[8] In his study of medi?val romances, M. Bergeret devotes himself to the Conte badin, or jesting tale of ludicrous adventure by which so much of Chaucer’s work was inspired. This school of short stories starts with the tales of Aristeides of Miletus, a writer of the second century B.C. His Milésiaques, as they are called, were followed by the fabliaux of the Middle Ages, and in the fifteenth century and onwards by the Cent Nouvelles nouvelles of Louis XI’s time, by the Heptaméron of the Queen of Navarre, the Decameron of Boccaccio and the Contes of Despériers, of Guillaume Bouchet, of No?l du Fail and others. La Fontaine retold many of the older tales in verse and Balzac tried to revive the Gallic wit and even the language of the fabliaux in his Contes dr?latiques.
“These romancers,” thought he, “who make austere8 moralists knit their brows, are themselves excellent moralists, who should be loved and praised for having gracefully9 suggested the simplest, the most natural, the most humane11 solutions of domestic difficulties, difficulties which the pride and hatred12 of the savage13 heart of man would fain solve by murder and bloodshed. O Milesian romancers! O shrewd Petronius! O No?l du Fail,” cried he, “O forerunners14 of Jean de La Fontaine! what apostle was wiser or better than you, who are commonly called good-for-nothing rascals15? O benefactors16 of humanity! you have taught us the true science of life, a kindly18 scorn of the human race!”
127 Thus did M. Bergeret fortify19 himself with the thought that our pride is the original source of all our misery20, that we are, in fact, but monkeys in clothes, and that we have solemnly applied21 conceptions of honour and virtue22 to matters where these are ridiculous. Pope Boniface VIII, in fact, was wise in thinking that, in his own case, a mountain was being made out of a mole-hill, and Madame Bergeret and M. Roux were just about as worthy23 of praise or blame as a pair of chimpanzees. Yet, he was too clear-sighted to pretend to deny the close bond that united him to these two principal actors in his drama. But he only regarded himself as a meditative24 chimpanzee, and he derived25 from the idea a sensation of gratified vanity. For wisdom invariably goes astray somewhere.
M. Bergeret’s, indeed, failed in another point: he did not really adapt his conduct to his maxims26, and although he showed no violence, he never gave the least hint of forbearance. Thus he by no means proved himself the follower27 of those Milesian, Latin, Florentine, or Gallic romance-writers whose smiling philosophy he admired as being well suited to the absurdity28 of human nature. He never reproached Madame Bergeret, it is true, but neither did he speak a word, or throw a glance in her direction. Even when seated128 opposite her at table, he seemed to have the power of never seeing her. And if by chance he met her in one of the rooms of the flat, he gave the poor woman the impression that she was invisible.
He ignored her, he treated her not only as a stranger, but as non-existent. He ousted29 her both from visual and mental consciousness. He annihilated30 her. In the house, among the numberless preoccupations of their life together, he neither saw her, heard her, nor formed any perception of her. Madame Bergeret was a coarse-grained, troublesome woman, but she was a homely31, moral creature after all; she was human and living, and she suffered keenly at not being allowed to burst out into vulgar chatter32, into threatening gestures and shrill33 cries. She suffered at no longer feeling herself the mistress of the house, the presiding genius of the kitchen, the mother of the family, the matron. Worst of all, she suffered at feeling herself done away with, at feeling that she no longer counted as a person, or even as a thing. During meals she at last reached the point of longing34 to be a chair or a plate, so that her presence might at least be recognised. If M. Bergeret had suddenly drawn35 the carving-knife on her, she would have cried for joy, although she was by nature timid of a blow. But not to129 count, not to matter, not to be seen, was insupportable to her dull, heavy temperament36. The monotonous37 and incessant38 punishment that M. Bergeret inflicted39 on her was so cruel that she was obliged to stuff her handkerchief into her mouth to stifle40 her sobs41. And M. Bergeret, shut up in his study, used to hear her noisily blowing her nose in the dining-room while he himself was placidly42 sorting the slips for his Virgilius nauticus, unmoved by either love or hate.
Every evening Madame Bergeret was sorely tempted43 to follow her husband into the study that had now become his bedroom as well, and the impregnable fastness of his impregnable will. She longed either to ask his forgiveness, or to overwhelm him with the lowest abuse, to prick44 his face with the point of a kitchen-knife or to slash45 herself in the breast—one or the other, indifferently, for all she wanted was to attract his notice to herself, just to exist for him. And this thing which was denied her, she needed with the same overpowering need with which one craves46 bread, water, air, salt.
She still despised M. Bergeret, for this feeling was hereditary47 and filial in her nature. It came to her from her father and flowed in her blood. She would no longer have been a Pouilly, the niece of Pouilly of the Dictionary, if she had acknowledged any kind of equality between herself and her husband.130 She despised him because she was a Pouilly and he was a Bergeret, and not because she had deceived him. She had the good sense not to plume48 herself too much on this superiority, but it is more than probable that she despised him for not having killed M. Roux. Her scorn was a fixed49 quantity, capable neither of increase nor decrease. Nevertheless, she felt no hatred for him, although until lately, she had rather enjoyed tormenting50 and annoying him in the ordinary affairs of every day, by scolding him for the untidiness of his clothes and the tactlessness of his behaviour, or by telling him interminable anecdotes51 about the neighbours, trivial and silly stories in which even the malice52 and ill-nature were but commonplace. For this windbag53 of a mind produced neither bitter venom54 nor strange poison and was but puffed55 up by the breath of vanity.
Madame Bergeret was admirably calculated to live on good terms with a mate whom she could betray and brow-beat in the calm assurance of her power and by the natural working of her vigorous physique. Having no inner life of her own and being exuberantly56 healthy of body, she was a gregarious57 creature, and when M. Bergeret was suddenly withdrawn58 from her life, she missed him as a good wife misses an absent husband. Moreover, this meagre little man, whom she had always considered131 insignificant59 and unimportant, but not troublesome, now filled her with dread60. By treating her as an absolute nonentity61, M. Bergeret made her really feel that she no longer existed. She seemed to herself enveloped62 in nothingness. At this new, unknown, nameless state, akin63 to solitude64 and death, she sank into melancholy65 and terror. At night, her anguish66 became cruel, for she was sensitive to nature and subject to the influence of time and space. Alone in her bed, she used to gaze in horror at the wicker-work woman on which she had draped her dresses for so many years and which, in the days of her pride and light-heartedness, used to stand in M. Bergeret’s study, proudly upright, all body and no head. Now, bandy-legged and mutilated, it leant wearily against the glass-fronted wardrobe, in the shadow of the curtain of purple rep. Lenfant the cooper had found it in his yard amongst the tubs of water with their floating corks67, and when he brought it to Madame Bergeret, she dared not set it up again in the study, but had carried it instead into the conjugal68 chamber69 where, wounded, drooping70, and struck by emblematic71 wrath72, it now stood like a symbol that represented notions of black magic to her mind.
She suffered cruelly. When she awoke one morning a melancholy ray of pale sunlight was shining between the folds of the curtain on the132 mutilated wicker dummy73 and, as she lay watching it, she melted with self-pity at the thought of her own innocence74 and M. Bergeret’s cruelty. She felt instinct with rebellion. It was intolerable, she thought, that Amélie Pouilly should suffer by the act of a Bergeret. She mentally communed with the soul of her father and so strengthened herself in the idea that M. Bergeret was too paltry75 a man to make her unhappy. This sense of pride gave her relief and supplied her with confidence to bedeck herself, buoying76 her mind with the assurance that she had not been humiliated77 and that everything was as it always had been.
It was Madame Leterrier’s At Home day, and Madame Bergeret set out, therefore, to call on the rector’s highly respected wife. In the blue drawing-room she found her hostess sitting with Madame Compagnon, the wife of the mathematical professor, and after the first greetings were over, she heaved a deep sigh. It was a provocative78 sigh, rather than a down-trodden one, and while the two university ladies were still giving ear to it, Madame Bergeret added:
“There are many reasons for sadness in this life, especially for anyone who is not naturally inclined to put up with everything.... You are a happy woman, Madame Leterrier, and so are you, Madame Compagnon!...”
133 And Madame Bergeret, becoming humble79, discreet80 and self-controlled, said nothing more, though fully10 conscious of the inquiring glances directed towards her. But this was quite enough to give people to understand that she was ill-used and humiliated in her home. Before, there had been whispers in the town about M. Roux’s attentions to her, but from that day forth81 Madame Leterrier set herself to put an end to the scandal, declaring that M. Roux was a well-bred, honourable82 young man. Speaking of Madame Bergeret, she added, with moist lips and tear-filled eyes:
“That poor woman is very unhappy and very sensitive.”
Within six weeks the drawing-rooms of the county town had made up their minds and come over to Madame Bergeret’s side. They declared that M. Bergeret, who never paid calls, was a worthless fellow. They suspected him of secret debauchery and hidden vice83, and his friend, M. Mazure, his comrade at the academy of old books, his colleague at Paillot’s, was quite sure that he had seen him one evening going into the restaurant in the Rue17 des Hebdomadiers, a place of questionable84 repute.
Whilst M. Bergeret was thus being tried by the tribunal of society and found wanting, the popular voice was crowning him with quite a different134 reputation. Of the vulgar symbol that had lately appeared on the front of his own house only very indistinct traces remained. But phantoms85 of the same design began to increase and multiply in the town, and now M. Bergeret could not go to the college, nor on the Mall, nor to Paillot’s shop, without seeing his own portrait on some wall, drawn in the primitive86 style of all such ribaldries, surrounded by obscene, suggestive, or idiotic87 scrawls88, and either pencilled or chalked or traced with the point of a stone and accompanied by an explanatory legend.
M. Bergeret was neither angered nor vexed89 at the sight of these graffiti; he was only annoyed at the increasing number of them. There was one on the white wall of Goubeau’s cow-house on the Tintelleries; another on the yellow frontage of Deniseau’s agency in the Place Saint-Exupère; another on the grand theatre under the list of admission rates at the second pay-box; another at the corner of the Rue de la Pomme and the Place du Vieux-Marché; another on the outbuildings of the Nivert mansion90, next to the Gromances’ residence; another on the porter’s lodge91 at the University; and yet another on the wall of the gardens of the prefecture. And every morning M. Bergeret found yet newer ones. He noted92, too, that these graffiti were not all from the same hand. In some, the man’s figure was drawn in quite135 primitive style; others were better drawn, without showing, however, upon examination, any approach to individual likeness93 or the difficult art of portraiture94. But in every case the bad drawing was supplemented by a written explanation, and in all these popular caricatures M. Bergeret wore horns. He noticed that sometimes these horns projected from a bare skull95, sometimes from a tall hat.
“Two schools of art!” thought he.
But his refined nature suffered.
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1
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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2
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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3
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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5
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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8
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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9
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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12
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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14
forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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15
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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16
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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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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18
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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19
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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21
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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23
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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24
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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25
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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26
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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27
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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30
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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31
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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39
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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41
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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42
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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43
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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44
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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45
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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46
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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47
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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48
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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49
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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50
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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51
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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52
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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53
windbag
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| n.风囊，饶舌之人，好说话的人 | |
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54
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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55
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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56
exuberantly
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| adv.兴高采烈地，活跃地，愉快地 | |
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57
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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58
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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59
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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60
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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61
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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62
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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64
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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65
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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66
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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67
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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68
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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69
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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70
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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71
emblematic
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| adj.象征的，可当标志的；象征性 | |
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72
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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73
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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74
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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75
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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76
buoying
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| v.使浮起( buoy的现在分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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77
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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78
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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79
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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84
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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85
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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86
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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