第一百三十九章 第二卷 割风面对困难
第二卷 割风面对困难
某些人物和某些职业，尤其是神甫和修女，在关键时刻总是带着严肃而焦虑的神情。当割风走进来时，院长嬷嬷——那位智慧而迷人的布莱默小姐，伊诺森嬷嬷，平日总是乐呵呵的——脸上正印着这种双重忧虑。
园丁怯生生地鞠了一躬，站在小屋门口。正在捻着念珠的院长嬷嬷抬起眼睛说：
"啊！是你，割风老爹。"
这个缩略语在修道院里已经成了习惯。
割风又鞠了一躬。
"割风老爹，我叫人去找你来。"
"我来了，尊敬的母亲。"
"我有话要对你说。"
"我也有话要说，"割风壮着胆子说，心里却暗暗发怵，"我有话要对最尊敬的母亲说。"
院长嬷嬷盯着他。
"啊！你有话要对我说。"
"一个请求。"
"好吧，说吧。"
这位前公证人割风老爹属于那种胸有成竹的农民。某种聪明的无知是一种力量；你不会提防它，反而会被它迷惑。割风在修道院度过的两年多的时间里一直很成功。他总是独自一人忙着园艺，除了满足好奇心之外无事可做。由于远离那些来来往往、蒙着面纱的女人，他眼前只是一片晃动的影子。凭着细心和敏锐，他成功地将所有这些幽灵都赋予了血肉，那些僵尸对他来说都活了过来。他就像一个视力变得更敏锐的聋子，又像一个听力变得更灵敏的盲人。他致力于破解各种钟声的含义，并且成功了，以至于这个沉默寡言、神秘莫测的修道院对他毫无秘密可言；斯芬克斯在他耳边絮叨着所有的秘密。割风知道一切，却隐瞒了一切；这就是他的艺术。整个修道院都以为他愚蠢。这在宗教中是极大的优点。唱诗班嬷嬷们都很看重割风。他是个好奇的哑巴。他赢得了信任。此外，他循规蹈矩，除非是果园和菜园有明确需要，否则从不外出。这种谨慎的行为使他声望日增。然而，他让两个人打开了话匣子：修道院里的门房，因此他了解了他们接待室的古怪；墓园里的掘墓人，因此他熟悉了他们埋葬的习俗；这样，他对这些修女有了双重的了解，一是她们的生活，二是她们的死亡。但他并没有滥用他的知识。修会十分看重他。年老、跛足、对一切视而不见，可能还有点耳背——多么好的品质啊！她们很难找到人来替代他。
这位善良的老人，凭着一个感到自己被赏识的人的自信，对尊敬的院长嬷嬷发表了一番相当冗长、非常粗俗的乡村演说。他滔滔不绝地讲着自己的年纪、他的残疾、今后对他来说双倍增长的岁月负担、不断增加的工作需求、花园的广阔面积、必须熬夜的夜晚——就像昨晚，因为月亮，他不得不在瓜田上铺草垫——最后他这样结尾："他有一个兄弟"——院长嬷嬷动了一下——"一个不再年轻的兄弟"——院长嬷嬷又动了一下，但这次是松了口气——"如果允许的话，这个兄弟可以来和他一起住，帮他干活，他是个出色的园丁，修会会从他那里得到很好的服务，比他自己还要好；否则，如果他的兄弟不被接纳，那么作为兄长，他感到自己身体垮了，无法胜任工作，他将不得不十分遗憾地离开；他的兄弟有一个小女儿，他会把她带来，她可以在修道院里为上帝而养育，谁知道呢，也许有一天她还能成为修女。"
他说完后，院长嬷嬷停住了在指间滑动的念珠，对他说：
"你能在今天晚上之前弄到一根结实的铁棍吗？"
"干什么用？"
"当撬杠。"
"好的，尊敬的母亲，"割风回答说。
院长嬷嬷没有再多说一句话，站起身来，走进隔壁的房间，那是议事厅，唱诗班嬷嬷们可能都在那里集合。割风独自一人留了下来。
It is the peculiarity of certain persons and certain professions,
notably priests and nuns, to wear a grave and agitated air on critical
occasions. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, this double form of
preoccupation was imprinted on the countenance of the prioress, who was
that wise and charming Mademoiselle de Blemeur, Mother Innocente, who
was ordinarily cheerful.
The gardener made a timid bow, and remained at the door of the cell.
The prioress, who was telling her beads, raised her eyes and said:—
“Ah! it is you, Father Fauvent.”
This abbreviation had been adopted in the convent.
Fauchelevent bowed again.
“Father Fauvent, I have sent for you.”
“Here I am, reverend Mother.”
“I have something to say to you.”
“And so have I,” said Fauchelevent with a boldness which caused him
inward terror, “I have something to say to the very reverend Mother.”
The prioress stared at him.
“Ah! you have a communication to make to me.”
“A request.”
“Very well, speak.”
Goodman Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, belonged to the category of
peasants who have assurance. A certain clever ignorance constitutes a
force; you do not distrust it, and you are caught by it. Fauchelevent
had been a success during the something more than two years which he
had passed in the convent. Always solitary and busied about his
gardening, he had nothing else to do than to indulge his curiosity. As
he was at a distance from all those veiled women passing to and fro, he
saw before him only an agitation of shadows. By dint of attention and
sharpness he had succeeded in clothing all those phantoms with flesh,
and those corpses were alive for him. He was like a deaf man whose
sight grows keener, and like a blind man whose hearing becomes more
acute. He had applied himself to riddling out the significance of the
different peals, and he had succeeded, so that this taciturn and
enigmatical cloister possessed no secrets for him; the sphinx babbled
all her secrets in his ear. Fauchelevent knew all and concealed all;
that constituted his art. The whole convent thought him stupid. A great
merit in religion. The vocal mothers made much of Fauchelevent. He was
a curious mute. He inspired confidence. Moreover, he was regular, and
never went out except for well-demonstrated requirements of the orchard
and vegetable garden. This discretion of conduct had inured to his
credit. Nonetheless, he had set two men to chattering: the porter, in
the convent, and he knew the singularities of their parlor, and the
grave-digger, at the cemetery, and he was acquainted with the
peculiarities of their sepulture; in this way, he possessed a double
light on the subject of these nuns, one as to their life, the other as
to their death. But he did not abuse his knowledge. The congregation
thought a great deal of him. Old, lame, blind to everything, probably a
little deaf into the bargain,—what qualities! They would have found it
difficult to replace him.
The goodman, with the assurance of a person who feels that he is
appreciated, entered into a rather diffuse and very deep rustic
harangue to the reverend prioress. He talked a long time about his age,
his infirmities, the surcharge of years counting double for him
henceforth, of the increasing demands of his work, of the great size of
the garden, of nights which must be passed, like the last, for
instance, when he had been obliged to put straw mats over the melon
beds, because of the moon, and he wound up as follows: “That he had a
brother”—(the prioress made a movement),—“a brother no longer young”—(a
second movement on the part of the prioress, but one expressive of
reassurance),—“that, if he might be permitted, this brother would come
and live with him and help him, that he was an excellent gardener, that
the community would receive from him good service, better than his own;
that, otherwise, if his brother were not admitted, as he, the elder,
felt that his health was broken and that he was insufficient for the
work, he should be obliged, greatly to his regret, to go away; and that
his brother had a little daughter whom he would bring with him, who
might be reared for God in the house, and who might, who knows, become
a nun some day.”
When he had finished speaking, the prioress stayed the slipping of her
rosary between her fingers, and said to him:—
“Could you procure a stout iron bar between now and this evening?”
“For what purpose?”
“To serve as a lever.”
“Yes, reverend Mother,” replied Fauchelevent.
The prioress, without adding a word, rose and entered the adjoining
room, which was the hall of the chapter, and where the vocal mothers
were probably assembled. Fauchelevent was left alone.
