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悲惨世界|Les Miserables

Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 1 Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[104048]
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 1 Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus
19世纪30年代的法国。富人乘坐马车，用金餐具吃喝。穷人没有工作，没有食物，没有希望——他们是穷苦人，起义一触即发。法国人民还记得1789年的法国大革命。当时，民众在巴黎街头筑起街垒，死去的人数以千计。这样的时刻又要到来了吗? 这是冉阿让的故事。他坐了19年的牢，终于恢复了自由身。可是，他怎么生活，到哪里去找工作呢?像他这样一个人，还有什么希望呢?这也是沙威的故事，他是一个督察，一个残忍的人，一个冷酷的人。他的人生只有一个目标——把冉阿让再次送进大牢。这还是芳汀的故事，芳汀和她的女儿珂赛特。她们的故事是怎样改变了冉阿让的一生?这也是马吕斯的故事。他是巴黎的一名学生，做好了为起义而牺牲的准备——或是为爱情而死。最后，还有伽弗洛什——一个在巴黎街头流浪的孩子，他没有家，没有亲人，没有鞋穿……可他的脸上总是挂着笑容，心中总是有歌儿在欢唱。
不过，我们要先从冉阿让讲起……
France in the 1830s. The rich ride in carriages, and eat from gold plates. The poor have no work, no food, no hope – they are Les Misérables, and rebellion is in the air. France remembers the French Revolution in 1789, when the people built barricades in the streets of Paris, and the dead were counted in thousands. Is that time coming again?
This is the story of Jean Valjean. A prisoner for nineteen years, now at last he is a free man. But how can he live, where can he find work? What hope is there for a man like him? It is also the story of Javert, a police inspector, a cruel man, a hard man. He wants one thing in life – to send Valjean back to prison. And it is Fantine’s story too, Fantine and her daughter Cosette. How does their story change Valjean’s life? And it is also Marius’s story. He is a student in Paris, ready to die for the rebellion – or for love. And last, there is Gavroche – a boy of the Paris streets, with no home, no family, no shoes... But a boy with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.
But we begin with Jean Valjean...
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比克布斯小街六十二号的那道大车门，在半个世纪前，是和任何一道大车门一模一样的。那道门经常以一种最吸引人的方式半开半掩着，门缝中透出两种不很凄凉的东西：一个周围墙上布满葡萄藤的院子和一个无事徘徊的门房的面孔。院底的墙头上可以见到几棵大树。当一线阳光给那院子带来生气，一杯红葡萄酒给那门房带来喜色时，从比克布斯小街六十二号门前经过的人很难对它不产生欢畅的感觉，可是我们望见的是一个悲惨的地方。

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门口在微笑，屋里却在祈祷和哭泣。

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假使我们能够棗这是很不容易的事棗通过门房那一关棗这几乎对任何人都是不可能做到的事，因为这里有句“芝麻，开门！”①是我们必须知道的，假使我们在过了门房那一关后向右走进一间有一道夹在两堵墙中、每次只能容一人上下的窄楼梯的小厅，假使我们不害怕墙上鹅黄色的灰浆和楼梯、以及楼梯两侧墙脚上的可可颜色，假使我们壮着胆子往上走，走过楼梯中段的第一宽级，继又走过第二宽级，我们便到了第一层楼的过道里，过道的墙上也刷了黄灰浆，墙根也作可可色，仿佛楼梯两侧的颜色也悄悄地、顽强地跟着我们上了楼似的。阳光从两扇工巧的窗子照进楼梯和过道。过道转了个弯便阴暗了。假使我们也拐弯，向前再走几步，便到了一扇门前，这门并没有关上，因而显得格外神秘。我们推门进去，便到了一间小屋子里，那小屋子约莫有六尺见方，小方块地板，洗过了的，清洁，冷清，墙上裱着十五个苏一卷印了小绿花的南京纸。一片暗淡的白光从左边的一大扇小方格玻璃窗里透进来，窗子和屋子一般宽，我们看时，看不见一个人；我们听，听不到一点声息，没有一丝人间的气息。墙上毫无装饰，地上毫无家具，一把椅子也没有。

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①这原是《一千零一夜》中阿利巴巴为使宝库的门自启而叫喊的咒语，后来成了咒语或秘诀的代名词。

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我们再看，便会看见正对着屋门的墙上有一个一尺左右的方洞，洞口装有黑铁条，多节而牢固，交叉成方孔，我几乎要说交织成密网，孔的对角线，还不到一寸半。南京纸上的朵朵小绿花，整齐安静地来和这些阴森的铁条相接触，并不感到惶恐，也不狂奔乱窜。假使有个身材纤丽的人儿想试试从那方洞里进出，也一定会被它的铁网所遮拦。它不让身体出入，却让眼睛通过，就是说，让精神通过。似乎已有人想到了这一点，因为在那墙上稍后一点地方还嵌了一块白铁皮，白铁皮上有无数小孔，比漏勺上的孔还小。在那铁皮的下方，开了一个口，和信箱的口完全同一样。有条棉纱带子，一头垂在那有遮护的洞口右边，一头系在铃上。

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假使你拉动那条带子，小铃儿便会丁零当郎一阵响，你也会听到一个人说话的声音，冷不防声音会从你耳边极近的地方发出来，叫你听了寒毛直竖。

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“是谁？”那声音问道。

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那是一个女人的声音，一种柔和得叫人听了感到悲切的声音。

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到了这里，又有一句切口是非知道不可的。假使你不知道，那边说话的声音便沉寂下去了，四面的墙壁又变成静悄悄的了，仿佛隔墙便是阴暗可怕的坟墓。

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假使你知道那句话，那边便回答说：

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“请从右边进来。”

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我们向右边看去，便会看见在窗子对面，有一扇上端嵌了一个玻璃框的灰漆玻璃门。我们拉开门闩，穿过门洞，所得的印象恰恰象进了戏院池座周围那种装了铁栅栏的包厢，看到的是一种铁栅栏还没有放下、分枝挂灯也还没有点上的情景。我们的确是到了一种包厢里，玻璃门上透进一点微弱的阳光，室内阴暗，窄狭，只有两张旧椅子和一条散了的擦脚草垫，那确是一间真正的包厢，还有一道高齐肘弯的栏杆，栏杆上有条黑漆靠板。那包厢是有栅栏的，不过不是歌剧院里的那种金漆栅栏，而是一排奇形怪状杂乱交错的铁条，用些拳头似的铁榫嵌在墙里。

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最初几分钟过后，当视力开始适应那种半明不暗的地窖，我们便会朝栅栏的里面望去，但是视线只能达到离栅栏六寸远的地方。望到那里我们的视线又会遇到一排黑板窗，板窗上钉了几条和果子面包一样黄的横木，使它牢固。那些板窗是由几条可以开合的长而薄的木板拼成的，一排板窗遮住了那整个铁栅栏的宽度，总是紧闭着的。

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过一会儿，你会听见有人在板窗的后面叫你并且说：

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“我在这里。您找我干什么？”

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那是一个亲人的声音，有时是爱人的声音。你望不见人，你也几乎听不见呼吸。仿佛是隔着墓壁在和幽灵谈话。

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要是你符合某种必要的条件棗这是很少有的事棗板窗上的一条窄木板便会在你的面前转开，那幽灵也就有了形象。你会在铁栅栏所允许的限度内望见在铁栅栏和板窗的后面，出现了一个人头，你只能看见嘴和下巴颏儿，其余的部分都遮没在黑纱里了。那个头在和你谈话，却并不望看你，也从来不朝你笑。

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光从你的后面照来。使你看见她是在光明里，而她看见你是在黑暗里。那样的布置是具有象征意义的。

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同时你的眼睛会通过那条木板缝，向那和外人完全隔绝的地方贪婪地射去。一片朦胧的迷雾笼罩着那个全身黑衣的人形。你的眼睛在迷雾里搜索，想分辨出那人形四周的东西。你马上就会发现你什么也瞧不见。你所瞧见的只是空蒙、黑暗、夹杂着死气的寒烟、一种骇人的宁静、一种绝无声息连叹息声也听不到的沉寂、一种什么也瞧不见连鬼影也没有的昏暗。

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你所看见的是一个修道院的内部。

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这就是所谓永敬会伯尔纳女修院的那所阴森肃静的房屋的内部。我们所在的这间厢房是会客室。最先和你说话的那人是传达女，她是一直坐在墙那边有铁网和千孔板双重掩护下的方洞旁边的，从来不动也不吭声。

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厢房之所以黑暗，是因为那会客室在通向尘世的这面有扇窗子，而在通向修院的那面却没有。俗眼绝不该窥探圣洁的地方。

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可是在黑暗的这面仍有光明，死亡中也仍有生命。尽管那修院的门禁特别森严，我们仍要进去看看，并且要让读者也进去看看，同时我们还要在适当的范围内谈些讲故事的人所从来不曾见过，因而也从来不曾谈到过的事。

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Nothing, half a century ago, more resembled every other carriage gate than the carriage gate of Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. This entrance, which usually stood ajar in the most inviting fashion, permitted a view of two things, neither of which have anything very funereal about them,--a courtyard surrounded by walls hung with vines, and the face of a lounging porter. Above the wall, at the bottom of the court, tall trees were visible. When a ray of sunlight enlivened the courtyard, when a glass of wine cheered up the porter, it was difficult to pass Number 62 Little Picpus Street without carrying away a smiling impression of it. Nevertheless, it was a sombre place of which one had had a glimpse.

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The threshold smiled; the house prayed and wept.

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If one succeeded in passing the porter, which was not easy,-- which was even nearly impossible for every one, for there was an open sesame! which it was necessary to know,--if, the porter once passed, one entered a little vestibule on the right, on which opened a staircase shut in between two walls and so narrow that only one person could ascend it at a time, if one did not allow one’s self to be alarmed by a daubing of canary yellow, with a dado of chocolate which clothed this staircase, if one ventured to ascend it, one crossed a first landing, then a second, and arrived on the first story at a corridor where the yellow wash and the chocolate-hued plinth pursued one with a peaceable persistency. Staircase and corridor were lighted by two beautiful windows. The corridor took a turn and became dark. If one doubled this cape, one arrived a few paces further on, in front of a door which was all the more mysterious because it was not fastened. If one opened it, one found one’s self in a little chamber about six feet square, tiled, well-scrubbed, clean, cold, and hung with nankin paper with green flowers, at fifteen sous the roll. A white, dull light fell from a large window, with tiny panes, on the left, which usurped the whole width of the room. One gazed about, but saw no one; one listened, one heard neither a footstep nor a human murmur. The walls were bare, the chamber was not furnished; there was not even a chair.

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One looked again, and beheld on the wall facing the door a quadrangular hole, about a foot square, with a grating of interlacing iron bars, black, knotted, solid, which formed squares-- I had almost said meshes--of less than an inch and a half in diagonal length. The little green flowers of the nankin paper ran in a calm and orderly manner to those iron bars, without being startled or thrown into confusion by their funereal contact. Supposing that a living being had been so wonderfully thin as to essay an entrance or an exit through the square hole, this grating would have prevented it. It did not allow the passage of the body, but it did allow the passage of the eyes; that is to say, of the mind. This seems to have occurred to them, for it had been re-enforced by a sheet of tin inserted in the wall a little in the rear, and pierced with a thousand holes more microscopic than the holes of a strainer. At the bottom of this plate, an aperture had been pierced exactly similar to the orifice of a letter box. A bit of tape attached to a bell-wire hung at the right of the grated opening.

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If the tape was pulled, a bell rang, and one heard a voice very near at hand, which made one start.

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"Who is there?" the voice demanded.

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It was a woman’s voice, a gentle voice, so gentle that it was mournful.

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Here, again, there was a magical word which it was necessary to know. If one did not know it, the voice ceased, the wall became silent once more, as though the terrified obscurity of the sepulchre had been on the other side of it.

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If one knew the password, the voice resumed, "Enter on the right."

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One then perceived on the right, facing the window, a glass door surmounted by a frame glazed and painted gray. On raising the latch and crossing the threshold, one experienced precisely the same impression as when one enters at the theatre into a grated baignoire, before the grating is lowered and the chandelier is lighted. One was, in fact, in a sort of theatre-box, narrow, furnished with two old chairs, and a much-frayed straw matting, sparely illuminated by the vague light from the glass door; a regular box, with its front just of a height to lean upon, bearing a tablet of black wood. This box was grated, only the grating of it was not of gilded wood, as at the opera; it was a monstrous lattice of iron bars, hideously interlaced and riveted to the wall by enormous fastenings which resembled clenched fists.

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The first minutes passed; when one’s eyes began to grow used to this cellar-like half-twilight, one tried to pass the grating, but got no further than six inches beyond it. There he encountered a barrier of black shutters, re-enforced and fortified with transverse beams of wood painted a gingerbread yellow. These shutters were divided into long, narrow slats, and they masked the entire length of the grating. They were always closed. At the expiration of a few moments one heard a voice proceeding from behind these shutters, and saying:--

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"I am here. What do you wish with me?"

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It was a beloved, sometimes an adored, voice. No one was visible. Hardly the sound of a breath was audible. It seemed as though it were a spirit which had been evoked, that was speaking to you across the walls of the tomb.

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If one chanced to be within certain prescribed and very rare conditions, the slat of one of the shutters opened opposite you; the evoked spirit became an apparition. Behind the grating, behind the shutter, one perceived so far as the grating permitted sight, a head, of which only the mouth and the chin were visible; the rest was covered with a black veil. One caught a glimpse of a black guimpe, and a form that was barely defined, covered with a black shroud. That head spoke with you, but did not look at you and never smiled at you.

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The light which came from behind you was adjusted in such a manner that you saw her in the white, and she saw you in the black. This light was symbolical.

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Nevertheless, your eyes plunged eagerly through that opening which was made in that place shut off from all glances. A profound vagueness enveloped that form clad in mourning. Your eyes searched that vagueness, and sought to make out the surroundings of the apparition. At the expiration of a very short time you discovered that you could see nothing. What you beheld was night, emptiness, shadows, a wintry mist mingled with a vapor from the tomb, a sort of terrible peace, a silence from which you could gather nothing, not even sighs, a gloom in which you could distinguish nothing, not even phantoms.

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What you beheld was the interior of a cloister.

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It was the interior of that severe and gloomy edifice which was called the convent of the Bernardines of the Perpetual Adoration. The box in which you stood was the parlor. The first voice which had addressed you was that of the portress who always sat motionless and silent, on the other side of the wall, near the square opening, screened by the iron grating and the plate with its thousand holes, as by a double visor. The obscurity which bathed the grated box arose from the fact that the parlor, which had a window on the side of the world, had none on the side of the convent. Profane eyes must see nothing of that sacred place.

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Nevertheless, there was something beyond that shadow; there was a light; there was life in the midst of that death. Although this was the most strictly walled of all convents, we shall endeavor to make our way into it, and to take the reader in, and to say, without transgressing the proper bounds, things which story-tellers have never seen, and have, therefore, never described.

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