第9章 唐·吉诃德 (1)

　　[ 西班牙] 米盖儿·塞万提斯（ Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra）

　　Don Quixote

　　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 night，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 of fifty ；he was of a hardy habit，spare，

　　gauntfeatured，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.

　　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.

　　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