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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris
Book 6 Chapter 2 The Rat-hole
属类：
双语小说
【分类】世界名著
-[作者: 维克多-雨果]
阅读：[34504]
Book 6 Chapter 2 The Rat-hole
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请读者允许我们还是来谈我们昨天由于伴同甘果瓦跟踪拉·爱斯梅拉达而离开了的格雷沃广场吧。
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那是上午十点钟。一切都显示出节日后第二天的景象。石板路上到处是垃圾、带子、破布、成束的羽毛、火炬上滴下的蜡油、公共宴饮时吃剩的食物渣。成群的市民到处游荡着，用脚去踢那些烧剩一半的火炬，站在柱子房前面迷迷忽忽地回忆昨天悬挂过的漂亮帷幔，今天只好把看挂帷幔的钉子当作最后的欢乐了。卖果子露和啤酒的人们滚着大桶从人群中穿过，那些有事在身的人来来去去。商人们在店铺门口交谈，互相打招呼，大家都在谈论节日、使臣、科勃诺尔和愚人王，看看谁说得最有趣，笑得最起劲。这时，四个骑马的军警走来站在刑台的四角上。遍布广场的群众中大部分已经聚集到刑台周围来了，为了要看一次小规模的刑法的执行，人们只好安静地、不耐烦地等待着。
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假若读者看过了广场到处的喧闹活跃的景象之后，此刻把眼光转向那座形成了码头西边一角的半哥特式半罗曼式的罗兰塔，就会注意到它的前墙角上有一本公用祈祷书，烛火辉煌地照耀着它，有一间小披屋给它遮风挡雨，有一道铁栅栏使小偷无法进去，但人们却能够随时翻读它。祈祷书旁边有一个尖拱顶窗洞，两个十字形铁栅栏挡在窗洞口。窗洞开向广场，它是那间没有门的房屋唯一能透进点空气和阳光的所在。小屋紧嵌在那古老宅第第一层的厚墙上，充满了深深的和平与悲哀的岑寂，尽管巴黎最拥挤最热闹的公共广场在它附近骚动和喧嚷。
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这所小屋子大约在三个世纪以前就闻名于巴黎了，那是罗兰塔的女房主罗兰德夫人在她自己的房子里挖修来给她那死于十字军之役的父亲守丧的。
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她把自己永远禁闭其中，在那座宅第里她除了这个洞穴之外再没有给自己留下什么东西，门和窗户不管冬夏总是开着。在把宅第里其余的东西都舍给穷人或献给上帝之后，那位哀伤的女士在这座提前修好的坟墓里等死实际上已经等了二十年，她日日夜夜为她父亲的灵魂祷告。她穿着一身黑色丧服，在尘埃里睡觉，连一块当枕头用的石头都没有，仅仅靠过路人放在窗口边上的面包和水来活命。她就这样在舍弃了一切之后接受别人的施舍。她死了，人们把她放进另外一个墓穴里去了，于是就把这间小屋永远留给了那些伤心的妻子、母亲或女儿，她们常常到这儿来为自己或为别人祷告，甚至把自己活活地埋葬在深深的痛苦和忏悔之中。和罗兰德夫人同时代的穷人们曾经用很多眼泪和祝福来哀悼她，但他们十分惋惜这位圣女由于缺少靠山而未被放进圣徒的行列。他们里面某些不顾一切的人曾经希望事情在天堂里可能比在罗马要好办些，全都立刻向上帝为死者祈求恩典，再不向教皇去祈求了。大多数人都主张把罗兰德夫人的纪念日视为神圣，把她留下的破衣当做圣物。这座城市便继承那位女士的遗志，在小屋的窗洞口放进了一本公用祈祷书，以便过路人随时可以停下来，不只是为了使他们便于祷告，也是为了使他们想起布施，好让那些继罗兰德夫人之后守在那个洞穴里的可怜的修行人不至于被人忘记而饿死其中。
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在中世纪的城市里，这种坟墓是不算希罕的。行人最多的街道，最拥挤最热闹的市场，人们往往就在正中央，在车马经过的地方，碰到一个洞穴、一口井或是一间有墙有栅栏的小屋，有个活人日日夜夜在里面祈祷，心甘情愿地献身于永恒的悲哀和深深的忏悔。这所介乎房屋与坟墓、城镇与墓园之间的小屋，这个隔绝在人类之外而被算进了死人行列的活人，这盏在黑夜里燃尽了最后一滴油的灯，这个在墓穴里闪烁的残余的生命，这封锁在一个石头盒子里的声音、气息和永远的祈祷，这张永远转向另一个世界的面孔，这双已经被另一个太阳照耀着的眼睛，这对倾听坟墓谈话的耳朵，这囚禁在躯体内部的灵魂，这禁锢在囚牢里的躯体，以及在肉体与花岗石双重障蔽之内的这个痛苦灵魂的呻吟，所有如今唤起我们记忆的一切，当时的人们却毫没想到。那个时代毫无理由的、也不怎么崇高的悲悯，在一桩宗教行为中是不去看这些方面的。那种悲悯笼统地看待事物，崇奉并敬重一切牺牲，并且在必要时视之为神圣，但不去分析那些遭遇，只是给予一点可怜的同情罢了。
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那种悲悯随时给那不幸的苦修人一点布施，从窗洞口张望一下那个人是否还活着，但是并不知道那个人的姓名，甚至几乎不知道那个人度着死人般的生活已经有多少年了。当一个陌生人问起在洞穴里等死的骨瘦如柴的活人是谁的时候，假若那是个男人，旁边的人就简单地回答：“是一位隐修士。”假若那是个女的，就回答说： “是个隐修女。”
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那时的人就是这样全凭肉眼观看一切，没有空谈，没有夸张，没有放大镜。用来观察物质和用来观察精神的显微镜当时都还没有发明。
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虽然人们并不觉得怎么奇怪，城市中心的这一类隐修所，实际上是象我们刚才说的，到处都有。在巴黎有很多这种向上帝祷告和忏悔的小屋子，几乎全都有人住在里面。真的，圣职团并不愿意让它们空着，仿佛要是它们没人住着就会显出信徒们的冷淡似的。假若没有忏悔人，他们就让麻风病人住进去。除了格雷沃广场上这所小屋之外，隼山还有一所，圣婴公墓的墓窖里还有一所，另外还有一所不知在什么地方，我想也许是在克吕雄府邸里吧！
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还有许多在别的地方，人们可以从传说里找到它们的遗迹，虽然那些建筑早已不存在了。大学区里也有这种隐修所，在圣热纳维埃夫山上，有一个中世纪的约伯之流的人物，每天在一个水井深处歌唱七篇忏悔的赞美诗，唱完了又从头唱起，晚上唱得更响亮，就这样一直唱了三十年。至今考古学家们走进“能言井街”，还觉得依旧听到他的歌声呢！
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提起罗兰塔的这间小屋，我们应该说明它从来没有断过苦修人。自从罗兰德夫人去世后，它就很少空过一年或两年。很多妇女到这里来哭他们的父母、爱人，或者为了她们自己的罪过而哭泣，一直哭到死去。什么事都要插一手，连跟他们毫无关系的事情也要干预的巴黎人，竟敢说在她们里面很少看到寡妇。
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按照当时的办法用拉丁文在墙上写一个匾额，给识字的过路人说明这所小屋的虔诚用途。在大门上写一个匾额来说明一座建筑的用途的这种习惯，一直保持到十六世纪中期。象这样，在法兰西，人们依然可以在杜尔维叶领主宅第监牢的小门顶上看到“肃静等候”的字样；在爱尔兰，那高踞在孚尔特居别墅顶端的纹章下面，写着“强大的盾牌是领袖的救星”；在英格兰，戈倍伯爵的接待所的主要入口处写着“这是你的”。在那个时代，每座建筑都表现一种思想。
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因为嵌在罗兰塔墙上的这间小屋是没有门的，人们就在小窗洞顶端刻上了两个很大的罗曼字：你祈祷那些思想健康、不追究事物的深意、宁愿把路易大帝翻译成圣德尼门的民众，因此给那个黑暗潮湿的洞穴取名叫老鼠洞。这个名称也许不如那一个高雅，但却比那一个更加形象化。
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The reader must permit us to take him back to the Place de Grève, which we quitted yesterday with Gringoire, in order to follow la Esmeralda.
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It is ten o’clock in the morning; everything is indicative of the day after a festival. The pavement is covered with rubbish; ribbons, rags, feathers from tufts of plumes, drops of wax from the torches, crumbs of the public feast. A goodly number of bourgeois are "sauntering," as we say, here and there, turning over with their feet the extinct brands of the bonfire, going into raptures in front of the Pillar House, over the memory of the fine hangings of the day before, and to-day staring at the nails that secured them a last pleasure. The venders of cider and beer are rolling their barrels among the groups. Some busy passers-by come and go. The merchants converse and call to each other from the thresholds of their shops. The festival, the ambassadors, Coppenole, the Pope of the Fools, are in all mouths; they vie with each other, each trying to criticise it best and laugh the most. And, meanwhile, four mounted sergeants, who have just posted themselves at the four sides of the pillory, have already concentrated around themselves a goodly proportion of the populace scattered on the Place, who condemn themselves to immobility and fatigue in the hope of a small execution.
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If the reader, after having contemplated this lively and noisy scene which is being enacted in all parts of the Place, will now transfer his gaze towards that ancient demi-Gothic, demi-Romanesque house of the Tour-Roland, which forms the corner on the quay to the west, he will observe, at the angle of the fa?ade, a large public breviary, with rich illuminations, protected from the rain by a little penthouse, and from thieves by a small grating, which, however, permits of the leaves being turned. Beside this breviary is a narrow, arched window, closed by two iron bars in the form of a cross, and looking on the square; the only opening which admits a small quantity of light and air to a little cell without a door, constructed on the ground-floor, in the thickness of the walls of the old house, and filled with a peace all the more profound, with a silence all the more gloomy, because a public place, the most populous and most noisy in Paris swarms and shrieks around it.
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This little cell had been celebrated in Paris for nearly three centuries, ever since Madame Rolande de la Tour-Roland, in mourning for her father who died in the Crusades, had caused it to be hollowed out in the wall of her own house, in order to immure herself there forever, keeping of all her palace only this lodging whose door was walled up, and whose window stood open, winter and summer, giving all the rest to the poor and to God. The afflicted damsel had, in fact, waited twenty years for death in this premature tomb, praying night and day for the soul of her father, sleeping in ashes, without even a stone for a pillow, clothed in a black sack, and subsisting on the bread and water which the compassion of the passers-by led them to deposit on the ledge of her window, thus receiving charity after having bestowed it. At her death, at the moment when she was passing to the other sepulchre, she had bequeathed this one in perpetuity to afflicted women, mothers, widows, or maidens, who should wish to pray much for others or for themselves, and who should desire to inter themselves alive in a great grief or a great penance. The poor of her day had made her a fine funeral, with tears and benedictions; but, to their great regret, the pious maid had not been canonized, for lack of influence. Those among them who were a little inclined to impiety, had hoped that the matter might be accomplished in Paradise more easily than at Rome, and had frankly besought God, instead of the pope, in behalf of the deceased. The majority had contented themselves with holding the memory of Rolande sacred, and converting her rags into relics. The city, on its side, had founded in honor of the damoiselle, a public breviary, which had been fastened near the window of the cell, in order that passers-by might halt there from time to time, were it only to pray; that prayer might remind them of alms, and that the poor recluses, heiresses of Madame Rolande’s vault, might not die outright of hunger and forgetfulness.
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Moreover, this sort of tomb was not so very rare a thing in the cities of the Middle Ages. One often encountered in the most frequented street, in the most crowded and noisy market, in the very middle, under the feet of the horses, under the wheels of the carts, as it were, a cellar, a well, a tiny walled and grated cabin, at the bottom of which a human being prayed night and day, voluntarily devoted to some eternal lamentation, to some great expiation. And all the reflections which that strange spectacle would awaken in us to-day; that horrible cell, a sort of intermediary link between a house and the tomb, the cemetery and the city; that living being cut off from the human community, and thenceforth reckoned among the dead; that lamp consuming its last drop of oil in the darkness; that remnant of life flickering in the grave; that breath, that voice, that eternal prayer in a box of stone; that face forever turned towards the other world; that eye already illuminated with another sun; that ear pressed to the walls of a tomb; that soul a prisoner in that body; that body a prisoner in that dungeon cell, and beneath that double envelope of flesh and granite, the murmur of that soul in pain;--nothing of all this was perceived by the crowd. The piety of that age, not very subtle nor much given to reasoning, did not see so many facets in an act of religion. It took the thing in the block, honored, venerated, hallowed the sacrifice at need, but did not analyze the sufferings, and felt but moderate pity for them. It brought some pittance to the miserable penitent from time to time, looked through the hole to see whether he were still living, forgot his name, hardly knew how many years ago he had begun to die, and to the stranger, who questioned them about the living skeleton who was perishing in that cellar, the neighbors replied simply, "It is the recluse."
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Everything was then viewed without metaphysics, without exaggeration, without magnifying glass, with the naked eye. The microscope had not yet been invented, either for things of matter or for things of the mind.
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Moreover, although people were but little surprised by it, the examples of this sort of cloistration in the hearts of cities were in truth frequent, as we have just said. There were in Paris a considerable number of these cells, for praying to God and doing penance; they were nearly all occupied. It is true that the clergy did not like to have them empty, since that implied lukewarmness in believers, and that lepers were put into them when there were no penitents on hand. Besides the cell on the Grève, there was one at Montfau?on, one at the Charnier des Innocents, another I hardly know where,--at the Clichon House, I think; others still at many spots where traces of them are found in traditions, in default of memorials. The University had also its own. On Mount Sainte-Geneviève a sort of Job of the Middle Ages, for the space of thirty years, chanted the seven penitential psalms on a dunghill at the bottom of a cistern, beginning anew when he had finished, singing loudest at night, ~magna voce per umbras~, and to-day, the antiquary fancies that he hears his voice as he enters the Rue du Puits-qui-parle--the street of the "Speaking Well."
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To confine ourselves to the cell in the Tour-Roland, we must say that it had never lacked recluses. After the death of Madame Roland, it had stood vacant for a year or two, though rarely. Many women had come thither to mourn, until their death, for relatives, lovers, faults. Parisian malice, which thrusts its finger into everything, even into things which concern it the least, affirmed that it had beheld but few widows there.
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In accordance with the fashion of the epoch, a Latin inscription on the wall indicated to the learned passer-by the pious purpose of this cell. The custom was retained until the middle of the sixteenth century of explaining an edifice by a brief device inscribed above the door. Thus, one still reads in France, above the wicket of the prison in the seignorial mansion of Tourville, ~Sileto et spera~; in Ireland, beneath the armorial bearings which surmount the grand door to Fortescue Castle, ~Forte scutum, salus ducum~; in England, over the principal entrance to the hospitable mansion of the Earls Cowper: ~Tuum est~. At that time every edifice was a thought.
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As there was no door to the walled cell of the Tour-Roland, these two words had been carved in large Roman capitals over the window,--
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TU, ORA.
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And this caused the people, whose good sense does not perceive so much refinement in things, and likes to translate _Ludovico Magno_ by "Porte Saint-Denis," to give to this dark, gloomy, damp cavity, the name of "The Rat-Hole." An explanation less sublime, perhaps, than the other; but, on the other hand, more picturesque.
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