雨果 悲惨世界 英文版1-第25部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


he　convict；　which　is　like　the　echo　of　the　laugh　of　a　demon。　To　all　appearance；　he　seemed　to　be　occupied　in　the　constant　contemplation　of　something　terrible。
　　He　was　absorbed；　in　fact。
　　Athwart　the　unhealthy　perceptions　of　an　inplete　nature　and　a　crushed　intelligence；　he　was　confusedly　conscious　that　some　monstrous　thing　was　resting　on　him。
　　In　that　obscure　and　wan　shadow　within　which　he　crawled；　each　time　that　he　turned　his　neck　and　essayed　to　raise　his　glance；　he　perceived　with　terror；　mingled　with　rage；　a　sort　of　frightful　accumulation　of　things；　
collecting　and　mounting　above　him；　beyond　the　range　of　his　vision；　laws；　prejudices；　men；　and　deeds；whose　outlines　escaped　him；　whose　mass　terrified　him；　and　which　was　nothing　else　than　that　prodigious　pyramid　which　we　call　civilization。
　　He　distinguished；　here　and　there　in　that　swarming　and　formless　mass；　now　near　him；　now　afar　off　and　on　inaccessible　table…lands；　some　group；　some　detail；　vividly　illuminated；　here　the　galley…sergeant　and　his　cudgel；　there　the　gendarme　and　his　sword；　yonder　the　mitred　archbishop；　away　at　the　top；　like　a　sort　of　sun；　the　Emperor；　crowned　and　dazzling。　It　seemed　to　him　that　these　distant　splendors；　far　from　dissipating　his　night；　rendered　it　more　funereal　and　more　black。
　　All　this　laws；　prejudices；　deeds；　men；　thingswent　and　came　above　him；　over　his　head；　in　accordance　with　the　plicated　and　mysterious　movement　which　God　imparts　to　civilization；　walking　over　him　and　crushing　him　with　I　know　not　what　peacefulness　in　its　cruelty　and　inexorability　in　its　indifference。
　　Souls　which　have　fallen　to　the　bottom　of　all　possible　misfortune；　unhappy　men　lost　in　the　lowest　of　those　limbos　at　which　no　one　any　longer　looks；　the　reproved　of　the　law；　feel　the　whole　weight　of　this　human　society；　so　formidable　for　him　who　is　without；　so　frightful　for　him　who　is　beneath；　resting　upon　their　heads。
　　In　this　situation　Jean　Valjean　meditated；　and　what　could　be　the　nature　of　his　meditation？
　　If　the　grain　of　millet　beneath　the　millstone　had　thoughts；　it　would；　doubtless；　think　that　same　thing　which　Jean　Valjean　thought。
　　All　these　things；　realities　full　of　spectres；　phantasmagories　full　of　realities；　had　eventually　created　for　him　a　sort　of　interior　state　which　is　almost　indescribable。
　　At　times；　amid　his　convict　toil；　he　paused。
　　He　fell　to　thinking。　His　reason；　at　one　and　the　same　time　riper　and　more　troubled　than　of　yore；　rose　in　revolt。
　　Everything　which　had　happened　to　him　seemed　to　him　absurd；　everything　that　surrounded　him　seemed　to　him　impossible。
　　He　said　to　himself；　〃It　is　a　dream。〃　He　gazed　at　the　galley…sergeant　standing　a　few　paces　from　him；　the　galley…sergeant　seemed　a　phantom　to　him。
　　All　of　a　sudden　the　phantom　dealt　him　a　blow　with　his　cudgel。
　　Visible　nature　hardly　existed　for　him。
　　It　would　almost　be　true　to　say　that　there　existed　for　Jean　Valjean　neither　sun；　nor　fine　summer　days；　nor　radiant　sky；　nor　fresh　April　dawns。　I　know　not　what　vent…hole　daylight　habitually　illumined　his　soul。
　　To　sum　up；　in　conclusion；　that　which　can　be　summed　up　and　translated　into　positive　results　in　all　that　we　have　just　pointed　out；　we　will　confine　ourselves　to　the　statement　that；　in　the　course　of　nineteen　years；　Jean　Valjean；　the　inoffensive　tree…pruner　of　Faverolles；　the　formidable　convict　of　Toulon；　had　bee　capable；　thanks　to　the　manner　in　which　the　galleys　had　moulded　him；　of　two　sorts　of　evil　action：
　　firstly；　of　evil　action　which　was　rapid；　unpremeditated；　dashing；　entirely　instinctive；　in　the　nature　of　reprisals　for　the　evil　which　he　had　undergone；　secondly；　of　evil　action　which　was　serious；　grave；　consciously　argued　out　and　premeditated；　with　the　false　ideas　which　such　a　misfortune　can　furnish。
　　His　deliberate　deeds　passed　through　three　successive　phases；　which　natures　of　a　certain　stamp　can　alone　traverse；reasoning；　will；　perseverance。　He　had　for　moving　causes　his　habitual　wrath；　bitterness　of　soul；　a　profound　sense　of　indignities　suffered；　the　reaction　even　against　the　good；　the　innocent；　and　the　just；　if　there　are　any　such。　The　point　of　departure；　like　the　point　of　arrival；　for　all　his　thoughts；　was　hatred　of　human　law；　that　hatred　which；　if　it　be　not　arrested　in　its　development　by　some　providential　incident；　bees；　within　a　given　time；　the　hatred　of　society；　then　the　hatred　of　the　human　race；　then　the　hatred　of　creation；　and　which　manifests　itself　by　a　vague；　incessant；　and　brutal　desire　to　do　harm　to　some　living　being；　no　matter　whom。
　　It　will　be　perceived　that　it　was　not　without　reason　that　Jean　Valjean's　passport　described　him　as　a　very　dangerous　man。
　　From　year　to　year　this　soul　had　dried　away　slowly；　but　with　fatal　sureness。
　　When　the　heart　is　dry；　the　eye　is　dry。
　　On　his　departure　from　the　galleys　it　had　been　nineteen　years　since　he　had　shed　a　tear。


BOOK　SECONDTHE　FALL
CHAPTER　VIII　
　　BILLOWS　AND　SHADOWS
　　　A　man　overboard！
　　What　matters　it？
　　The　vessel　does　not　halt。
　　The　wind　blows。　That　sombre　ship　has　a　path　which　it　is　forced　to　pursue。　It　passes　on。
　　The　man　disappears；　then　reappears；　he　plunges；　he　rises　again　to　the　surface；　he　calls；　he　stretches　out　his　arms；　he　is　not　heard。　The　vessel；　trembling　under　the　hurricane；　is　wholly　absorbed　in　its　own　workings；　the　passengers　and　sailors　do　not　even　see　the　drowning　man；　his　miserable　head　is　but　a　speck　amid　the　immensity　of　the　waves。　He　gives　vent　to　desperate　cries　from　out　of　the　depths。
　　What　a　spectre　is　that　retreating　sail！
　　He　gazes　and　gazes　at　it　frantically。　It　retreats；　it　grows　dim；　it　diminishes　in　size。
　　He　was　there　but　just　now；　he　was　one　of　the　crew；　he　went　and　came　along　the　deck　with　the　rest；　he　had　his　part　of　breath　and　of　sunlight；　he　was　a　living　man。
　　Now；　what　has　taken　place？
　　He　has　slipped；　he　has　fallen；　all　is　at　an　end。
　　He　is　in　the　tremendous　sea。
　　Under　foot　he　has　nothing　but　what　flees　and　crumbles。
　　The　billows；　torn　and　lashed　by　the　wind；　enpass　him　hideously；　the　tossings　of　the　abyss　bear　him　away；　all　the　tongues　of　water　dash　over　his　head；　a　populace　of　waves　spits　upon　him；　confused　openings　half　devour　him；　every　time　that　he　sinks；　he　catches　glimpses　of　precipices　filled　with　night；　frightful　and　unknown　vegetations　seize　him；　knot　about　his　feet；　draw　him　to　them；　he　is　conscious　that　he　is　being　an　abyss；　that　he　forms　part　of　the　foam；　the　waves　toss　him　from　one　to　another；　he　drinks　in　the　bitterness；　the　cowardly　ocean　attacks　him　furiously；　to　drown　him；　the　enormity　plays　with　his　agony。
　　It　seems　as　though　all　that　water　were　hate。
　　Nevertheless；　he　struggles。
　　He　tries　to　defend　himself；　he　tries　to　sustain　himself；　he　makes　an　effort；　he　swims。
　　He；　his　petty　strength　all　exhausted　instantly；　bats　the　inexhaustible。
　　Where；　then；　is　the　ship？
　　Yonder。
　　Barely　visible　in　the　pale　shadows　of　the　horizon。
　　The　wind　blows　in　gusts；　all　the　foam　overwhelms　him。　He　raises　his　eyes　and　beholds　only　the　lividness　of　the　clouds。　He　witnesses；　amid　his　death…pangs；　the　immense　madness　of　the　sea。　He　is　tortured　by　this　madness；　he　hears　noises　strange　to　man；　which　seem　to　e　from　beyond　the　limits　of　the　earth；　and　from　one　knows　not　what　frightful　region　beyond。
　　There　are　birds　in　the　clouds；　just　as　there　are　angels　above　human　distresses；　but　what　can　they　do　for　him？
　　They　sing　and　fly　and　float；　and　he；　he　rattles　in　the　death　agony。
　　He　feels　himself　buried　in　those　two　infinities；　the　ocean　and　the　sky；　at　one　and　the　same　time：
　　the　one　is　a　tomb；　the　other　is　a　shroud。
　　Night　descends；　he　has　been　swimming　for　hours；　his　strength　is　exhausted；　that　ship；　that　distant　thing　in　which　there　were　men；　has　vanished；　he　is　alone　in　the　formidable　twilight　gulf；　he　sinks；　he　stiffens　himself；　he　twists　himself；　he　feels　under　him　the　monstrous　billows　of　the　invisible；　he　shouts。
　　There　are　no　more　men。
　　Where　is　God？
　　He　shouts。
　　Help！
　　Help！
　　He　still　shouts　on。
　　Nothing　on　the　horizon；　nothing　in　heaven。
　　He　implores　the　expanse；　the　waves；　the　seaweed；　the　reef；　they　are　deaf。
　　He　beseeches　the　tempest；　the　imperturbable　tempest　obeys　only　the　infinite。
　　Around　him　darkness；　fog；　solitude；　the　stormy　and　nonsentient　tumult；　the　undefined　curling　of　those　wild　waters。
　　In　him　horror　and　fatigue。　Beneath　him　the　depths。
　　Not　a　point　of　support。
　　He　thinks　of　the　gloomy　adventures　of　the　corpse　in　the　limitless　shadow。　The　bottomless　cold　paralyzes　him。
　　His　hands　contract　convulsively；　they　close；　and　grasp　nothingness。
　　Winds；　clouds；　whirlwinds；　gusts；　useless　stars！
　　What　is　to　be　done？
　　The　desperate　man　gives　up；　he　is　weary；　he　chooses　the　alternative　of　death；　he　resists　not；　he　lets　himself　go；　he　abandons　his　grip；　and　then　he　tosses　forevermore　in　the　lugubrious　dreary　depths　of　engulfment。
　　Oh；　implacable　march　of　human　societies！
　　Oh；　losses　of　men　and　of　souls　on　the　way！
　　Ocean　into　which　falls　all　that　the　law　lets　slip！　Disastrous　absence　of　help！
　　Oh；　moral　death！
　　The　sea　is　the　inexorable　social　night　into　which　the　penal　laws　fling　their　condemned。