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堂吉诃德|Don Quixote

Part 1 第12章|Part 1 Chapter 12

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 塞万提斯] 阅读：[44337]
《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。
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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这时，又来了一个从村里送粮食来的小伙子。他说：

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“伙计们，你们知道村里的事吗？”

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“我们怎么会知道。”一个牧羊人说。

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“你们知道吗？”小伙子说，“那个有名的学究牧人克里索斯托莫今天早晨死了。人们私下说，他是因为爱上了财主吉列尔莫的女儿马塞拉而死的。那个小妖精常扮成牧羊姑娘在旷野里走动。”

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“你是说为了马塞拉？”有人问。

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“就是她，”小伙子说，“好在他已立下遗嘱，要把他像摩尔人那样埋在野外，还得是在栓皮槠树旁边的石头脚下。据传，他说过那是他第一次看到马塞拉的地方。他还要求了其它事情，镇上的牧师们说不能照办，也不应该照办，估计是些邪恶的事情。可他的老朋友安布罗西奥跟他一样是个学究，也是牧人，却要全都按照他的吩咐办，村上对此议论纷纷。据说，最后还是得按照克里索斯托莫和他那几个牧人朋友的意志办。明天，他们要到我刚才说的那个地方大张旗鼓地安葬。

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这事我可得看看，即使明天赶不回去，我也得去。”

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“我们也去，”那群牧羊人说，“现在咱们抓阄吧，看明天谁留下来看羊。”

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“说得对，佩德罗，”一个牧羊人说，“不过别抓阄了，我留下来看羊。倒不是我心眼好或者不想去看，我这只脚那天被树杈扎了一下，走不得路。”

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“那我们得谢谢你。”佩德罗说。

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唐吉诃德请求佩德罗告诉他，死者是什么人，那个牧羊姑娘又是什么人。佩德罗回答说，据他所知，死者是山那边一个地方的富豪子弟，在萨拉曼卡读了很多年书，据说学成回乡时已是博学多才，满腹经纶。听说他最了解的是星星的学问，还有太阳和月亮在天上的事。他能准确地告诉我们什么时候太阳失、月亮失。”

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“那叫日蚀、月蚀，朋友，是那两个发光天体被遮住了。”

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唐吉诃德说。

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佩德罗不在意这些，接着说：

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“他还能算出哪年是丰年，哪年是‘黄年’。”

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“你大概是说荒年吧，朋友。”唐吉诃德说。

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“荒年或黄年，”佩德罗说，“就是那意思。据说他父亲和那些听他话的朋友们都发了财。那些人都听他的。他常告诉那些人：‘今年该种大麦，不要种小麦；或今年种鹰嘴豆，不能种大麦；来年油料大丰收，以后三年油料无收。’”

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“那叫占星学。”唐吉诃德说。

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“我不知道叫什么，”佩德罗说，“不过我知道，这些东西他都懂，而且懂得比这还多。简单地说，他从萨拉曼卡回来没几个月，有一天，突然脱下了他上学时穿的长服，换上牧人的衣服，还拿着牧杖，披上了羊皮袄。他那个叫安布罗西奥的好朋友，原来和他是同学，也同他一起打扮成牧人的样子。我还忘了说，那个死去的克里索斯托莫还是个编民谣的能手哩。他编的关于耶稣诞生的村夫谣①和圣诞节的剧目，由我们村里的小伙子们演出后，大家都说好极了。所以，村里人看到两个学生忽然穿上了牧人的衣服，都很惊讶，猜不透他们为什么要莫名其妙地换上这身打扮。那个时候，克里索斯托莫的父亲已经死了。他继承了大量财产，有动产和不动产，有数量不少的大大小小牲畜，有大量的钱，他全继承了，这确实是他应得的。他与人相处得很好，很随和，好人都喜欢他，他还有一副慈善的面孔。后来人们才明白，他扮成牧人就是为了在野外追求那个牧羊姑娘马塞拉。可怜的克里索斯托莫早已爱上了她。现在我想告诉你，你也该知道这个姑娘是谁了。也许，或者根本不用也许，你这辈子也不会听说这样的事情，即使你活得比萨尔纳还长。”

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“应该说萨拉②。”唐吉诃德说。他简直忍受不了牧羊人说话如此颠三倒四。

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①西班牙的一种民谣，一般以耶稣降生为题材，在圣诞节期间演唱。

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②《圣经·旧约》中亚伯拉罕的妻子，终年127岁。但前一句小伙子说的萨尔纳并非指她，而是巴斯克语“老家伙”的意思。

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“萨尔纳活得就够长了。”佩德罗说，“大人，要是我一边说您一边给我挑错，咱们恐怕一年也讲不完。”

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“请原谅，朋友，”唐吉诃德说，“因为萨尔纳和萨拉的区别太大了，所以我才说。不过你说得很对，萨尔纳比萨拉活得长。你接着讲，我再也不给你挑错了。”

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“我说，亲爱的大人，”牧羊人说，“在我们村里有个农夫，比克里索斯托莫的父亲还阔气，他叫吉列尔莫。上帝不仅赐予他大量财产，还赐给他一个女儿。孩子的母亲在生产时死了。她是我们这一带最好的女人。我现在似乎还能看到她那张脸，一边有个太阳，一边有个月亮。她善于理财，而且还是穷人的朋友。所以，我觉得她正在另一个世界里与上帝同在。她的丈夫吉列尔莫为失去这样的好妻子而悲痛得死了，把女儿马塞拉，那个有钱的姑娘，留给了她的一个当神甫的叔叔。她叔叔就在我们村任职。

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“小女孩越长越漂亮，让我们想起她的母亲。她的母亲也很美，可是人们觉得她比母亲更美。她长到十四五岁的时候，凡是见到她的人无不称赞上帝把她培育得如此漂亮。还有更多的人爱上了她，整天魂不守舍。她的叔叔对她看管得很严。尽管如此，她的美貌，还有巨富，不仅名扬我们村，而且传到了方圆数十里之外很多富人家那儿。他们请求、乞求并纠缠她叔叔，要娶她为妻。她叔叔呢，确实是个好基督徒，后来看她到了结婚的年龄，也愿意让她嫁人，可是一定要事先征得她的同意，倒不是因为他照看着马塞拉的财产，想图点便宜，故意拖延她的婚期。村里不少人也的确是这么说的，都称赞他是位好神甫。我应该告诉你，游侠大人，在这种小地方，人们什么都说，什么都议论。你想想，我也这么想，一个神甫能够让他的教民们都说他好，特别是在村里，那么他一定是个特别好的神甫。”

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“是这样，”唐吉诃德说，“你再接着讲。这事很有意思，而你呢，有意思的佩德罗，讲得也很有趣。”

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“大人觉得有趣就行了，这对我很重要。你知道，后来她叔叔向她介绍了一个个求婚小伙子的情况，让她任意挑选一个。可她只是回答说还不想结婚，说觉得自己还小，还不能够承担起家庭的担子。这些话听起来很对，她叔叔也就不再坚持了，想等她年龄再大些，能够自己选择伴侣再说。她叔叔常说，他说得很对，做父母的不应该让儿女们违心地结婚。

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“可是谁也没想到，有一天，娇贵的马塞拉成了牧羊姑娘。她叔叔和村里所有人都劝她别这样，可是她不听，和村里其他牧羊女一起去了野外。这回她亮了相，她的美貌让人看见了。我也说不清有多少小伙子、贵族和农夫都换上了克里索斯托莫那样的衣服，到野外追求她。其中一个，我刚才说过，就是我们那位死者。人们说，他对马塞拉不是爱，而是崇拜。你不要以为马塞拉在那种自由自在的、很少约束或根本没有约束的日子里，可能放松对自己品行的要求，相反，她对保持自己的名誉十分注意，不给所有讨好她、追求她的人一点儿如愿的希望，所以那些人也无法向别人夸口。她并不回避和牧羊人作伴、谈话，对他们既有礼貌又友好。可一旦发现其中任何一个人有企图，哪怕是最正经、最神圣的求婚，她就立刻把那人甩掉。她这种脾气给人的伤害太大了，就好比她给人们带来了瘟疫。她漂亮可爱，吸引了那些想向她献殷勤并得到她青睐的人的心，可是她的蔑视和指责却又让那些人绝望。他们不知道该如何对马塞拉讲，只能说她狠心、忘恩负义及其它诸如此类的话。这些话完全反映了马塞拉的性格。

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“如果你在这里呆一天，大人，你就会看到，在田野里，回荡着那些绝望者的叹息。离这儿不太远有个地方，长着几十棵山毛榉树，光滑的树皮上无不刻写着马塞拉的名字。在某个名字上端，还刻着一个王冠，似乎她的追求者在说，马塞拉正戴着它，世上所有美女中只有她当之无愧。

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“这儿有个牧人在叹息，那儿有个牧人在抱怨；那边是情歌，这边是哀歌。有的人在圣栎树或大石头脚下彻夜不眠，任思绪遨游，直到第二天早晨太阳升起；有的人在夏天炽热的中午躺在灼人的沙土上，不停地叹息，向仁慈的老天诉说心中的哀怨。这个、那个、那边、这边，马塞拉轻轻松松地得胜了。我们所有认识她的人都在等待她的高傲何时休止，看谁有福气能驯服她这种可怕的脾气，享受到她的极度美丽。我讲的这些都是确凿的事实，我也可以理解那个小伙子说的克里索斯托莫为何而死了。所以，我劝你，大人，明天去参加他的葬礼，应该去看看，克里索斯托莫有很多朋友，而且埋葬他的地方离这儿只有半西里远。”

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“我会考虑的，”唐吉诃德说，“感谢你给我讲了这样一个有趣的故事。”

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“噢，”牧羊人说，“有关马塞拉那些情人的事，我知道的还不足一半呢。不过，明天也许咱们能在野外碰到个把牧人给我们讲讲。现在，你还是到屋里睡觉吧，夜露对你的伤口不好。你的伤口上了药，不用怕，不会有什么事的。”

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桑乔·潘萨已经在诅咒这个滔滔不绝的牧羊人了，现在他也请求主人到佩德罗的茅屋里去睡觉。

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唐吉诃德进了茅屋，不过整夜都在模仿马塞拉情人的样子思念杜尔西内亚。桑乔·潘萨在罗西南多和他的驴之间睡觉。他睡觉不像个失意的情人，倒像个被踢得浑身是伤的人。

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Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their provisions from the village, came up and said, “Do you know what is going on in the village, comrades?”

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“How could we know it?” replied one of them.

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“Well, then, you must know,” continued the young man, “this morning that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is rumoured that he died of love for that devil of a village girl the daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress of a shepherdess.”

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“You mean Marcela?” said one.

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“Her I mean,” answered the goatherd; “and the best of it is, he has directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is, because, as the story goes (and they say he himself said so), that was the place where he first saw her. And he has also left other directions which the clergy of the village say should not and must not be obeyed because they savour of paganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the student, he who, like him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies that everything must be done without any omission according to the directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is all in commotion; however, report says that, after all, what Ambrosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be done, and to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great ceremony where I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing; at least I will not fail to go and see it even if I knew I should not return to the village tomorrow.”

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“We will do the same,” answered the goatherds, “and cast lots to see who must stay to mind the goats of all.”

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“Thou sayest well, Pedro,” said one, “though there will be no need of taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and don’t suppose it is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that the splinter that ran into my foot the other day will not let me walk.”

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“For all that, we thank thee,” answered Pedro.

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Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead man was a wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains, who had been a student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of which he returned to his village with the reputation of being very learned and deeply read. “Above all, they said, he was learned in the science of the stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and the sun and the moon, for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon to exact time.”

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“Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those two luminaries,” said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling himself with trifles, went on with his story, saying, “Also he foretold when the year was going to be one of abundance or estility.”

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“Sterility, you mean,” said Don Quixote.

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“Sterility or estility,” answered Pedro, “it is all the same in the end. And I can tell you that by this his father and friends who believed him grew very rich because they did as he advised them, bidding them ‘sow barley this year, not wheat; this year you may sow pulse and not barley; the next there will be a full oil crop, and the three following not a drop will be got.’”

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“That science is called astrology,” said Don Quixote.

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“I do not know what it is called,” replied Pedro, “but I know that he knew all this and more besides. But, to make an end, not many months had passed after he returned from Salamanca, when one day he appeared dressed as a shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having put off the long gown he wore as a scholar; and at the same time his great friend, Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his studies, took to the shepherd’s dress with him. I forgot to say that Chrysostom, who is dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much so that he made carols for Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus Christi, which the young men of our village acted, and all said they were excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars so unexpectedly appearing in shepherd’s dress, they were lost in wonder, and could not guess what had led them to make so extraordinary a change. About this time the father of our Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to a large amount of property in chattels as well as in land, no small number of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute owner, and indeed he was deserving of it all, for he was a very good comrade, and kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a countenance like a benediction. Presently it came to be known that he had changed his dress with no other object than to wander about these wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago, with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must tell you now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is; perhaps, and even without any perhaps, you will not have heard anything like it all the days of your life, though you should live more years than sarna.”

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“Say Sarra,” said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd’s confusion of words.

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“The sarna lives long enough,” answered Pedro; “and if, senor, you must go finding fault with words at every step, we shall not make an end of it this twelvemonth.”

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“Pardon me, friend,” said Don Quixote; “but, as there is such a difference between sarna and Sarra, I told you of it; however, you have answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer than Sarra: so continue your story, and I will not object any more to anything.”

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“I say then, my dear sir,” said the goatherd, “that in our village there was a farmer even richer than the father of Chrysostom, who was named Guillermo, and upon whom God bestowed, over and above great wealth, a daughter at whose birth her mother died, the most respected woman there was in this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her now with that countenance which had the sun on one side and the moon on the other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I trust that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God in the other world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at the death of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a child and rich, to the care of an uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village. The girl grew up with such beauty that it reminded us of her mother’s , which was very great, and yet it was thought that the daughter’s would exceed it; and so when she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld her but blessed God that had made her so beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her past redemption. Her uncle kept her in great seclusion and retirement, but for all that the fame of her great beauty spread so that, as well for it as for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, solicited, and importuned, to give her in marriage not only by those of our town but of those many leagues round, and by the persons of highest quality in them. But he, being a good Christian man, though he desired to give her in marriage at once, seeing her to be old enough, was unwilling to do so without her consent, not that he had any eye to the gain and profit which the custody of the girl’s property brought him while he put off her marriage; and, faith, this was said in praise of the good priest in more than one set in the town. For I would have you know, Sir Errant, that in these little villages everything is talked about and everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am, that the priest must be over and above good who forces his parishioners to speak well of him, especially in villages.”

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“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote; “but go on, for the story is very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good grace.”

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“May that of the Lord not be wanting to me,” said Pedro; “that is the one to have. To proceed; you must know that though the uncle put before his niece and described to her the qualities of each one in particular of the many who had asked her in marriage, begging her to marry and make a choice according to her own taste, she never gave any other answer than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that being so young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses that she made, her uncle ceased to urge her, and waited till she was somewhat more advanced in age and could mate herself to her own liking. For, said he — and he said quite right — parents are not to settle children in life against their will. But when one least looked for it, lo and behold! one day the demure Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess; and, in spite of her uncle and all those of the town that strove to dissuade her, took to going a-field with the other shepherd-lasses of the village, and tending her own flock. And so, since she appeared in public, and her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not well tell you how many rich youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the costume of Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her. One of these, as has been already said, was our deceased friend, of whom they say that he did not love but adore her. But you must not suppose, because Marcela chose a life of such liberty and independence, and of so little or rather no retirement, that she has given any occasion, or even the semblance of one, for disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the contrary, such and so great is the vigilance with which she watches over her honour, that of all those that court and woo her not one has boasted, or can with truth boast, that she has given him any hope however small of obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid or shun the society and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them courteously and kindly, should any one of them come to declare his intention to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of matrimony, she flings him from her like a catapult. And with this kind of disposition she does more harm in this country than if the plague had got into it, for her affability and her beauty draw on the hearts of those that associate with her to love her and to court her, but her scorn and her frankness bring them to the brink of despair; and so they know not what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted, and other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of her character; and if you should remain here any time, senor, you would hear these hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this there is a spot where there are a couple of dozen of tall beeches, and there is not one of them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name of Marcela, and above some a crown carved on the same tree as though her lover would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that of all human beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there another is lamenting; there love songs are heard, here despairing elegies. One will pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or rock, and there, without having closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the morning bemused and bereft of sense; and another without relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the full heat of the sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the compassionate heavens, and over one and the other, over these and all, the beautiful Marcela triumphs free and careless. And all of us that know her are waiting to see what her pride will come to, and who is to be the happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have told you being such well-established truth, I am persuaded that what they say of the cause of Chrysostom’s death, as our lad told us, is the same. And so I advise you, senor, fail not to be present to-morrow at his burial, which will be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had many friends, and it is not half a league from this place to where he directed he should be buried.”

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“I will make a point of it,” said Don Quixote, “and I thank you for the pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a tale.”

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“Oh,” said the goatherd, “I do not know even the half of what has happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to-morrow we may fall in with some shepherd on the road who can tell us; and now it will be well for you to go and sleep under cover, for the night air may hurt your wound, though with the remedy I have applied to you there is no fear of an untoward result.”

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Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil, on his part begged his master to go into Pedro’s hut to sleep. He did so, and passed all the rest of the night in thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled himself between Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been discarded, but like a man who had been soundly kicked.

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