At this epoch, Marius was twenty years of age. It was three years since he had left his grandfather. Both parties had remained on the same terms, without attempting to approach each other, and without seeking to see each other. Besides, what was the use of seeing each other? Marius was the brass vase, while Father Gillenormand was the iron pot.
We admit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather's heart. He had imagined that M. Gillenormand had never loved him, and that that crusty, harsh, and smiling old fellow who cursed, shouted, and stormed and brandished his cane, cherished for him, at the most, only that affection, which is at once slight and severe, of the dotards of comedy. Marius was in error. There are fathers who do not love their children; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his grandson. At bottom, as we have said, M. Gillenormand idolized Marius. He idolized him after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of snappishness and boxes on the ear; but, this child once gone, he felt a black void in his heart; he would allow no one to mention the child to him, and all the while secretly regretted that he was so well obeyed. At first, he hoped that this Buonapartist, this Jacobin, this terrorist, this Septembrist, would return. But the weeks passed by, years passed; to M. Gillenormand's great despair, the "blood-drinker" did not make his appearance. "I could not do otherwise than turn him out," said the grandfather to himself, and he asked himself: "If the thing were to do over again, would I do it?" His pride instantly answered "yes," but his aged head, which he shook in silence, replied sadly "no." He had his hours of depression. He missed Marius. Old men need affection as they need the sun. It is warmth. Strong as his nature was, the absence of Marius had wrought some change in him. Nothing in the world could have induced him to take a step towards "that rogue"; but he suffered. He never inquired about him, but he thought of him incessantly. He lived in the Marais in a more and more retired manner; he was still merry and violent as of old, but his merriment had a convulsive harshness, and his violences always terminated in a sort of gentle and gloomy dejection. He sometimes said: "Oh! if he only would return, what a good box on the ear I would give him!"
As for his aunt, she thought too little to love much; Marius was no longer for her much more than a vague black form; and she eventually came to occupy herself with him much less than with the cat or the paroquet which she probably had. What augmented Father Gillenormand's secret suffering was, that he locked it all up within his breast, and did not allow its existence to be divined. His sorrow was like those recently invented furnaces which consume their own smoke. It sometimes happened that officious busybodies spoke to him of Marius, and asked him: "What is your grandson doing?" "What has become of him?" The old bourgeois replied with a sigh, that he was a sad case, and giving a fillip to his cuff, if he wished to appear gay: "Monsieur le Baron de Pontmercy is practising pettifogging in some corner or other."
While the old man regretted, Marius applauded himself. As is the case with all good-hearted people, misfortune had eradicated his bitterness. He only thought of M. Gillenormand in an amiable light, but he had set his mind on not receiving anything more from the man who had been unkind to his father. This was the mitigated translation of his first indignation. Moreover, he was happy at having suffered, and at suffering still. It was for his father's sake. The hardness of his life satisfied and pleased him. He said to himself with a sort of joy that-- it was certainly the least he could do; that it was an expiation;-- that, had it
not been for that, he would have been punished in some other way and later on for his impious indifference towards his father, and such a father! that it would not have been just that his father should have all the suffering, and he none of it; and that, in any case, what were his toils and his destitution compared with the colonel's heroic life? that, in short, the only way for him to approach his father and resemble him, was to be brave in the face of indigence, as the other had been valiant before the enemy; and that that was, no doubt, what the colonel had meant to imply by the words: "He will be worthy of it." Words which Marius continued to wear, not on his breast, since the colonel's writing had disappeared, but in his heart.
And then, on the day when his grandfather had turned him out of doors, he had been only a child, now he was a man. He felt it. Misery, we repeat, had been good for him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has this magnificent property about it, that it tu hs the whole will towards effor? and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty instantly lays material life bare and renders it hideous; hence inexpressible bounds towards the ideal life. The wealthy young man has a hundred coarse and brilliant distractions, horse races, hunting, dogs, tobacco, gaming, good repasts, and all the rest of it; occupations for the baser side of the soul, at the expense of the loftier and more delicate sides. The poor young man wins his bread with difficulty; he eats; when he has eaten, he has nothing more but meditation. He goes to the spectacles which God furnishes gratis; he gazes at the sky, space, the stars, flowers, children, the humanity among which he is suffering, the creation amid which he beams. He gazes so much on humanity that he perceives its soul, he gazes upon creation to such an extent that he beholds God. He dreams, he feels himself great; he dreams on, and feels himself tender. From the egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the compassion of the man who meditates. An admirable sentiment breaks forth in him, forgetfulness of self and pity for all. As he thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature offers, gives, and lavishes to souls which stand open, and refuses to souls that are closed, he comes to pity, he the millionnaire of the mind, the millionnaire of money. All hatred departs from his heart, in proportion as light penetrates his spirit. And is he unhappy? No. The misery of a young man is never miserable. The first young lad who comes to hand, however poor he may be, with his strength, his health, his rapid walk, his brilliant eyes, his warmly circulating blood, his black hair, his red lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will always arouse the envy of an aged emperor. And then, every morning, he sets himself afresh to the task of earning his bread; and while his hands earn his bread, his dorsal column gains pride, his brain gathers ideas. His task finished, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation, to joys; he beholds his feet set in afflictions, in obstacles, on the pavement, in the nettles, sometimes in the mire; his head in the light. He is firm serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, kindly; and he thanks God for having bestowed on him those two forms of riches which many a rich man lacks: work, which makes him free; and thought, which makes him dignified.
This is what had happened with Marius. To tell the truth, he inclined a little too much to the side of contemplation. From the day when he had succeeded in earning his living with some approach to certainty, he had stopped, thinking it good to be poor, and retrenching time from his work to give to thought; that is to say, he sometimes passed entire days in meditation, absorbed, engulfed, like a visionary, in the mute voluptuousness of ecstasy and inward radiance. He had thus propounded the problem of his life: to toil as little as possible at material labor, in order to toil as much as possible at the labor which is impalpable; in other words, to bestow a few hours on real life, and to cast the rest to the infinite. As he believed that he lacked nothing, he did not perceive that contemplation, thus understood, ends by becoming one of the forms of idleness; that he was contenting himself with conquering the first necessities of life, and that he was resting from his labors too soon.
It was evident that, for this energetic and enthusiastic nature, this could only be a transitory state, and that, at the first shock against the inevitable complications of destiny, Marius would awaken.
In the meantime, although he was a lawyer, and whatever Father Gillenormand thought about the matter, he was not practising, he was not even pettifogging. Meditation had turned him aside from pleading. To haunt attorneys, to follow the court, to hunt up cases-- what a bore! Why should he do it? He saw no reason for changing the manner of gaining his livelihood! The obscure and ill-paid publishing establishment had come to mean for him a sure source of work which did not involve too much labor, as we have explained, and which sufficed for his wants.
One of the publishers for whom he worked, M. Magimel, I think, offered to take him into his own house, to
$odge him well, to furnish him with regular occupation, and to give him fifteen hundred francs a year. To be well lodged! Fifteen hundred francs! No doubt. But renounce his liberty! Be on fixed wages! A sort of hired man of letters! According to Marius' opinion, if he accepted, his position would become both better and worse at the same time, he acquired comfort, and lost his dignity; it was a fine and complete unhappiness converted into a repulsive and ridiculous state of torture: something like the case of a blind man who should recover the sight of one eye. He refused.
Marius dwelt in solitude. Owing to his taste for remaining outside of everything, and through having been too much alarmed, he had not entered decidedly into the group presided ove
by Enjolras. They had remained good friends; they were ready to assist each other on occasion in every possible way; but nothing more. Marius had two friends: one young, Courfeyrac; and one old, M. Mabeuf. He inclined more to the old man. In the first p倀
ce, he owed to him the revolution which had taken place within him; to him he was indebted for having known and loved his father. "He operated on me for a cataract," he said.
The churchwarden had certainly played a decisive part.
It was not, however, that M. Mabeuf had been anything but the calm and impassive agent of Providence in this connection. He had enlightened Marius by chance and without being aware of the fact, as does a candle which some one brings; he had been the candle and not the some one.
As for Marius' inward political revolution, M. Mabeuf was totally incapable of comprehending it, of willing or of directing it.
As we shall see M. Mabeuf again, later on, a few words will not be superfluous.
当时，马吕斯已二十岁了。他离开他的外祖父已有三年。他们彼此之间都保持着原有状态，既不想接近，也不图相见。此外，见面，这有什么好处？为了冲突吗？谁又能说服谁呢？马吕斯是铜瓶，而吉诺曼公公是铁钵。
说实在的，马吕斯误解了他外祖父的心。他以为吉诺曼先生从来不曾爱他，并且认为这个粗糙、心硬而脸笑、经常咒骂、叫嚷、发脾气、举手杖的老先生，对他至多也只是怀着喜剧中常见的那种顽固老长辈的轻浮而苛刻的感情罢了。马吕斯错了。天下有不爱儿女的父亲，却没有不疼孙子的祖父。究其实，吉诺曼先生对马吕斯是无比钟爱的。他以他的方式爱着他，爱他而又任性，甚至要打他嘴巴，可是，当孩子不在眼前时，他心里又感到一片漆黑和空虚。他曾禁止旁人再向他提到他，心里却在悄悄埋怨别人对他会那么顺从。最初，他还抱着希望，这波拿巴分子，这雅各宾分子，这恐怖分子，这九月暴徒①总会回来的。但是一周又一周过去了，一月又一月过去了，一年又一年过去了，吉诺曼先生大失所望，这吸血鬼竟一去不复返，那位老祖宗常对自己说：“除了撵他走，我没有别的办法呀。”他又常问自己：“假使能再和好，我能再和好么？”他的自尊心立刻回答能，但是他那频频点着的老顽固脑袋却又悲伤地回答说不能。他万分颓丧，感到日子好难挨。他一心惦念着马吕斯。老人需要温情如同需要日光。这是热。无论他的性格是多么顽强，马吕斯的出走使他的心情多少改变了一点。无论如何，他不愿意向这“小把戏”走近一步，但他心里痛苦。他从不探听他的消息，却又随时在想他。他生活在沼泽区，越来越不和人接近了。他和往常一样，还是又愉快又暴躁的，但是他那愉快有一种痉挛性的僵硬味儿，好象那里有着苦痛和隐怒，他那暴躁也老是以一种温和而阴郁的颓丧状态结束。有时他会说出这样的话：“啊！要是他回来，我得好好给他几个耳光！”
①九月暴徒，指一七九二年九月的屠杀。一七九二年八月底，巴黎公社为了粉碎国内反革命阴谋，逮捕了约一万二千名嫌疑分子，其中有贵族和奸细。但监狱管理不严，被捕者竟在狱中张灯结彩，庆祝革命军队军事失利。这一切使人民愤怒，九月二日下午二时，无套裤汉奔到各监狱去镇压被捕的人，动用私刑。巴黎公社不赞成这种镇压，派代表去各监狱拯救许多囚犯的生命。尽管如此，九月二日至三日，被击毙的囚犯仍在一千名左右。
至于那位姨母，由于脑子动得太少，也就不大知道什么是爱，马吕斯，对她来说，已只是一种朦胧的黑影，她对马吕斯反而不及她对猫儿和鹦鹉那么操心，很可能她是有过猫儿和鹦鹉的。
加深吉诺曼公公的内心痛苦的是他把痛苦全部闷在心里，绝不让人猜到。他的悲伤就象那种新近发明的连烟也烧尽的火炉。有时，有些不大知趣的应酬朋友和他谈到马吕斯，问他说：“您的那位外孙先生近来怎么样了？”或是“他在干什么呀？”这老绅士，当时如果过于郁闷，便叹口气，如果要装作愉快，便弹着自己的衣袖回答说：“彭眉胥男爵先生大概在什么地方兜揽诉讼。”
当这老人深自悔恨时，马吕斯却在拍手称快。正如所有心地善良的人那样，困难已扫除了他的苦恼。他只是心平气和地偶尔想到吉诺曼先生，但是他坚持不再接受这个“待他父亲不好”的人的任何东西。现在他已从他最初的愤恨中变得平和了。另外，他为自己曾受苦、并继续受苦而感到快乐。这是为了他的父亲。生活的艰难使他感到满足，使他感到舒适。他有时大为得意地说：“这不算什么”，“这是一种赎罪行为”，“不这样，由于对自己的父亲，对这样一个父亲极其可耻的不关心，他日后也还是要在不同的情况下受到惩罚的”，“他父亲从前受尽了苦痛而他一点也不受，这未免太不公平”，“况且，他的辛劳，他的穷困和上校英勇的一生比起来，又算得了什么？”
“归根结底，他要和他父亲接近，向他学习的唯一办法便是对贫苦奋勇斗争，正如他父亲当年敢与敌人搏斗那样，这一定就是上校留下的‘他是当之无愧的’那句话的含义了”。那句话，由于上校的遗书已经丢失，他不能再佩带在胸前，但仍铭刻在他心里。
此外，他外祖父把他撵走时，他还只是个孩子，现在他已是成人了。他自己也这样觉得。穷苦，让我们强调这点，对他起了好的作用。青年时代的穷苦当它成功时，有这样一种可贵之处，就是它能把人的整个意志转向发愤的道路，把人的整个灵魂引向高尚的愿望。穷苦能立即把物质生活赤裸裸地暴露出来，并使它显得异常丑恶，从而产生使人朝着理想生活发出无可言喻的一往无前的毅力。阔少们有百十种华贵而庸俗的娱乐，赛马，打猎，养狗，抽烟，赌博，宴饮和其他种种，这全是些牺牲了心灵高尚优美的一面来满足心灵低劣一面的消遣。穷苦少年为一块面包而努力，他吃，吃过以后，剩下的便只是梦幻。他去欣赏上帝准备的免费演出，他望着天、空间、群星、花木、孩子们、使他受苦的人群、使他心花怒放的天地万物。对人群望久了，他便能看见灵魂，对天地万物望久了，他便能看见上帝。他梦想，觉得自己伟大，他再梦想，感到自己仁慈。他从受苦人的自私心转到了深思者的同情心。一种可喜的感情，忘我悯人的心在他胸中开花了。当他想到天地专为胸襟开豁的人提供无穷无尽的乐事让他们尽情受用，而对心地狭窄的人们则加以拒绝，他便以智慧方面的富豪自居，而怜悯那些金钱方面的富豪了。光明进入他的心灵，憎恨也就离开他的意念。这样他会感到不幸吗？不会。年轻人的穷苦是从来不苦的。任何一个年轻孩子，无论穷到什么地步，有了他的健康、他的体力、他那矫健的步伐、明亮的眼睛、热烘烘流着的血液、乌黑的头发、鲜润的双颊、绯红的嘴唇、雪白的牙齿、纯净的气息，便能使年老的帝王羡慕不止。后来，每个早晨他又开始挣他的面包，当他的手挣到了面包，他的脊梁里也赢得了傲气，他的头脑里也赢得了思想。工作完毕了，他又回到那种不可名状的喜悦、景慕、欢乐之中，在生活里，他的两只脚不离痛楚、障碍、石块路、荆棘丛，有时还踏进污泥，头却伸在光明里。他是坚定、宁静、温良、和平、警惕、严肃、知足和仁慈的，他颂扬上帝给了他许多富人没有的这两种财富：使他自由的工作和使他高尚的思想。
这便是在马吕斯心中发生的一切。他甚至，说得全面一点，有点过于偏向景慕一面了。从他的生活大体上能稳定下来的那天起，他便止步不前，他认为安贫是好事，于是放松了工作去贪图神游。这就是说，他有时把整整好几天的时光都花在冥想里，如同老僧入定，沉浸迷失在那种怡然自得和游心泰玄的寂静享受中了。他这样安排他的生活，尽可能少做物质方面的工作，以便尽可能多做捉摸不到的工作，换句话说，留几个钟点在实际生活里，把其余的时间投入太空。他自以为什么也不缺了，却没有看到这样去认识景慕，结果是一种懒惰的表现，他以能争取到生活的最低要求而心满意足，他歇息得过早了。
当然，象他这样一个坚强豪迈的性格，这只可能是一种过渡状况，一旦和命运的那些不可避免的复杂问题发生冲突时，马吕斯是会觉醒的。
他目前虽是律师，也不管吉诺曼公公的看法如何，他却从不出庭辩护，更谈不上兜揽诉讼。梦幻使他远离了耍嘴皮子的生涯。和法官们鬼混，随庭听讼，穷究案由，太厌烦。为什么要那么干呢？他想不出任何理由要他改变谋生方式。这家默默无闻的商务书店向他提供了一种稳定的工作，一种劳动强度不大的工作，我们刚才说过，这已使他感到满足了。
他为之工作的几家书商之一，我想，是马其美尔先生吧，曾建议聘他专为他的书店服务，供给他舒适的住处和固定的工作，年薪一千五百法郎。舒适的住处！一千五百法郎！当然不错。但是放弃自由！当一种书役！一种雇用文人！在马吕斯的思想里，如果接受这种条件，他的地位会好转，但同时也会变得更坏，他能得到优裕的生活，但也会丧失自己的尊严，这是以完全清白的穷苦换取丑陋可笑的束缚，这是使瞎子变成独眼龙。他拒绝了。
马吕斯过着孤独的生活。由于他那种喜欢独来独往的性情，也由于他所受的刺激太大了，他完全没有参加那个以安灼拉为首的组织。大家仍是好朋友，彼此之间也有在必要时竭力互相帮助的准备，如是而已。马吕斯有两个朋友，一个年轻的，古费拉克，一个年老的，马白夫先生。他和那年老的更相投一些。首先，他内心的革命是由他引起的，受赐于他，他才能认识并爱戴他的父亲。他常说：“他切除了我眼珠上的白翳。”
毫无疑问，这位理财神甫是起了决定性作用的。
可是马白夫先生在这里只不过是上苍所遣的一个平静的无动于衷的使者罢了。他偶然不自觉地照亮了马吕斯的心，仿佛是一个人手里的蜡烛，他是那支烛，不是那个人。
至于马吕斯心中的政治革命，那绝不是马白夫先生所能了解，所能要求，所能指导的。
我们在下面还会遇到马白夫先生，因此在这里谈上几句不是无用的。
| 欢迎访问英文小说网http://novel.tingroom.com |