithies made and forged for the god of battles won’t surpass it or even come close; and until I can have it fixed, I’ll wear it as well as I can, for something is better than nothing, and what’s more, it’ll be enough to protect me from a shower of stones.”
“That’s only,” said Sancho, “if they’re not shot from a sling, like the ones that were hurled in the battle with the two armies, when they made the sign of the cross on your molars and broke the cruet that contained the very blessed brew that made me vomit my guts out.”
“It doesn’t bother me that I lost it, because, as you know, Sancho,” said don Quixote, “I have the recipe for it in my head.”
“I do, too,” responded Sancho. “But if I ever were to make it or taste any more of it in my life, may I die right then. In any case, I don’t plan to get into a situation where I’ll need any, because I’ll use all of my five senses to prevent myself from getting hurt by anybody. About getting blanketed again, I won’t say anything, since such misfortunes can scarcely be prevented; and if they do happen, the only thing you can do is shrug your shoulders and go wherever luck and the blanket take you.”
“You’re a bad Christian, Sancho,” said don Quixote when he heard this, “because you never forget an injury once it’s been done to you. Don’t you know that noble and generous hearts pay no attention to such foolishness? Are you lame? Do you have a broken rib? Did your head crack open? Why can’t you just forget that jest? When you think about it, it was just a joke and entertainment, and if I hadn’t seen it just that way, I would have gone back and done greater damage in avenging you than the Greeks did when Helen was kidnapped. If she lived in these times, or my Dulcinea lived in hers, you could be quite sure that she wouldn’t be as famous for her beauty as she is.” And here he heaved a sigh toward the clouds.
And Sancho said: “Let it go as a prank since I can’t do anything about it—but I do know the difference between what is in earnest and what is a joke, and I also know that it will stay in my memory and imprinted on my back. But all this aside, what should we do with this dappled silver-grey horse that looks like a grey donkey, abandoned by that fellow Martino, who you overcame when he took to his heels? It looks to me like he doesn’t ever plan to come back for it, and it’s a really nice donkey!”
“I’m not accustomed,” said don Quixote, “to despoiling those whom I conquer nor does chivalric law allow us to take their horses and leave them on foot. Now, if the victor loses his horse in the fray, it’s legitimate to take the horse belonging to the conquered one as a lawful prize of war. So, Sancho, leave this horse or donkey, or whatever you want it to be, alone, since its owner, when he sees us go away, will come back for it.”
“God knows that I’d like to take it,” replied Sancho, “or at least exchange it for mine, which doesn’t seem quite as good. Truly the laws of chivalry are strict since they don’t even allow you to exchange one donkey for another. But I’d like to know if I can at least take the trappings.”
“I’m not sure about that,” responded don Quixote, “and in this case, until I can read up on the subject, I think it’s all right for you to exchange them, but only if you’re in great need of them.”
“So great is the need,” responded Sancho, “that if they were for my own use, my need wouldn’t be greater.”
So then, armed with this permission, he did the mutatio capparum and made his donkey look uncommonly handsome, bettering its looks several-fold.
Once this was done, they ate lunch using the spoils that they got from the pack mule, and they drank water from the brook downstream from the fulling mills, never looking back at them, such was the abhorrence they had of them, owing to the fear that the mills had instilled in them.
Having ministered to their hunger and even their melancholy, they got back onto their mounts and, with no special destination in mind—imitating the knights errant who took no particular road—they began to travel where Rocinante’s will led them. Rocinante led his master and also Sancho’s donkey, who always followed him no matter where he led, out of devotion and companionship. They wound up on the main highway, and continued along letting Fortune guide them without further thought.
As they went along, Sancho said to his master: “Señor, would your grace give me permission to speak with you a bit? Since you imposed that harsh commandment of silence on me, more than four things have turned rotten in my stomach, and I have yet another on the tip of my tongue that I don’t want to waste.”
“Say it all,” said don Quixote, “and be brief in what you say, since nothing is pleasing if it’s long.”
“I’ll say, señor,” responded Sancho, “that for some days now I’ve been thinking how little one earns by wandering about and seeking the adventures your grace is looking for in these deserted areas and at these crossroads, where, though the most dangerous ones are met and overcome, no one is around to see or hear of them, so they’ll be sunken into eternal silence, to the detriment of your ambition and contrary to the fame that they deserve. So, it seems to me that it would be better, unless you have a better idea, for us to try to serve some emperor, or an important prince who is at war, in whose service you can show your courage, your enormous strength, and great intelligence. And when the lord we serve sees all this, he’ll just have to compensate each one according to his merits, and there will be no lack of scribes to write down your deeds for eternal remembrance. Of my own deeds I won’t say anything, since they won’t exceed the bounds of squirely duties, although I’ll tell you, if it’s chivalric custom to record the deeds of squires, I don’t think mine should be passed over in silence.”
“Not a bad idea, Sancho,” responded don Quixote, “but before a knight can get to that point, he’ll have to wander throughout the world, as if on probation, seeking adventures, so that, after he’s had a good number of them, he’ll have such renown that when he arrives at the court of some great monarch, his fame as a knight will be known through his deeds, and hardly will the boys of the city have seen him enter through the city gates when all of them will follow and surround him, shouting: ‘This the Knight of the Sun,’ or ‘of the Serpent,’ or some other insignia under which he’ll have done so many deeds. ‘This is,’ they will say, ‘the one who conquered in a singular battle the enormous giant Brocabruno of the Enormous Strength; he who liberated the great Mameluco of Persia from the enchantment that had gripped him for almost nine-hundred years.’ So from mouth to mouth his deeds will be proclaimed, and then in the midst of the tumult of the boys and the rest of the people, he’ll stop before the windows of the castle belonging to the king of that kingdom. And when the king sees him, he’ll recognize him immediately because of his armor or the emblem on his shield, and he’ll have to say: ‘All my knights! Stand up and go out to greet the flower of knighthood coming this way!’ And at this command they’ll all go out, and the king will go half-way down the stairs and will embrace him and will kiss him on the cheek, and will take him by the hand to meet the queen, where the knight will find her with the princess, their daughter, who will certainly be one of the most beautiful and perfect maidens to be found in the whole world. What will happen then is that the princess will cast her eyes on the knight and his on her, and each one will appear to the other more divine than human, and without knowing how, they will become prisoners of, and be bound in the inextricable net of love, and with great affliction in their hearts because they won’t know how they are to speak with each other to reveal their longings and feelings. From there he’ll be taken to some richly adorned room in the palace, where, once they have removed his armor, they’ll bring him a rich mantle of scarlet to wear; and if he looked good in his armor, he’ll look as good or even better in his doublet.
“When the night comes, he’ll dine with the king, queen, and princess, and he’ll never take his eyes off of her, looking at her on the sly so others won’t notice, and she’ll do the same with similar circumspection, because, as I said, she’s a very discreet maiden. The tables will be whisked away, and through the door of that room an ugly little dwarf will enter unannounced, followed by two giants flanking a beautiful lady-in-waiting, and she’ll have with her a certain difficult trial devised by an old wise man who is an expert in matters of chivalry, and the one who does best in the trial will be deemed the best knight in the world. The king will then command all those present to attempt it, and no one will be able to do it except the guest knight, much to the enhancement of his fame, and to the contentment of the princess, all the more so for having placed her thoughts so high. And the best part is that this king or prince, or whatever he is, is engaging in a very savage war with another as powerful as himself, and the guest knight asks his permission—after a few days at his court—to serve him in that war. The king will grant it very willingly, and the knight will kiss his hands for the favor done him.
“And that night he’ll go to the garden to bid farewell to the princess through the grating of the room where she sleeps, through which he’s spoken to her many times, through the wiles of a maiden whom she trusts as the go-between and confidante in everything. He’ll sigh, she’ll faint, the maiden will bring her water and will be distraught, because the morning is coming and she doesn’t want to sully the honor of her lady if they’re found out. Finally the princess will come to, and will give the knight her white hands through the grating, and he’ll kiss them a thousand and a thousand times more and will bathe them in tears. They will then plan how they should exchange news about their good or bad fortune, and the princess will beg him to stay away as short a time as he can, which he’ll swear to do. He’ll then kiss her hands again, and say good-bye with such emotion that he’ll almost die. He goes to his room and throws himself onto his bed and cannot sleep because of this painful farewell, and gets up early in the morning. He goes to say his good-byes to the king and queen, and to the princess. They tell him, when he has bade farewell to the two of them, that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive visitors. The knight figures it’s because of the grief caused by his leaving, which pierces his heart, and he all but betrays his own anguish. The maiden go-between is present. She notices this and runs off to tell her mistress about it, and she receives this news with tears, and she says that one of her greatest sorrows is that she doesn’t know who her knight is, or if he’s of royal lineage or not. The maiden assures her that so much courtesy, gentle bearing, and valor such as her knight possesses could only be found in a royal and important person. The afflicted girl is consoled by this and tries to rally so that she won’t arouse her parents’ suspicion, and at the end of the second day she again appears in public. By now the knight has gone off to fight in the war, conquers the enemy of the king, sacks many cities, triumphs in countless battles. He returns to court, sees his lady in the usual place, and they agree that he’ll ask her father for her hand in marriage as a reward for his services. The king refuses to give his permission because he doesn’t know who he is. But by kidnaping her or otherwise, the princess comes to be his wife, and her father comes to consider it good fortune, because they have now found out that the knight is the son of a brave king of some kingdom or other—I don’t think it’s even on the map. The father dies, the princess inherits the kingdom, and in a few words, the knight becomes king. Now is when he can do favors for his squire, and for all those who helped him rise to his present state. He marries off his squire to a maiden of the princess, who must have been the go-between in their love, and she’ll be the daughter of a very important duke.”
“That’s what I want, no doubt about it!” said Sancho. “That’s what I’m waiting for, because everything has got to turn out that way, now that you’re known as the Woebegone Knight.”
“Don’t doubt it, Sancho,” replied don Quixote, “because in precisely that way, and by those very steps I’ve told you about, knights errant rise, and have risen, to become kings and emperors. All we need to do now is find out which Christian or pagan king is at war and has a beautiful daughter. But there’ll be plenty of time for all this since, as I’ve told you, before going to court, we have to become famous. But there’s one thing more: let’s say there’s a king who is at war who has a beautiful daughter, and that I’ll be incredibly famous throughout the universe, I just don’t know how it can be verified that I’m of royal lineage, or at least second cousin to an emperor. The king won’t hand me his daughter to be my wife unless he’s informed about this, no matter how much my famous deeds make me deserving. So, I fear that because of this, I’ll lose what my arm has made me worthy of. It’s true that I’m an hidalgo of recognized lineage and have an income of five-hundred sueldos, and it may be that the wizard who is writing my story can clear up my ancestry and origin so that I’ll turn out to be the great-grandson of a king.
“I’ll have you know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in the world: those who trace theirs to princes and monarchs, and little by little, taper off with time and wind up like a pyramid turned up-side-down. Others start out as low social class, and rise a bit at a time, until they get to be great lords. The difference is that some people were what they now are not, and others are now what they weren’t at first. I may be of those whose origin, after investigation, will prove to have been great and renowned, and the king who is to be my father-in-law will have to be content with that. And if he isn’t, the princess will be so much in love with me that in spite of her father, even though she finds out that I’m the son of a water carrier, will receive me as her lord and husband. And if that doesn’t work, here’s where I abduct her and take her wherever I want, and either time or death will put an end to the wrath of her parents.”
“And here also fits,” said Sancho, “what some mischievous people say: «don’t ask as a favor what you can take by force», although this next one is better: «a leap over the hedge is better than good men’s prayers». I say this because, if the señor king, your grace’s father-in-law, doesn’t want to hand over my lady the princess to you, all that needs to be done, as your grace says, is kidnap her and take her away. But the bad part is that until peace is made and you come to enjoy the peaceful possession of your kingdom, your poor squire is left out in the cold insofar as favors go, unless the confidante who is to be his wife comes with the princess and he shares his misfortune with her, until heaven ordains something else; for it may well be, I think, that his master will give her to him right away to be his wife.”
“Don’t worry, no one will take her away from you,” said don Quixote.
“Well, if that’s the way it is,” responded Sancho, “there’s nothing to do but commend ourselves to God and let Fortune take whatever road it will.”
“May God work it out,” responded don Quixote, “as I want, and you require, and «let him lie who will not rise».”
“May it be God’s will,” said Sancho, “because I’m an Old Christian, and to be a count, that’s plenty.”
“It’s more than enough,” said don Quixote, “and if it’s not, it would make
no difference, because since I’d be king, I could give you a noble title without your having to buy it or by your doing any particular service. Because when I make you a count, just imagine yourself there, now a knight, and say what they will. By my faith they’ll have to address you as your lordship, whether they like it or not.”
“And just watch how well I perform my duties with this new title of mobility!” said Sancho.
“Nobility you should say, and not mobility,” said his master.
“Whatever it is,” responded Sancho. “I say that I’ll be able to do it well, because I once served as a summoner in a brotherhood, and the robes of the summoner looked so good on me that everyone said that I could be the steward of that brotherhood. Well, what’ll happen when I put on the robe of a duke, or dress up in gold and pearls, as foreign counts do. I believe they’ll come from a hundred leagues just to look at me.”
“You’ll look good,” said don Quixote, “but you’ll have to keep your beard trimmed, because the way you have it now, so thick, tangled, and unkempt, if you don’t have it taken care of every other day at least, they’ll be able to tell what you are from a musket shot away.”
“All that’s needed,” said Sancho, “is to keep a salaried barber at home. And if it becomes necessary, I’ll have him follow me around like a groom does a grandee.”
“How do you know,” asked don Quixote, “that grandees have grooms that follow them around?”
“I’ll tell you,” responded Sancho. “Some years ago I spent a month at Court, and I saw a little fellow walking around there—although they said he was muy grande —a man followed him around on horseback every turn he took, and he seemed to be this fellow’s tail. I asked why this man never traveled next to the other, but always behind him. They said he was his groom, and it was the custom of the grandees to have those fellows follow them. I’ve always remembered it and have never forgotten it.”
“You’re quite right,” said don Quixote, “so you can have your own barber follow you. Customs weren’t invented all at once, nor were they established in a single day. You can be the first count to have a barber following him around, and it requires more trust to have one’s beard shaved than to have one’s horse saddled.”
“Leave the barber to me,” said Sancho, “and your grace should just take care to become a king and make me a count.”
“That’s the way it’ll be,” responded don Quixote.
And when they raised their eyes, they saw what will be told in the next chapter.