CHAPTER 21
WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO’S HEL-
MET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT
It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into the fulling
mills, but Don Quixote had taken such an abhorrence to them on account of
the late joke that he would not enter them on any account; so turning aside
to right they came upon another road, different from that which they had
taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don Quixote perceived a man on
horseback who wore on his head something that shone like gold, and the
moment he saw him he turned to Sancho and said:
“I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being maxims
drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences, especially that
one that says, ‘Where one door shuts, another opens.’ I say so because if last
night fortune shut the door of the adventure we were looking for against us,
cheating us with the fulling mills, it now opens wide another one for anoth-
er better and more certain adventure, and if I do not contrive to enter it, it
will be my own fault, and I cannot lay it to my ignorance of fulling mills, or
the darkness of the night. I say this because, if I mistake not, there comes
towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning
which I took the oath thou rememberest.”
“Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do,” said
Sancho, “for I don’t want any more fulling mills to finish off fulling and
knocking our senses out.”
“The devil take thee, man,” said Don Quixote; “what has a helmet to do
with fulling mills?”
“I don’t know,” replied Sancho, “but, faith, if I might speak as I used, per-
haps I could give such reasons that your worship would see you were mis-
taken in what you say.”
“How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?” returned Don
Quixote; “tell me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards us on a dap-
pled grey steed, who has upon his head a helmet of gold?”
“What I see and make out,” answered Sancho, “is only a man on a grey
ass like my own, who has something that shines on his head.”
“Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino,” said Don Quixote; “stand to one
side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without saying a
word, to save time, I shall bring this adventure to an issue and possess my-
self of the helmet I have so longed for.”
“I will take care to stand aside,” said Sancho; “but God grant, I say once
more, that it may be marjoram and not fulling mills.”
“I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling mills to
me again,” said Don Quixote, “or I vow—and I say no more-I’ll full the soul
out of you.”
Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out the vow
he had hurled like a bowl at him.
The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and knight that Don
Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbourhood there were two villages, one
of them so small that it had neither apothecary’s shop nor barber, which the
other that was close to it had, so the barber of the larger served the smaller,
and in it there was a sick man who required to be bled and another man who
wanted to be shaved, and on this errand the barber was going, carrying with
him a brass basin; but as luck would have it, as he was on the way it began
to rain, and not to spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the
basin on his head, and being clean it glittered at half a league’s distance. He
rode upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was what made it seem to
Don Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a knight and a golden helmet;
for everything he saw he made to fall in with his crazy chivalry and ill-er-
rant notions; and when he saw the poor knight draw near, without entering
into any parley with him, at Rocinante’s top speed he bore down upon him
with the pike pointed low, fully determined to run him through and through,
and as he reached him, without checking the fury of his charge, he cried to
him:
“Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that
which is so reasonably my due.”
The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw this
apparition coming down upon him, had no other way of saving himself
from the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his ass; and no sooner
had he touched the ground than he sprang up more nimbly than a deer and
sped away across the plain faster than the wind.
He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote contented him-
self, saying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated the beaver,
which finding itself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts off with its teeth
that for which, by its natural instinct, it knows it is pursued.
He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his hands said:
“By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if it is worth a
maravedis,” and handed it to his master, who immediately put it on his
head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in search of fitment, and not
finding it he said, “Clearly the pagan to whose measure this famous head-
piece was first forged must have had a very large head; but the worst of it is
half of it is wanting.”
When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to re-
strain his laughter, but remembering his master’s wrath he checked himself
in the midst of it.
“What art thou laughing at, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“I am laughing,” said he, “to think of the great head the pagan must have
had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular barber’s
basin.”
“Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?” said Don Quixote; “that this
wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange accident
have come into the hands of some one who was unable to recognise or re-
alise its value, and who, not knowing what he did, and seeing it to be of the
purest gold, must have melted down one half for the sake of what it might
be worth, and of the other made this which is like a barber’s basin as thou
sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognise it, its transformation makes
no difference, for I will set it to rights at the first village where there is a
blacksmith, and in such style that that helmet the god of smithies forged for
the god of battles shall not surpass it or even come up to it; and in the mean-
time I will wear it as well as I can, for something is better than nothing; all
the more as it will be quite enough to protect me from any chance blow of a
stone.”
“That is,” said Sancho, “if it is not shot with a sling as they were in the
battle of the two armies, when they signed the cross on your worship’s
grinders and smashed the flask with that blessed draught that made me
vomit my bowels up.”
“It does not grieve me much to have lost it,” said Don Quixote, “for thou
knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory.”
“So have I,” answered Sancho, “but if ever I make it, or try it again as
long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I have no intention of
putting myself in the way of wanting it, for I mean, with all my five senses,
to keep myself from being wounded or from wounding anyone: as to being
blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to prevent mishaps of that sort,
and if they come there is nothing for it but to squeeze our shoulders togeth-
er, hold our breath, shut our eyes, and let ourselves go where luck and the
blanket may send us.”
“Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,” said Don Quixote on hearing this,
“for once an injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it: but know
that it is the part of noble and generous hearts not to attach importance to
trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it, what broken rib, what cracked
head, that thou canst not forget that jest? For jest and sport it was, properly
regarded, and had I not seen it in that light I would have returned and done
more mischief in revenging thee than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen,
who, if she were alive now, or if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend
upon it she would not be so famous for her beauty as she is;” and here he
heaved a sigh and sent it aloft; and said Sancho, “Let it pass for a jest as it
cannot be revenged in earnest, but I know what sort of jest and earnest it
was, and I know it will never be rubbed out of my memory any more than
off my shoulders. But putting that aside, will your worship tell me what are
we to do with this dapple-grey steed that looks like a grey ass, which that
Martino that your worship overthrew has left deserted here? for, from the
way he took to his heels and bolted, he is not likely ever to come back for
it; and by my beard but the grey is a good one.”
“I have never been in the habit,” said Don Quixote, “of taking spoil of
those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take away their
horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be that the victor have
lost his own in the combat, in which case it is lawful to take that of the van-
quished as a thing won in lawful war; therefore, Sancho, leave this horse, or
ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be; for when its owner sees us gone
hence he will come back for it.”
“God knows I should like to take it,” returned Sancho, “or at least to
change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a one: verily the
laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be stretched to let one ass be
changed for another; I should like to know if I might at least change
trappings.”
“On that head I am not quite certain,” answered Don Quixote, “and the
matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou mayest change
them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them.”
“So urgent is it,” answered Sancho, “that if they were for my own person
I could not want them more;” and forthwith, fortified by this licence, he ef-
fected the mutatio capparum, rigging out his beast to the ninety-nines and
making quite another thing of it. This done, they broke their fast on the re-
mains of the spoils of war plundered from the sumpter mule, and drank of
the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, without casting a look in that
direction, in such loathing did they hold them for the alarm they had caused
them; and, all anger and gloom removed, they mounted and, without taking
any fixed road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing for true knights-
errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante’s will, which carried along with it
that of his master, not to say that of the ass, which always followed him
wherever he led, lovingly and sociably; nevertheless they returned to the
high road, and pursued it at a venture without any other aim.
As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his master, “Senor,
would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For since you
laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things have gone to rot in
my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip of my tongue that I don’t
want to be spoiled.”
“Say, on, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and be brief in thy discourse, for
there is no pleasure in one that is long.”
“Well then, senor,” returned Sancho, “I say that for some days past I have
been considering how little is got or gained by going in search of these ad-
ventures that your worship seeks in these wilds and cross-roads, where,
even if the most perilous are victoriously achieved, there is no one to see or
know of them, and so they must be left untold for ever, to the loss of your
worship’s object and the credit they deserve; therefore it seems to me it
would be better (saving your worship’s better judgment) if we were to go
and serve some emperor or other great prince who may have some war on
hand, in whose service your worship may prove the worth of your person,
your great might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which the lord
in whose service we may be will perforce have to reward us, each according
to his merits; and there you will not be at a loss for some one to set down
your achievements in writing so as to preserve their memory for ever. Of
my own I say nothing, as they will not go beyond squirely limits, though I
make bold to say that, if it be the practice in chivalry to write the achieve-
ments of squires, I think mine must not be left out.”
“Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “but before
that point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on proba-
tion, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some, name and fame
may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to the court of some
great monarch the knight may be already known by his deeds, and that the
boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of the city, may all follow him
and surround him, crying, ‘This is the Knight of the Sun’-or the Serpent, or
any other title under which he may have achieved great deeds. ‘This,’ they
will say, ‘is he who vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of
mighty strength; he who delivered the great Mameluke of Persia out of the
long enchantment under which he had been for almost nine hundred years.’
So from one to another they will go proclaiming his achievements; and
presently at the tumult of the boys and the others the king of that kingdom
will appear at the windows of his royal palace, and as soon as he beholds
the knight, recognising him by his arms and the device on his shield, he will
as a matter of course say, ‘What ho! Forth all ye, the knights of my court, to
receive the flower of chivalry who cometh hither!’ At which command all
will issue forth, and he himself, advancing half-way down the stairs, will
embrace him closely, and salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and will
then lead him to the queen’s chamber, where the knight will find her with
the princess her daughter, who will be one of the most beautiful and accom-
plished damsels that could with the utmost pains be discovered anywhere in
the known world. Straightway it will come to pass that she will fix her eyes
upon the knight and he his upon her, and each will seem to the other some-
thing more divine than human, and, without knowing how or why they will
be taken and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and sorely distressed
in their hearts not to see any way of making their pains and sufferings
known by speech. Thence they will lead him, no doubt, to some richly
adorned chamber of the palace, where, having removed his armour, they
will bring him a rich mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himself, and if he
looked noble in his armour he will look still more so in a doublet. When
night comes he will sup with the king, queen, and princess; and all the time
he will never take his eyes off her, stealing stealthy glances, unnoticed by
those present, and she will do the same, and with equal cautiousness, being,
as I have said, a damsel of great discretion. The tables being removed, sud-
denly through the door of the hall there will enter a hideous and diminutive
dwarf followed by a fair dame, between two giants, who comes with a cer-
tain adventure, the work of an ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it
shall be deemed the best knight in the world.
“The king will then command all those present to essay it, and none will
bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the great en-
hancement of his fame, whereat the princess will be overjoyed and will es-
teem herself happy and fortunate in having fixed and placed her thoughts so
high. And the best of it is that this king, or prince, or whatever he is, is en-
gaged in a very bitter war with another as powerful as himself, and the
stranger knight, after having been some days at his court, requests leave
from him to go and serve him in the said war. The king will grant it very
readily, and the knight will courteously kiss his hands for the favour done to
him; and that night he will take leave of his lady the princess at the grating
of the chamber where she sleeps, which looks upon a garden, and at which
he has already many times conversed with her, the go-between and confi-
dante in the matter being a damsel much trusted by the princess. He will
sigh, she will swoon, the damsel will fetch water, much distressed because
morning approaches, and for the honour of her lady he would not that they
were discovered; at last the princess will come to herself and will present
her white hands through the grating to the knight, who will kiss them a
thousand and a thousand times, bathing them with his tears. It will be
arranged between them how they are to inform each other of their good or
evil fortunes, and the princess will entreat him to make his absence as short
as possible, which he will promise to do with many oaths; once more he
kisses her hands, and takes his leave in such grief that he is well-nigh ready
to die. He betakes him thence to his chamber, flings himself on his bed, can-
not sleep for sorrow at parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave
of the king, queen, and princess, and, as he takes his leave of the pair, it is
told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive a visit; the knight
thinks it is from grief at his departure, his heart is pierced, and he is hardly
able to keep from showing his pain. The confidante is present, observes all,
goes to tell her mistress, who listens with tears and says that one of her
greatest distresses is not knowing who this knight is, and whether he is of
kingly lineage or not; the damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentle-
ness, and gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in any
save one who was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus relieved, and she
strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite suspicion in her parents,
and at the end of two days she appears in public. Meanwhile the knight has
taken his departure; he fights in the war, conquers the king’s enemy, wins
many cities, triumphs in many battles, returns to the court, sees his lady
where he was wont to see her, and it is agreed that he shall demand her in
marriage of her parents as the reward of his services; the king is unwilling
to give her, as he knows not who he is, but nevertheless, whether carried off
or in whatever other way it may be, the princess comes to be his bride, and
her father comes to regard it as very good fortune; for it so happens that this
knight is proved to be the son of a valiant king of some kingdom, I know
not what, for I fancy it is not likely to be on the map. The father dies, the
princess inherits, and in two words the knight becomes king. And here
comes in at once the bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all who have
aided him in rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his squire to a damsel of
the princess’s, who will be, no doubt, the one who was confidante in their
amour, and is daughter of a very great duke.”
“That’s what I want, and no mistake about it!” said Sancho. “That’s what
I’m waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store for your worship un-
der the title of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”
“Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “for in the
same manner, and by the same steps as I have described here, knights-errant
rise and have risen to be kings and emperors; all we want now is to find out
what king, Christian or pagan, is at war and has a beautiful daughter; but
there will be time enough to think of that, for, as I have told thee, fame must
be won in other quarters before repairing to the court. There is another
thing, too, that is wanting; for supposing we find a king who is at war and
has a beautiful daughter, and that I have won incredible fame throughout the
universe, I know not how it can be made out that I am of royal lineage, or
even second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not be willing to give
me his daughter in marriage unless he is first thoroughly satisfied on this
point, however much my famous deeds may deserve it; so that by this defi-
ciency I fear I shall lose what my arm has fairly earned. True it is I am a
gentleman of known house, of estate and property, and entitled to the five
hundred sueldos mulct; and it may be that the sage who shall write my his-
tory will so clear up my ancestry and pedigree that I may find myself fifth
or sixth in descent from a king; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that
there are two kinds of lineages in the world; some there be tracing and de-
riving their descent from kings and princes, whom time has reduced little by
little until they end in a point like a pyramid upside down; and others who
spring from the common herd and go on rising step by step until they come
to be great lords; so that the difference is that the one were what they no
longer are, and the others are what they formerly were not. And I may be of
such that after investigation my origin may prove great and famous, with
which the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satisfied; and
should he not be, the princess will so love me that even though she well
knew me to be the son of a water-carrier, she will take me for her lord and
husband in spite of her father; if not, then it comes to seizing her and carry-
ing her off where I please; for time or death will put an end to the wrath of
her parents.”
“It comes to this, too,” said Sancho, “what some naughty people say,
‘Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by force;’ though it would fit
better to say, ‘A clear escape is better than good men’s prayers.’ I say so be-
cause if my lord the king, your worship’s father-in-law, will not condescend
to give you my lady the princess, there is nothing for it but, as your worship
says, to seize her and transport her. But the mischief is that until peace is
made and you come into the peaceful enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor
squire is famishing as far as rewards go, unless it be that the confidante
damsel that is to be his wife comes with the princess, and that with her he
tides over his bad luck until Heaven otherwise orders things; for his master,
I suppose, may as well give her to him at once for a lawful wife.”
“Nobody can object to that,” said Don Quixote.
“Then since that may be,” said Sancho, “there is nothing for it but to
commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what course it will.”
“God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants,” said Don Quixote,
“and mean be he who thinks himself mean.”
“In God’s name let him be so,” said Sancho: “I am an old Christian, and
to fit me for a count that’s enough.”
“And more than enough for thee,” said Don Quixote; “and even wert thou
not, it would make no difference, because I being the king can easily give
thee nobility without purchase or service rendered by thee, for when I make
thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman; and they may say what they
will, but by my faith they will have to call thee ‘your lordship,’ whether they
like it or not.”
“Not a doubt of it; and I’ll know how to support the tittle,” said Sancho.
“Title thou shouldst say, not tittle,” said his master.
“So be it,” answered Sancho. “I say I will know how to behave, for once
in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and the beadle’s gown sat so well
on me that all said I looked as if I was to be steward of the same brother-
hood. What will it be, then, when I put a duke’s robe on my back, or dress
myself in gold and pearls like a count? I believe they’ll come a hundred
leagues to see me.”
“Thou wilt look well,” said Don Quixote, “but thou must shave thy beard
often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and unkempt, that if thou dost not
shave it every second day at least, they will see what thou art at the distance
of a musket shot.”
“What more will it be,” said Sancho, “than having a barber, and keeping
him at wages in the house? and even if it be necessary, I will make him go
behind me like a nobleman’s equerry.”
“Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries behind them?”
asked Don Quixote.
“I will tell you,” answered Sancho. “Years ago I was for a month at the
capital and there I saw taking the air a very small gentleman who they said
was a very great man, and a man following him on horseback in every turn
he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why this man did not join the other
man, instead of always going behind him; they answered me that he was his
equerry, and that it was the custom with nobles to have such persons behind
them, and ever since then I know it, for I have never forgotten it.”
“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and in the same way thou mayest
carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not come into use all together,
nor were they all invented at once, and thou mayest be the first count to
have a barber to follow him; and, indeed, shaving one’s beard is a greater
trust than saddling one’s horse.”
“Let the barber business be my look-out,” said Sancho; “and your wor-
ship’s be it to strive to become a king, and make me a count.”
“So it shall be,” answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes he saw what
will be told in the following chapter.
