Th e “terrible thought” (11) that Don Quixote had refers to
Ahis leaving home without telling anyone
Bhis not knowing where he was going
Cthe wrongs that his lady had done him
Dhis status not being quite legitimate
Ehis ambitions being too great
Passage 1. Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
Th ese preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the execution
of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was losing by his delay,
seeing what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair,
abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention
to anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning
of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit
of armour, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler,
took his lance, and by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the
highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning
with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he fi nd himself upon the open plain,
when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon the
enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a
knight, and that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to
bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a
novice knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon the shield until by his
prowess he had earned one. Th ese refl ections made him waver in his purpose, but
his craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself
dubbed a knight by the fi rst one he came across, following the example of others
in the same case, as he had read in the books that brought him to this pass. As for
white armor, he resolved, on the fi rst opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter
than an ermine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which
his horse chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.
Th us setting out, our new-fl edged adventurer paced along, talking to himself
and saying, “Who knows but that in time to come, when the veracious history of
my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth
my fi rst sally in the early morning, will do it after this fashion? ‘Scarce had the
rubicund Apollo spread o’er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads
of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their notes
to hail with dulcet and mellifl uous harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that,
deserting the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates
and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote
of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and
began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel;’” which in fact he
was actually traversing. “Happy the age, happy the time,” he continued, “in which
shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be molded in brass, carved in
marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician,
whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history,
forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the constant companion of
my ways and wanderings.” Presently he broke out again, as if he were love-stricken
in earnest, “O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast
thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish
me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in remembrance this
heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for love of thee.”
Th ese preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the execution
of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was losing by his delay,
seeing what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair,
abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention
to anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning
of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit
of armour, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler,
took his lance, and by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the
highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning
with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he fi nd himself upon the open plain,
when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon the
enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a
knight, and that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to
bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a
novice knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon the shield until by his
prowess he had earned one. Th ese refl ections made him waver in his purpose, but
his craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself
dubbed a knight by the fi rst one he came across, following the example of others
in the same case, as he had read in the books that brought him to this pass. As for
white armor, he resolved, on the fi rst opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter
than an ermine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which
his horse chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.
Th us setting out, our new-fl edged adventurer paced along, talking to himself
and saying, “Who knows but that in time to come, when the veracious history of
my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth
my fi rst sally in the early morning, will do it after this fashion? ‘Scarce had the
rubicund Apollo spread o’er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads
of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their notes
to hail with dulcet and mellifl uous harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that,
deserting the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates
and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote
of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and
began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel;’” which in fact he
was actually traversing. “Happy the age, happy the time,” he continued, “in which
shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be molded in brass, carved in
marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician,
whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history,
forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the constant companion of
my ways and wanderings.” Presently he broke out again, as if he were love-stricken
in earnest, “O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast
thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish
me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in remembrance this
heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for love of thee.”