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堂吉诃德|Don Quixote

Part 1 第1章|Part 1 Chapter 1

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 塞万提斯] 阅读：[44667]
《堂吉诃德》是一部幽默诙谐、滑稽可笑、充满了奇思妙想的长篇文学巨著。此书主要描写了一个有趣、可敬、可悲、喜欢自欺欺人的没落贵族堂吉诃德，他痴狂地迷恋古代骑士小说，以至于放弃家业，用破甲驽马装扮成古代骑士的样子，再雇佣农民桑乔作侍从，三次出征周游全国，去创建所谓的扶弱锄强的骑士业绩。他们在征险的生涯中闹出了许多笑话，到处碰壁受辱，堂吉诃德多次被打成重伤，有一次还被当成疯子关在笼子里遣送回乡。最后，他因征战不利郁郁寡欢而与世长辞，临终前他那一番貌似悔悟的话语让人匪夷所思又哭笑不得。
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曼查有个地方，地名就不用提了，不久前住着一位贵族。他那类贵族，矛架上有一支长矛，还有一面皮盾、一匹瘦马和一只猎兔狗。锅里牛肉比羊肉多①，晚餐常吃凉拌肉丁，星期六吃脂油煎鸡蛋，星期五吃扁豆，星期日加一只野雏鸽，这就用去了他四分之三的收入，其余的钱买了节日穿的黑呢外套、长毛绒袜子和平底鞋，而平时，他总是得意洋洋地穿着上好的棕色粗呢衣。家里有一个四十多岁的女管家，一个不到二十岁的外甥女，还有一个能种地、能采购的小伙子，为他备马、修剪树枝。

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①当时羊肉比牛肉贵。

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我们的这位贵族年近五旬，体格健壮，肌肉干瘪，脸庞清瘦，每天起得很早，喜欢打猎。据说他还有一个别名，叫基哈达或克萨达（各种记载略有不同）。推论起来，应该叫吉哈纳。不过，这对我们的故事并不重要，只要我们谈起他来不失真实就行。

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人家说这位贵族一年到头闲的时候居多，闲时常读骑士小说，而且读得爱不释手，津津有味，几乎忘记了习武和理财。他痴心不已，简直走火入魔，居然卖掉了许多田地去买骑士小说。他把所有能弄到的骑士小说都搬回家。不过，所有这些小说，他都觉得不如闻名遐迩的费利西亚诺·德席尔瓦写得好，此人的平铺直叙和繁冗陈述被他视为明珠，特别在读到那些殷勤话和挑逗信时更是如此。许多地方这样写道：“以你无理对我有理之道理，使我自觉理亏，因此我埋怨你漂亮也有道理。”还有：“高空以星星使你的神圣更加神圣，使你受之无愧地接受你受之无愧的伟大称号而受之无愧。”

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这些话使得这位可怜的贵族惶惑不已。他夜不能寐，要理解这些即使亚里士多德再生也理解不了的句子，琢磨其意。他对唐贝利亚尼斯打伤了别人而自己也受伤略感不快，可以想象，即使高明的外科医生治好了病，也不免会在脸上和全身留下伤疤累累。然而，他很欣赏书的末尾说故事还没有完结，很多次，他甚至提笔续写。如果不是其它更重要的想法不断打扰他，他肯定会续写，而且会写完的。

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他常常和当地的神父（一位知识渊博的人，毕业于锡古恩萨）争论，谁是最优秀的骑士，是英格兰的帕尔梅林呢，还是高卢的阿马迪斯？可是同村的理发师尼古拉斯师傅却说，谁都比不上太阳神骑士。如果有人能够与之相比，那么，只能是高卢的阿马迪斯的兄弟加劳尔。他具有各方面的条件，不是矫揉造作的骑士，而且不像他兄弟那样爱哭，论勇敢也不比他兄弟差。

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总之，他沉湎于书，每天晚上通宵达旦，白天也读得天昏地转。这样，睡得少，读得多，终于思维枯竭，神经失常，满脑袋都是书上虚构的那些东西，都是想入非非的魔术、打斗、战争、挑战、负伤、献殷勤、爱情、暴风雨、胡言乱语等。他确信他在书上读到的所有那些虚构杜撰都是真的。对他来说，世界上只有那些故事才是实事。他说熙德·鲁伊·迪亚斯是一位杰出的骑士，可是与火剑骑士无法相比。火剑骑士反手一击，就把两个巨大的恶魔劈成了两半。他最推崇卡皮奥的贝尔纳多。在龙塞斯瓦列斯，贝尔纳多借助赫拉克勒斯①把地神之子安泰②举起扼死的方法，杀死了会魔法的罗尔丹。他十分称赞巨人摩根达。其他巨人都傲慢无礼，唯有他文质彬彬。不过，他最赞赏的是蒙塔尔万的雷纳尔多斯，特别是看到故事中说，他走出城堡，逢物便偷，而且还到海外偷了全身金铸的穆罕默德像的时候，更是赞叹不止。为了狠狠地踢一顿叛徒加拉隆，他情愿献出他的女管家，甚至可以再赔上他的外甥女。

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①赫拉克勒斯是古罗马神话中的大力神。

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②安泰一旦离开地面就失去了力量。

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实际上，他理性已尽失。他产生了一个世界上所有疯子都不曾有过的怪诞想法，自己倒认为既合适又有必要，既可以提高自己的声望，还可以报效他的国家。他要做个游侠骑士，带着他的甲胄和马走遍世界，八方征险，实施他在小说里看到的游侠骑士所做的一切，赴汤蹈火，报尽天下仇，而后留芳千古。可怜的他已经在想象靠自己双臂的力量，起码得统治特拉彼松达帝国。想到这些，他心中陶然，而且从中体验到了一种奇特的快感，于是他立即将愿望付诸行动。他首先做的就是清洗他的曾祖父留下的甲胄。甲胄长年不用，被遗忘在一个角落里，已经生锈发霉。他把甲胄洗干净，尽可能地拾掇好，可是他发现了一个大毛病，就是没有完整的头盔，只有一个简单的顶盔。不过，他可以设法补救。他用纸壳做了半个头盔接在顶盔上，看起来像个完整的头盔。为了试试头盔是否结实，是否能够抵御刀击，他拔剑扎了两下。结果，刚在一个地方扎了一下，他一星期的成果就毁坏了。看到这么容易就把它弄碎了，他颇感不快。他又做了一个头盔。为了保证头蓝不会再次被毁坏，他在里面装了几根铁棍。他对自己的头盔感到满意，不愿意再做试验，就当它是个完美的头盔。

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然后，他去看马。虽然那马的蹄裂好比一个雷阿尔①，毛病比戈内拉②那匹皮包骨头的马毛病还多，他还是觉得，无论亚历山大的骏马布塞法洛还是熙德的骏马巴别卡，都不能与之相比。

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①此句为双关语。“蹄裂”的原文又是一种辅币夸尔托。一个雷阿尔等于八个夸尔托。

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②戈内拉是意大利的滑稽家，有一匹瘦马。

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他用了四天时间给马起名。因为（据他自言自语），像他这样有名望、心地善良的骑士的马没有个赫赫大名就太不像话了。他要给马起个名字，让人知道，在他成为游侠之前它的声名，后来又怎么样。主人地位变，马名随之改，这也是合情合理的。得起个鼎鼎煊赫、如雷贯耳的名字，才能与他的新品第、新行当相匹配。他造了很多名字，都不行，再补充，又去掉。最后，凭记忆加想象，才选定叫罗西南多。他觉得这个名字高雅、响亮，表示在此之前，它是一匹瘦马，而今却在世界上首屈一指①。

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①按照原文发音，罗西南多为“瘦马”和“第一”的合音。

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给马起了个称心如意的名字之后，他又想给自己起个名字。这又想了八天，最后才想起叫唐吉诃德。前面谈到，这个真实故事的作者认为他肯定叫基哈达，而不是像别人说的那样叫克萨达。不过，想到勇敢的阿马迪斯不满足于叫阿马迪斯，还要把王国和家乡的名字加上，为故里增光，叫高卢的阿马迪斯，这位优秀的骑士也想把老家的名字加在自己的名字上，就叫曼查的唐吉诃德。他觉得这样既可以表明自己的籍贯，还可以为故乡带来荣耀。

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洗净了甲胄，把顶盔做成了头盔，又为马和自己起了名字，他想，就差一个恋人了。没有爱情的游侠骑士就好像一棵树无叶无果，一个躯体没有灵魂。他自语道：“假如我倒霉或走运，在什么地方碰到某个巨人，这对游侠骑士是常有的事，我就一下子把他打翻在地或拦腰斩断，或者最终把他战胜，降伏了他。我让他去见一个人难道不好吗？我让他进门跪倒在我漂亮的夫人面前，低声下气地说：‘夫人，我是巨人卡拉库利安布罗，是马林德拉尼亚岛的领主。绝代骑士曼查的唐吉诃德以非凡的技艺将我打败了，并且命令我到您这儿来，听候您的吩咐。’”哦，一想到这段话，我们的优秀骑士多得意呀，尤其是当他找到了他可以赋予恋人芳名的对象时，他更得意了。原来，据说他爱上了附近一位漂亮的农村姑娘。他一直爱着那位姑娘，虽然他明白，那位姑娘从不知道也从未意识到这件事。她叫阿尔东萨·洛伦索。他认为，把这位姑娘作为想象中的恋人是合适的。他要为她起个名字，既不次于自己的名字，又接近公主和贵夫人的名字。她出生在托博索，那就叫“托博索的杜尔西内亚”吧。他觉得这个名字同他给自己和其他东西起的名字一样悦耳、美妙、有意义。

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In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair’s breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

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You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva’s composition, for their lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found passages like “the reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your beauty;” or again, “the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves.” Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand them and worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He commended, however, the author’s way of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.

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Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain.

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In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution.

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The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction.

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He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that “tantum pellis et ossa fuit,” surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so, after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the world.

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Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself “Don Quixote,” whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in taking his surname from it.

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So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to himself, “If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, ‘I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure’?” Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of some one to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso — she being of El Toboso — a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.

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