第一百七十八章 第三卷 马吕斯惊奇
第三卷 马吕斯惊奇
几天功夫，马吕斯就成了古费拉克的朋友。青年人的友谊，一经建立，便如伤口愈合，迅即融为一体。马吕斯在古费拉克身边可以自由呼吸，这对他是全新的事。古费拉克从不向他提问，连想都没想过要提问。在这种年龄，一切都在脸上表露无遗，言语是多余的。有些年轻人可以说他们的脸是会说话的。彼此看一眼，便能互相了解。
不过，一天早上，古费拉克还是冷不丁地问他：
“对了，你有什么政治见解？”
“嘿！”马吕斯几乎被这问题冒犯了。
“你是什么派？”
“民主——波拿巴派。”
“一只安心的老鼠的灰色调。”古费拉克说。
第二天，古费拉克把马吕斯带进了缪尚咖啡馆。然后他笑着凑到他耳边说：“我必须为你打开革命的大门。”他领着马吕斯走进ABC之友社的会议室。他向其他伙伴介绍马吕斯时，只说了一句马吕斯听不懂的简单话：“一个新学生。”
马吕斯掉进了一个才思敏捷的蜂巢里。不过，尽管他沉默寡言，神情严肃，但他仍然既有翅膀又有武装。
马吕斯，直到那时一直独来独往，喜欢自言自语，也喜欢说些旁白，这既是习惯也是爱好，现在被身边这一群年轻人弄得有些心神不宁。所有这些不同的见解一下子都吸引着他的注意力，把他拉来扯去。这些自由而活跃的思想的纷乱运动，搅得他天旋地转。有时，在他心烦意乱之际，这些思想会远远地逃离他，使他难以抓回。他听他们谈论哲学、文学、艺术、历史、宗教，谈论的方式都出乎他的意料。他瞥见了陌生的景象；由于没有适当的角度去看，他不能完全肯定他所抓住的就不是一团混乱。当他抛弃了祖父的观点，接受了父亲的观点时，他原以为自己已经定型了；可他现在却惴惴不安地怀疑自己并没有定型，而且不敢承认这一点。他观察一切的角度又开始重新变动。某种振荡使他的大脑中的一切地平线都动荡起来。一种奇特的内心翻腾。他几乎因此而感到痛苦。
对这些年轻人来说，似乎不存在什么“神圣不可侵犯的东西”。马吕斯听到他们对各种问题发表的离奇言论，这使他那仍然羞怯的心灵感到困惑。
一张剧院的海报出现了，上面装饰着一出古典保留剧目的悲剧的标题。“打倒资产阶级喜爱的悲剧！”巴奥雷尔喊道。马吕斯听到公白飞回答说：
“你错了，巴奥雷尔。资产阶级喜爱悲剧，就这点而言，应该让资产阶级平静。戴假发的悲剧自有其存在的理由，我不是那种依照埃斯库罗斯的命令就否认其存在权利的人。自然界也有草稿；造物中有现成的戏仿；不是喙的喙，不是翅膀的翅膀，不是鳃的鳃，不是爪的爪，一种痛苦的叫声却能引起发笑的欲望，这就有鸭子。既然家禽跟鸟儿并存，我看不出为什么古典悲剧不能与古代悲剧并存。”
或者碰巧，马吕斯在安灼拉和古费拉克之间走过让-雅克·卢梭街。
古费拉克挽着他的胳膊说：
“注意。这是石膏匠街，现在叫让-雅克·卢梭街，因为六十年前这里有户奇特的人家。这户人家就是让-雅克和泰蕾兹。隔段时间，这里就会生出小生命。泰蕾兹负责生，让-雅克负责把他们当弃儿处理。”
安灼拉严厉地对古费拉克说：
“在让-雅克面前住嘴！我钦佩那个人。他否认自己的孩子，也许有这回事；但他领养了人民。”
这些年轻人中没有一个人提到“皇帝”这个词。只有让·勃鲁维尔有时说“拿破仑”，其他人都说“波拿巴”。安灼拉则说“布奥拿巴”。
马吕斯隐隐感到惊奇。智慧之始。
In a few days, Marius had become Courfeyrac’s friend. Youth is the
season for prompt welding and the rapid healing of scars. Marius
breathed freely in Courfeyrac’s society, a decidedly new thing for him.
Courfeyrac put no questions to him. He did not even think of such a
thing. At that age, faces disclose everything on the spot. Words are
superfluous. There are young men of whom it can be said that their
countenances chatter. One looks at them and one knows them.
One morning, however, Courfeyrac abruptly addressed this interrogation
to him:—
“By the way, have you any political opinions?”
“The idea!” said Marius, almost affronted by the question.
“What are you?”
“A democrat-Bonapartist.”
“The gray hue of a reassured rat,” said Courfeyrac.
On the following day, Courfeyrac introduced Marius at the Café Musain.
Then he whispered in his ear, with a smile: “I must give you your entry
to the revolution.” And he led him to the hall of the Friends of the A
B C. He presented him to the other comrades, saying this simple word
which Marius did not understand: “A pupil.”
Marius had fallen into a wasps’-nest of wits. However, although he was
silent and grave, he was, nonetheless, both winged and armed.
Marius, up to that time solitary and inclined to soliloquy, and to
asides, both by habit and by taste, was a little fluttered by this
covey of young men around him. All these various initiatives solicited
his attention at once, and pulled him about. The tumultuous movements
of these minds at liberty and at work set his ideas in a whirl.
Sometimes, in his trouble, they fled so far from him, that he had
difficulty in recovering them. He heard them talk of philosophy, of
literature, of art, of history, of religion, in unexpected fashion. He
caught glimpses of strange aspects; and, as he did not place them in
proper perspective, he was not altogether sure that it was not chaos
that he grasped. On abandoning his grandfather’s opinions for the
opinions of his father, he had supposed himself fixed; he now
suspected, with uneasiness, and without daring to avow it to himself,
that he was not. The angle at which he saw everything began to be
displaced anew. A certain oscillation set all the horizons of his
brains in motion. An odd internal upsetting. He almost suffered from
it.
It seemed as though there were no “consecrated things” for those young
men. Marius heard singular propositions on every sort of subject, which
embarrassed his still timid mind.
A theatre poster presented itself, adorned with the title of a tragedy
from the ancient repertory called classic: “Down with tragedy dear to
the bourgeois!” cried Bahorel. And Marius heard Combeferre reply:—
“You are wrong, Bahorel. The bourgeoisie loves tragedy, and the
bourgeoisie must be left at peace on that score. Bewigged tragedy has a
reason for its existence, and I am not one of those who, by order of
Æschylus, contest its right to existence. There are rough outlines in
nature; there are, in creation, ready-made parodies; a beak which is
not a beak, wings which are not wings, gills which are not gills, paws
which are not paws, a cry of pain which arouses a desire to laugh,
there is the duck. Now, since poultry exists by the side of the bird, I
do not see why classic tragedy should not exist in the face of antique
tragedy.”
Or chance decreed that Marius should traverse Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau
between Enjolras and Courfeyrac.
Courfeyrac took his arm:—
“Pay attention. This is the Rue Plâtrière, now called Rue Jean-Jacques
Rousseau, on account of a singular household which lived in it sixty
years ago. This consisted of Jean-Jacques and Thérèse. From time to
time, little beings were born there. Thérèse gave birth to them,
Jean-Jacques represented them as foundlings.”
And Enjolras addressed Courfeyrac roughly:—
“Silence in the presence of Jean-Jacques! I admire that man. He denied
his own children, that may be; but he adopted the people.”
Not one of these young men articulated the word: The Emperor. Jean
Prouvaire alone sometimes said Napoleon; all the others said
“Bonaparte.” Enjolras pronounced it “Buonaparte.”
Marius was vaguely surprised. _Initium sapientiæ_.
