“No, we will not take it, but will you look over it? I should be interested to see it again,” said Monsieur Bergeret timidly.
They hesitated a moment. It seemed to them that in entering the deep dark vaulted1 way they were entering the region of the shades.
Scouring2 the streets in search of a flat, they had chanced to cross the narrow Rue3 des Grands-Augustins, which has preserved its old-world aspect, and whose greasy5 pavements are never dry. They remembered that they had passed six years of their childhood in one of the houses in this street. Their father, a professor at the University, had settled there in 1856, after having led for four years a wandering and precarious6 existence, ceaselessly hunted from town to town by an inimical Minister of Instruction. And, as witnessed the battered7 notice-board, the very flat in which Lucien and Zoe had first seen the light of day, and tasted the savour of life, was now to let.
As they passed down the path which led under the massive forefront of the building, they experienced an inexplicable8 feeling of melancholy9 and reverence10. The damp courtyard was hemmed11 in by walls which since the minority of Louis XIV had slowly been crumbling12 in the rains and the fogs rising from the Seine. On the right as they entered was a small building, which served as a porter’s lodge13. There, on the window-sill, a magpie14 hopped15 about in a cage, and in the lodge, behind a flowering plant, a woman sat sewing.
“Is the second floor on the courtyard to let?”
“Yes, do you wish to see it?”
“Yes, we should like to see it.”
Key in hand, the concierge16 led the way. They followed her in silence. The gloomy antiquity17 of the house caused the memories which the blackened stones evoked19 for the brother and sister to recede20 into an unfathomable past. They climbed the stone stairs in a state of sorrowful eagerness, and when the concierge opened the door of the flat they remained motionless upon the landing, afraid to enter the rooms that seemed to be haunted by the host of their childish memories, like so many little ghosts.
“You can go in; the flat is empty.”
At first they could find nothing of the past in the wide empty rooms, freshly papered. They were amazed to find that they had become strangers to things which had formerly21 been so familiar.
“Here is the kitchen,” said the concierge, “and here are the dining-room and the drawing-room.”
A voice cried from the courtyard:
“M’ame Falempin!”
The concierge looked out of the window, apologized, and grumbling22 to herself went down the stairs with feeble steps, groaning23. Then the brother and sister began to remember. Memories of inimitable hours, of the long days of childhood, began to return to them.
“Here is the dining-room,” said Zoe. “The sideboard used to be there, against the wall.”
“The mahogany sideboard, ‘battered by its long wanderings,’ as our father used to say, when he and his family and his furniture were ceaselessly hunted from north to south and from east to west by the Minister of the 2nd of December. It remained here a few years, however, maimed and crippled.”
“The flue is different.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, Zoe. Ours had a head of Jupiter Trophonius upon it. In those far-off days it was the custom of the stove-makers in the Cour du Dragon to decorate porcelain flues with a head of Jupiter Trophonius.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Oh, well that is not surprising; you were always indifferent to the shapes of things. You don’t look at anything.”
“I am more observant than you, my poor Lucien; it is you who never notice things. The other day, when Pauline had waved her hair, you didn’t notice it. If it were not for me——”
She did not finish her sentence, but peered about the empty room with her green eyes and sharp nose.
“Over there in that corner near the window, Mademoiselle Verpie used to sit with her feet on her foot-warmer. Saturday was the sewing-woman’s day, and Mademoiselle Verpie never missed a Saturday.”
“Mademoiselle Verpie,” said Lucien with a sigh: “how old would she be to-day? She was getting on in life when we were children. She used to tell a story about a box of matches. I have always remembered that story and can repeat it now word for word just as she used to tell it. ‘It was when they were placing the statues on the Pont des Saints-Pères. It was so cold that my fingers were quite numb26. Coming back from doing my marketing27, I was watching the workmen. There was a whole crowd of people waiting to see how they would lift such heavy statues. I had my basket on my arm. A well-dressed gentleman said to me, “Mademoiselle, you are on fire.” Then I smelt28 a smell of sulphur and saw smoke pouring out of my basket. My threepenny box of matches had caught fire.’ That was how Mademoiselle Verpie related the adventure,” added Monsieur Bergeret. “She often used to tell us of it. Probably it was the greatest adventure of her life.”
“You’ve forgotten an important part of the story, Lucien. These were Mademoiselle Verpie’s exact words: ‘A well-dressed gentleman said to me, “Mademoiselle, you are on fire.” I answered “Go away and leave me alone.” “Just as you like, Mademoiselle.” Then I smelt a smell of sulphur.’”
“You are quite right, Zoe. I was mutilating the text and omitted an important passage. By her reply, Mademoiselle Verpie, who was hump-backed, showed that she was a virtuous30 woman. It is a point that one should bear in mind. I seem to recollect31, too, that she was very easily shocked.”
“Our poor mother,” said Zoe, “had a mania32 for mending. What an amount of darning used to be done!”
“Yes, she was fond of her needle. But what I thought so charming was that before she sat down to her sewing she always placed a pot of wallflowers or daisies or a dish of fruit and green leaves on the table before her just where the light caught it. She used to say that rosy33 apples were as pretty as roses. I never met anyone who appreciated as she did the beauty of a peach or a bunch of grapes. When she went to see the Chardins at the Louvre, she knew by instinct that they were good pictures, but she could not help feeling that she preferred her own groups. With what conviction she would say to me: ‘Look, Lucien, have you ever seen anything so beautiful as this feather from a pigeon’s wing?’ I think no one ever loved nature more simply and frankly34 than she.”
“Poor Mother,” sighed Zoe, “and in spite of that her taste in dress was dreadful. One day she chose a blue dress for me at the Petit-Saint-Thomas. It was called electric blue, and it was terrible. That frock was the burden of my childish days.”
“You were never fond of dress, you.”
“You think so, do you? Well, you are mistaken. I should have loved to have pretty dresses, but the elder sister had to go short because little Lucien needed tunics35. It couldn’t be helped.”
They passed into a narrow room, more like a passage.
“This was Father’s study,” said Zoe.
“Hasn’t it been cut in two by a partition? I thought it was much larger than this.”
“No, it was always the same as it is now. His writing-desk was there, and above it hung the portrait of Monsieur Victor Leclerc. Why haven’t you kept that engraving36, Lucien?”
“What! do you mean to say that this narrow room held his motley crowd of books and contained whole nations of poets, orators37 and historians? When I was a child I used to listen to the silent eloquence38 that filled my ears with a buzz of glory. No doubt the presence of such an assembly pressed back the walls. I certainly remember it as a spacious39 room.”
“It was very overcrowded. He would never let us tidy anything in his study.”
“So it was here that our father used to work, seated in his old red arm-chair with his cat Zobeide on a cushion at his feet. Here it was that he used to look at us with the same slow smile that he never lost all through his illness, even up to the very last. I saw him smile gently at death itself, as he had smiled at life.”
“You are mistaken in that, Lucien. Father did not know he was going to die.”
Monsieur Bergeret did not speak for a moment, then he said:
“It is strange. I can see him now, in memory, not worn out and white with age, but still young as he was when I was quite a little child. I can see his slight, supple40 figure and his long black wind-tossed hair. Such mops of hair, that seemed as though whipped up by a gust4 of wind, crowned many of the enthusiastic heads of the men of 1830 and ’48. I know it was only a trick of the brush that arranged their hair like that, but it made them look as though they lived upon the heights and in the storm. Their thoughts were loftier and more generous than ours. Our father believed in the advent29 of social justice and universal peace. He announced the triumph of the Republic and the harmonious41 formation of the United States of Europe. He would be cruelly disappointed were he to come back among us.”
He was still speaking although Mademoiselle Bergeret was no longer in the study. He followed her into the empty drawing-room. There they both recalled the arm-chairs and sofa of green velvet42, which as children, in their games, they used to turn into walls and citadels43.
“Oh, the taking of Damietta!” cried Monsieur Bergeret. “Do you remember it, Zoe? Mother, who allowed nothing to be wasted, used to collect all the silver paper round the bars of chocolate, and one day she gave me a pile which pleased me as much as if it had been a magnificent present. I gummed it to the leaves of an old atlas44 and made it into helmets and cuirasses. One day when Cousin Paul came to dinner I gave him one of these sets of armour45, a Saracen’s, and put the other on myself: it was the armour of St. Louis. If one goes into the matter, neither Saracens nor Christian46 knights47 wore such armour in the thirteenth century, but such a consideration did not trouble us, and I took Damietta.
“That recollection reminds me of the cruellest humiliation48 of my life. As soon as I had made myself master of Damietta, I took Cousin Paul prisoner and tied him up with skipping-ropes; then I pushed him with such enthusiasm that he fell on his nose, uttering piercing shrieks49 in spite of his courage. Mother came running in when she heard the noise, and when she saw Cousin Paul bound and prostrate50 on the floor she picked him up, kissed him and said: ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Lucien, to hit a child so much smaller than yourself.’ And as a matter of fact Cousin Paul, who never grew very big, was then very small. I did not say that it had happened in the wars. I said nothing at all, and remained covered with confusion. My shame was increased by the magnanimity of Cousin Paul who said, between his sobs51, ‘I haven’t hurt myself.’
“Ah, our beautiful drawing-room,” sighed Monsieur Bergeret. “I hardly know it with this new paper. How I loved the ugly old paper with its green boughs52! What a gentle shade, what a delicious warmth dwelt in the folds of the hideous53 claret-coloured rep curtains! Spartacus with folded arms used to look at us indignantly from the top of the clock on the mantelpiece. His chains, which I used idly to play with, came off one day in my hand. Our beautiful drawing-room! Mother would sometimes call us in there when she was entertaining old friends. We used to come here to kiss Mademoiselle Lalouette. She was over eighty years of age; her cheeks were covered with a mossy growth and her chin was bearded. One long yellow tooth protruded54 from her lips. They were spotted55 with black. What magic makes the memory of that horrible little old woman full of an attractive charm for me now? What force compels me to recall details of her queer far-away personality? Mademoiselle Lalouette and her four cats lived on an annuity56 of fifteen hundred francs, one half of which she spent in printing pamphlets on Louis XVII. She always had about a dozen of them in her hand-bag. The good lady’s mania was to prove that the Dauphin escaped from the Temple in a wooden horse. Do you remember the day she gave us lunch in her room in the Rue de Verneuil, Zoe? There, under layers of ancient filth57, lay mysterious riches, boxes full of gold and embroideries58.”
“Yes,” said Zoe, “she showed us some lace that had belonged to Marie Antoinette.”
“Mademoiselle Lalouette’s manners were excellent,” continued Monsieur Bergeret. “She spoke59 the purest French and adhered to the old pronunciation. She used to say ‘un segret, un fil, une do’; she made me feel as though I were living in the reign60 of Louis XVI. Mother used to send for us also to speak to Monsieur Mathalène who was not so old as Mademoiselle Lalouette; but he had a hideous face. Never did a gentler soul reveal itself in a more frightful61 shape. He was an inhibited62 priest whom my father had met in the clubs in 1848 and whom he esteemed63 for his Republican opinions. Poorer than Mademoiselle Lalouette, Monsieur Mathalène would go without food in order, like her, to print his pamphlets; but his went to prove that the sun and the moon move round the earth and are in reality no bigger than cheeses. That, by the way, was the opinion of Pierrot, but Monsieur Mathalène arrived at his conclusion only after thirty years of meditation64 and calculation. One still comes upon one of his pamphlets occasionally on the old bookstalls. Monsieur Mathalène was full of zeal65 for the happiness of mankind, whom he terrified by his dreadful ugliness. The only exceptions to his universal love were the astronomers66, whom he suspected of the blackest designs on himself. He imagined that they wanted to poison him, and insisted on preparing his own food as much out of prudence67 as on account of his poverty.”
Thus in the empty rooms, like Ulysses in the land of the Cimmerii, did Monsieur Bergeret evoke18 the shades. For a moment he remained sunk in thought; then he said:
“Zoe, it must be one of two things; either in the days of our childhood there were more maniacs68 about than there are now, or our father befriended more than his fair share. I think he must have liked them. Pity probably drew him to them, or maybe he found them less tedious than other people; anyhow, he had a great following of them.”
Mademoiselle Bergeret shook her head.
“Our parents used to receive very sensible and deserving people. I should say rather that the harmless peculiarities69 of some old people impressed you, and that you have retained a vivid memory of them.”
“Zoe, make no mistake; we were both brought up among people who did not think in a common or usual fashion. Mademoiselle Lalouette, Abbé Mathalène and Monsieur Grille were wanting in ordinary common sense, that is certain. Do you remember Monsieur Grille? He was tall and stout70, with a red face and a close-clipped white beard. He had lost both his sons in an Alpine71 accident in Switzerland, and ever since, summer and winter alike, he had worn garments made of bed-ticking. Our father considered him an exquisite72 Hellenist. He had a delicate feeling for the poetry of the Greek lyrics73. He touched with a light and sure hand the hackneyed text of Theocritus. It was his happy mania never to believe in the certain death of his two sons, and while with crazy confidence he awaited their return he lived, clad in the raiment of a carnival74 clown, in loving intimacy75 with Alc?us and Sappho.”
“He used to give us caramels,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret.
“His remarks were always wise, well-expressed and beautiful,” went on Monsieur Bergeret, “and that used to frighten us. Logic76 is what alarms us most in a madman.”
“On Sunday nights the drawing room was ours,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret.
“Yes,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “It was there we used to play games after dinner. We used to write verses and draw pictures, and mother would play forfeits77 with us. Oh, the candour and simplicity78 of those bygone days! The simple pleasures, the charm of the old-world manners! We used to play charades80; we ransacked81 your wardrobes, Zoe, in search of things to dress up in.”
“One day you pulled the white curtains off my bed.”
“That was to make robes for the Druids in the mistletoe scene, Zoe. The word we chose was guimauve. We were very good at charades, and Father was such a splendid audience. He did not listen to a word, but he smiled at us. I think I should have been quite a good actor, but the grown-ups never gave me a chance; they always wanted to do all the talking.”
“Don’t labour under any delusions82, Lucien; you were incapable83 of playing your part in a charade79. You are too absent-minded. I am the first to recognize your intellect and your talents, but you never had the gift of improvisation84. You must not try to go outside your books and manuscripts.”
“I am just to myself, Zoe, and I know I am not eloquent85; but when Jules Guinaut and Uncle Maurice played with us one could not get a word in.”
“Jules Guinaut had a real talent for comedy,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret, “and an unquenchable spirit.”
“He was studying medicine,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “A good-looking fellow!”
“So people used to say.”
“I think he was in love with you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He paid you a great deal of attention.”
“That’s quite a different matter.”
“Then, quite suddenly, he disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you know what became of him?”
“No. Come, Lucien, let us go.”
And, without turning their heads, the brother and sister stepped over the threshold of their childhood’s old home and went silently down the stone staircase. When they found themselves again in the Rue des Grands-Augustins, amid the cabs and drays, the housewives and the artisans, the noise and movement of the outer world bewildered them as though they had just emerged from a long period of solitude87.
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1
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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42
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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43
citadels
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| n.城堡，堡垒( citadel的名词复数 ) | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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45
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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46
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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47
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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48
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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49
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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50
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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51
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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52
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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53
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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54
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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58
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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inhibited
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| a.拘谨的，拘束的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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astronomers
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| n.天文学者，天文学家( astronomer的名词复数 ) | |
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67
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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68
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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forfeits
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| 罚物游戏 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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charade
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| n.用动作等表演文字意义的字谜游戏 | |
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charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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81
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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83
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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84
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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