Gil Blas Alain-René Lesage (novel books to read TXT) 📖

Gil Blas

By
Alain-René Lesage.

Translated by
Tobias Smollett.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint The Author’s Declaration Gil Blas to the Reader Gil Blas Book I I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII Book II I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX Book III I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII Book IV I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI Book V I II Book VI I II III Book VII I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI Book VIII I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII Book IX I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X Book X I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII Book XI I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV Book XII I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV Endnotes Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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The Author’s Declaration

There are some people in the world so mischievous as not to read a work without applying the vicious or ridiculous characters it may happen to contain to eminent or popular individuals. I protest publicly against the pretended discovery of any such likenesses. My purpose was to represent human life historically as it exists: God forbid I should hold myself out as a portrait-painter. Let not the reader then take to himself public property; for if he does, he may chance to throw an unlucky light on his own character: as Phaedrus expresses it, Stulte nudabit animi conscientiam.

Certain physicians of Castille, as well as of France, are sometimes a little too fond of trying the bleeding and lowering system on their patients. Vices, their patrons, and their dupes, are of every day’s occurrence. To be sure, I have not always adopted Spanish manners with scrupulous exactness; and in the instance of the players at Madrid, those who know their disorderly modes of living may reproach me with softening down their coarser traits: but this I have been induced to do from a sense of delicacy, and in conformity with the manners of my own country.

Gil Blas to the Reader

Reader! hark you, my friend! Do not begin the story of my life till I have told you a short tale.

Two students travelled together from Peñafiel to Salamanca. Finding themselves tired and thirsty, they stopped by the side of a spring on the road. While they were resting there, after having quenched their thirst, by chance they espied on a stone near them, even with the ground, part of an inscription, in some degree effaced by time, and by the tread of flocks in the habit of watering at that spring. Having washed the stone, they were able to trace these words in the dialect of Castille: Aqui està encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcias. “Here lies interred the soul of the licentiate Peter Garcias.”

Heyday! roars out the younger, a lively, heedless fellow, who could not get on with his deciphering for laughter: This is a good joke indeed: “Here lies interred the soul.”⁠ ⁠… A soul interred!⁠ ⁠… I should like to know the whimsical author of this ludicrous epitaph. With this sneer he got up to go away. His companion, who had more sense, said within himself: Underneath this stone lies some mystery; I will stay, and see the end of it. Accordingly, he let his comrade depart, and without loss of time began digging round about the stone with his knife till he got it up. Under it he found a purse of leather, containing a hundred ducats, with a card on which was written these words in Lathi: “Whoever thou art who hast wit enough to discover the meaning of the inscription, I appoint thee my heir, in the hope thou wilt make a better use of my fortune than I have done!” The student, out of his wits at the discovery, replaced the stone