第一百七十九章 第四卷 缪尚咖啡馆的后厅
第四卷 缪尚咖啡馆的后厅
马吕斯参与的这些年轻人之间的谈话，有时他也插上几句，这给他的思想带来一次真正的震动。
事情发生在缪尚咖啡馆的后厅里。那天晚上，ABC之友社的成员几乎都到齐了。灯盏庄重地点燃着。他们漫无边际地谈着，声音嘈杂，但并无激情。除了安灼拉和马吕斯沉默不语外，其他人都是随口乱说。同志间的谈话有时就是这样喧闹而平静。这既是一场游戏，也是一阵喧嚣，更是一种交谈。他们互相抛掷词语，又依次接住。到处都在叽叽喳喳地谈着。
这个后厅里没有女人，除了那个洗盘子的服务员卢伊松，她偶尔会从那里经过，到“洗涤处”去洗东西。
格兰泰尔喝得酩酊大醉，他占据的那个角落被他吵得震天响。他扯着嗓子推理和反驳，并喊道：
“我渴了。凡人们，我在做梦：海德堡的大酒桶中风了，我就是那要吸它血的十二只水蛭中的一只。我要喝。我想忘记生活。生活是一个不知是谁的丑恶发明。它毫无价值，且转瞬即逝。人在生活中会折断脖子。生活是一个舞台布景，里面只有少数几个可用的入口。幸福是一个古老的圣物盒，只在一面画了画。传道书说：‘一切都是虚空。’我同意那个好人的看法，他也许从未存在过。零不想完全赤裸，便披上了虚荣这件外衣。啊，虚荣！用大字眼来修补一切！厨房是实验室，舞女是教授，杂技演员是体操家，拳击手是拳术家，药剂师是化学家，假发制造者是艺术家，泥水匠是建筑师，赛马骑师是运动员，潮虫是翼鳃动物。虚荣有对错两面；对的一面是愚蠢，那是戴着玻璃珠的黑人；错的一面是荒唐，那是穿着破衣烂衫的哲学家。我为前者哭泣，对后者发笑。所谓的荣誉和尊严，甚至尊严和荣誉本身，通常都是假金。国王拿人类的骄傲当玩具。卡利古拉让一匹马当执政官；查理二世让一块牛腰肉当骑士。那么，你现在就裹上因西塔图斯执政官和烤牛肉从男爵的皮吧。至于人们的内在价值，那已丝毫不值得尊敬了。听听邻人对邻人的颂词。白色上再加白色是凶猛的；如果百合花能说话，它会给鸽子怎样的训斥啊！一个虔诚的女人谈论一个虔诚的女人，比毒蛇和眼镜蛇还要恶毒。我无知，这是耻辱，否则我可以给你们引述一大堆东西；但我什么都不知道。例如，我一直很机智；当我还是格罗的学生时，我不涂那些可怜的小画，而是把时间花在偷苹果上；‘画徒’是‘偷窃’的阳性形式。这是我对自己；至于你们其他人，你们并不比我更有价值。我嘲笑你们的完美、优点和品质。每一种好的品质都趋向一种缺陷：节俭近乎吝啬，慷慨的人与挥霍者为邻，勇敢的人与吹牛者擦肩；说非常虔诚的人，就有点近乎偏执；美德中的罪恶，正如第欧根尼外套上的窟窿一样多。你钦佩谁，被杀者还是杀人者，凯撒还是布鲁图斯？通常人们都站在杀人者一边。布鲁图斯万岁！他杀人了！这就是美德。美德，当然，但也是疯狂。这些伟人身上有奇怪的污点。杀死凯撒的布鲁图斯曾爱过一个小男孩的雕像。这个雕像出自希腊雕刻家斯特龙吉里翁之手，他也雕刻了那个被称为“美腿”的亚马孙女战士像，尼禄旅行时随身带着它。这个斯特龙吉里翁只留下两尊雕像，使尼禄和布鲁图斯看法一致。布鲁图斯爱一个，尼禄爱另一个。全部历史不过是令人厌倦的重复。一个世纪是另一个世纪的抄袭者。马伦戈战役抄袭皮德纳战役；克洛维的托尔比亚克和拿破仑的奥斯特里茨，就如两滴水一样相似。我不太看重胜利。没有什么比征服更愚蠢的了；真正的荣耀在于说服。但试着去证明点什么吧！如果你满足于成功，那是多么平庸，满足于征服，那是多么可怜！唉，虚荣和怯懦无处不在。一切都服从成功，甚至语法。贺拉斯说：‘如果习惯愿意。’因此我蔑视人类。我们要降到政党的层面上来吗？你们要我开始钦佩各个民族吗？请问是哪个民族？是希腊吗？雅典人，那些昔日的巴黎人，杀死了福基翁，就像我们说的科利尼一样，并且对暴君阿谀奉承到如此程度，以至于安纳克福鲁斯谈到庇西特拉图时说：‘他的尿吸引蜜蜂。’希腊五十年间最杰出的人物是那个语法学家菲勒塔斯，他如此矮小瘦弱，以至于不得不在鞋里灌铅，以免被风吹走。科林斯的大广场上矗立着一尊由西拉尼翁雕刻、普林尼编目的雕像；这尊雕像代表厄皮斯塔特斯。厄皮斯塔特斯做了什么？他发明了一种绊脚法。这就是希腊和荣耀的概括。我们再看别的。我要钦佩英国吗？我要钦佩法国吗？法国？为什么？因为巴黎？我刚刚告诉你们我对雅典的看法。英国？为什么？因为伦敦？我恨迦太基。还有，伦敦，奢侈的大都市，是苦难的大本营。仅查令十字街教区一年就有一百人饿死。这就是阿尔比恩。再加上，作为高潮，我曾看到一个英国女人戴着玫瑰花环和蓝色眼镜跳舞。去他的英国吧！如果我不钦佩约翰牛，我该钦佩乔纳森兄弟吗？我对那个蓄奴的兄弟没什么好感。去掉‘时间就是金钱’，英国还剩下什么？去掉‘棉花为王’，美国还剩下什么？德国是淋巴液，意大利是胆汁。我们要为俄罗斯而狂热吗？伏尔泰钦佩它。他也钦佩中国。我承认俄罗斯有其美丽之处，其中就有一种强有力的专制；但我可怜那些专制君主。他们的健康很脆弱。一个被斩首的阿列克谢，一个被匕首刺死的彼得，一个被勒死的保罗，另一个被踢死的保罗，几个被勒死、割喉的伊凡，无数被毒死的尼古拉和瓦西里，这一切都表明俄国皇帝们的宫殿处于一种臭名昭著的污秽状态。所有文明民族都向思想家提供这个值得赞赏的细节：战争；而现在，战争，文明的战争，耗尽并概括了各种形式的暴行，从蒙哈萨峡谷的土匪抢劫到可疑隘口的科曼奇印第安人的掠夺。‘呸！’你们会对我说，‘但欧洲肯定比亚洲好？’我承认亚洲是个闹剧；但我并不确切地看到，你们这些西方民族，在把从伊莎贝拉女王的脏衬衫到太子的便椅所有这些复杂的帝王污秽都融入你们的时尚和优雅之后，还有什么好嘲笑大喇嘛的。人类先生们，我告诉你们，根本不是那么回事！在布鲁塞尔，啤酒消费最多；在斯德哥尔摩，白兰地消费最多；在马德里，巧克力消费最多；在阿姆斯特丹，杜松子酒消费最多；在伦敦，葡萄酒消费最多；在君士坦丁堡，咖啡消费最多；在巴黎，苦艾酒消费最多；这就是所有有用的概念。巴黎总之是胜利了。在巴黎，连拾荒者都是享乐主义者；第欧根尼宁可当莫贝尔广场的拾荒者，也不愿当比雷埃夫斯的哲学家。再告诉你们一点：拾荒者的小酒店被称为‘bibines’；最著名的是‘平底锅’和‘屠宰场’。因此，茶园、歌咏会、小酒馆、小饭店、小酒店、舞厅、低级酒吧、拾荒者的bibines、哈里发的商队客栈，我向你们保证，我是个纵情享乐的人，我在里查德饭店花四十苏吃一顿饭，我必须要有波斯地毯来包裹赤裸的克利奥帕特拉！克利奥帕特拉在哪里？啊！原来是你，卢伊松。你好。”
格兰泰尔就这样，酩酊大醉，在缪尚咖啡馆后厅的角落里，向路过的洗碗女工搭话，叽里呱啦地说了一大通。
博须埃向他伸出手，想让他住口，格兰泰尔却变本加厉：
“莫城之鹰啊，放下你的爪子吧。你用希波克拉底拒绝阿尔塔薛西斯旧货的那种姿态，对我毫无影响。我免去你安慰我的任务。再说，我很悲伤。你们要我对你们说什么？人是邪恶的，人是畸形的；蝴蝶是成功的，人是失败的。上帝在那个动物身上犯了个错误。一群人提供了选择丑陋的机会。随便哪一个人都是个可怜虫，女人——femme——与infâme（无耻）押韵。是的，我有忧郁症，还伴有悲伤、乡愁，再加上疑病症，我恼怒，我狂躁，我打哈欠，我无聊，我厌倦得要死，我愚蠢！让上帝见鬼去吧！”
“住口，你这大写字母R！”博须埃接着说道，他正在幕后讨论一个法律问题，已经深深陷入司法行话的句子中，以下是其结尾：
“……至于我，虽然我几乎不是个法学家，最多是个业余律师，但我坚持这一点：根据诺曼底习惯法的条款，在圣米歇尔节，每年必须向领主缴纳等值物，以弥补领主权益，同时保留其他人的权利，并且由所有者和继承者以及其他所有人共同承担，针对一切永佃权、租约、永久产权、领地契约、抵押……”
“回声，多情的仙女，”格兰泰尔哼唱着。
在格兰泰尔附近，一张几乎无声的桌子，一张纸，一个墨水瓶，一支笔，放在两杯白兰地之间，表明一部歌舞剧正在酝酿中。这件大事正在低声讨论着，两个埋头工作的人脑袋几乎碰在一起：“我们先找名字。有了名字，就有了主题。”
“对。你口述，我来写。”
“多里蒙先生。”
“一位独立的绅士？”
“当然。”
“他的女儿，塞莱斯蒂娜。”
“……娜。接下来呢？”
“圣瓦尔上校。”
“圣瓦尔太老了。我会说瓦尔辛。”
在歌舞剧爱好者旁边，另一群人也在利用喧嚣低声谈论一场决斗。一个三十岁的老家伙正在劝告一个十八岁的年轻人，向他解释他要对付的是个怎样的对手。
“见鬼！你得小心点。他是个出色的剑手。他的招式干净利落。他有攻击，没有虚晃，手腕灵活，动作迅猛，快如闪电，招架准确，防御数学般精确，妈的！而且他是左撇子。”
在与格兰泰尔相对的角落里，若李和巴奥雷尔正在玩多米诺骨牌，并谈论着爱情。
“你真走运，”若李说。“你的情妇总是笑呵呵的。”
“那是她的缺点，”巴奥雷尔回答。“情妇不该笑。那会鼓励你欺骗她。看到她快乐，你的悔恨就消失了；如果你看到她悲伤，你的良心就会不安。”
“忘恩负义！一个爱笑的女人是多么美好的事情啊！而且你们从不吵架！”
“那是因为我们签了条约。在结成我们的小小神圣联盟时，我们各自划分了边界，从不越界。属于冬天那边的归沃州，属于风那边的归热克斯。所以太平无事。”
“和平是消化中的幸福。”
“而你，若——李，你和那位小姐——你知道我说的是谁——的纠葛怎么样了？”
“她以残酷的耐心生我的气。”
“可你是个能让铁石心肠都软化的情人。”
“唉！”
“要是我，我就不理她。”
“说得容易。”
“做起来也不难。她不是叫缪什特吗？”
“是的。唉！我可怜的巴奥雷尔，她是个出色的姑娘，很有文学修养，脚小，手小，穿着得体，皮肤白皙，还有酒窝，长着一双算命先生的眼睛。我疯狂地爱着她。”
“亲爱的朋友，那么为了讨她欢心，你必须优雅，要让你的膝盖产生效果。到斯托布那里买一条好的双层呢料裤子。那会有帮助的。”
“多少钱？”格兰泰尔喊道。
第三个角落正在展开一场关于诗的讨论。异教神话正在与基督教神话交锋。问题涉及奥林匹斯山，让·普鲁维尔为其辩护，纯粹出于浪漫主义精神。
让·普鲁维尔只在安静时胆怯。一旦激动起来，他就爆发了，一种喜悦突出他的热情，他既笑又抒情。
“我们不要侮辱诸神，”他说。“诸神也许并没有离去。我并不觉得朱庇特已经死了。诸神是梦，你们说。好吧，即使在今天这样的大自然中，在这些梦消失之后，我们仍然能找到所有古老的异教神话的壮丽痕迹。例如，某座有着城堡轮廓的山，比如维涅马勒峰，对我来说，仍是库柏勒的头饰；没有人向我证明潘神不会在夜晚来到柳树空洞的树干里呼吸，轮流用手指堵住树洞，而我一直相信伊娥与彼斯瓦什瀑布有关。”
在最后一个角落里，他们在谈论政治。被授予的宪章正受到粗暴的对待。公白飞在无力地为其辩护。古费拉克则在大力抨击它。桌上放着一本不幸的著名的杜凯宪章。古费拉克抓住它，挥舞着，他的论据中夹杂着这张纸的沙沙声。
“首先，我不要任何国王；哪怕仅仅从经济的角度来看，我也不要；国王是寄生虫。国王不是免费的。听着：国王的昂贵。在弗朗索瓦一世去世时，法国的国债达到三万利弗尔的年金；在路易十四去世时，是二十六亿，按每马克二十八利弗尔计算，根据德马雷的说法，这在1760年相当于四十五亿，今天则相当于一百二十亿。其次，公白飞，请勿见怪，被授予的宪章只是一种可怜的文明权宜之计。为了挽救过渡，缓和转变，减轻冲击，通过宪政虚构使国家不知不觉地从君主制过渡到民主制——所有这些理由多么可恶！不！不！永远不要用虚假的曙光来启迪人民。原则在你们的宪政地窖里会萎缩和苍白。不要非法，不要妥协，不要国王给予人民的东西。在所有这样的给予中，都有第14条。在给予的手旁边，有收回的爪子。我断然拒绝你们的宪章。宪章是一个面具；谎言藏在下面。接受宪章的民族就是退位。法律只有在完整的时候才是法律。不！不要宪章！”
当时是冬天；壁炉里燃烧着几根木柴。这很诱人，古费拉克无法抗拒。他把可怜的杜凯宪章揉成一团，扔进了火里。纸燃烧了起来。公白飞默默地看着路易十八的杰作化为灰烬，只说了句：
“宪章变成了火焰。”
于是，讽刺、妙语、笑话，那种法国人称之为“激情”，英国人称之为“幽默”的东西，好的和坏的趣味，好的和坏的理由，所有这些对话的疯狂花炮，从房间的各个角落同时升起，交织在一起，在他们头顶上形成了一种快乐的轰击。
One of the conversations among the young men, at which Marius was
present and in which he sometimes joined, was a veritable shock to his
mind.
This took place in the back room of the Café Musain. Nearly all the
Friends of the A B C had convened that evening. The argand lamp was
solemnly lighted. They talked of one thing and another, without passion
and with noise. With the exception of Enjolras and Marius, who held
their peace, all were haranguing rather at hap-hazard. Conversations
between comrades sometimes are subject to these peaceable tumults. It
was a game and an uproar as much as a conversation. They tossed words
to each other and caught them up in turn. They were chattering in all
quarters.
No woman was admitted to this back room, except Louison, the
dish-washer of the café, who passed through it from time to time, to go
to her washing in the “lavatory.”
Grantaire, thoroughly drunk, was deafening the corner of which he had
taken possession, reasoning and contradicting at the top of his lungs,
and shouting:—
“I am thirsty. Mortals, I am dreaming: that the tun of Heidelberg has
an attack of apoplexy, and that I am one of the dozen leeches which
will be applied to it. I want a drink. I desire to forget life. Life is
a hideous invention of I know not whom. It lasts no time at all, and is
worth nothing. One breaks one’s neck in living. Life is a theatre set
in which there are but few practicable entrances. Happiness is an
antique reliquary painted on one side only. Ecclesiastes says: ‘All is
vanity.’ I agree with that good man, who never existed, perhaps. Zero
not wishing to go stark naked, clothed himself in vanity. O vanity! The
patching up of everything with big words! a kitchen is a laboratory, a
dancer is a professor, an acrobat is a gymnast, a boxer is a pugilist,
an apothecary is a chemist, a wigmaker is an artist, a hodman is an
architect, a jockey is a sportsman, a wood-louse is a pterigybranche.
Vanity has a right and a wrong side; the right side is stupid, it is
the negro with his glass beads; the wrong side is foolish, it is the
philosopher with his rags. I weep over the one and I laugh over the
other. What are called honors and dignities, and even dignity and
honor, are generally of pinchbeck. Kings make playthings of human
pride. Caligula made a horse a consul; Charles II. made a knight of a
sirloin. Wrap yourself up now, then, between Consul Incitatus and
Baronet Roastbeef. As for the intrinsic value of people, it is no
longer respectable in the least. Listen to the panegyric which neighbor
makes of neighbor. White on white is ferocious; if the lily could
speak, what a setting down it would give the dove! A bigoted woman
prating of a devout woman is more venomous than the asp and the cobra.
It is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass
of things; but I know nothing. For instance, I have always been witty;
when I was a pupil of Gros, instead of daubing wretched little
pictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples; _rapin_24 is the
masculine of _rapine_. So much for myself; as for the rest of you, you
are worth no more than I am. I scoff at your perfections, excellencies,
and qualities. Every good quality tends towards a defect; economy
borders on avarice, the generous man is next door to the prodigal, the
brave man rubs elbows with the braggart; he who says very pious says a
trifle bigoted; there are just as many vices in virtue as there are
holes in Diogenes’ cloak. Whom do you admire, the slain or the slayer,
Cæsar or Brutus? Generally men are in favor of the slayer. Long live
Brutus, he has slain! There lies the virtue. Virtue, granted, but
madness also. There are queer spots on those great men. The Brutus who
killed Cæsar was in love with the statue of a little boy. This statue
was from the hand of the Greek sculptor Strongylion, who also carved
that figure of an Amazon known as the Beautiful Leg, Eucnemos, which
Nero carried with him in his travels. This Strongylion left but two
statues which placed Nero and Brutus in accord. Brutus was in love with
the one, Nero with the other. All history is nothing but wearisome
repetition. One century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of
Marengo copies the battle of Pydna; the Tolbiac of Clovis and the
Austerlitz of Napoleon are as like each other as two drops of water. I
don’t attach much importance to victory. Nothing is so stupid as to
conquer; true glory lies in convincing. But try to prove something! If
you are content with success, what mediocrity, and with conquering,
what wretchedness! Alas, vanity and cowardice everywhere. Everything
obeys success, even grammar. _Si volet usus_, says Horace. Therefore I
disdain the human race. Shall we descend to the party at all? Do you
wish me to begin admiring the peoples? What people, if you please?
Shall it be Greece? The Athenians, those Parisians of days gone by,
slew Phocion, as we might say Coligny, and fawned upon tyrants to such
an extent that Anacephorus said of Pisistratus: “His urine attracts the
bees.” The most prominent man in Greece for fifty years was that
grammarian Philetas, who was so small and so thin that he was obliged
to load his shoes with lead in order not to be blown away by the wind.
There stood on the great square in Corinth a statue carved by Silanion
and catalogued by Pliny; this statue represented Episthates. What did
Episthates do? He invented a trip. That sums up Greece and glory. Let
us pass on to others. Shall I admire England? Shall I admire France?
France? Why? Because of Paris? I have just told you my opinion of
Athens. England? Why? Because of London? I hate Carthage. And then,
London, the metropolis of luxury, is the headquarters of wretchedness.
There are a hundred deaths a year of hunger in the parish of
Charing-Cross alone. Such is Albion. I add, as the climax, that I have
seen an Englishwoman dancing in a wreath of roses and blue spectacles.
A fig then for England! If I do not admire John Bull, shall I admire
Brother Jonathan? I have but little taste for that slave-holding
brother. Take away _Time is money_, what remains of England? Take away
_Cotton is king_, what remains of America? Germany is the lymph, Italy
is the bile. Shall we go into ecstasies over Russia? Voltaire admired
it. He also admired China. I admit that Russia has its beauties, among
others, a stout despotism; but I pity the despots. Their health is
delicate. A decapitated Alexis, a poignarded Peter, a strangled Paul,
another Paul crushed flat with kicks, divers Ivans strangled, with
their throats cut, numerous Nicholases and Basils poisoned, all this
indicates that the palace of the Emperors of Russia is in a condition
of flagrant insalubrity. All civilized peoples offer this detail to the
admiration of the thinker; war; now, war, civilized war, exhausts and
sums up all the forms of ruffianism, from the brigandage of the
Trabuceros in the gorges of Mont Jaxa to the marauding of the Comanche
Indians in the Doubtful Pass. ‘Bah!’ you will say to me, ‘but Europe is
certainly better than Asia?’ I admit that Asia is a farce; but I do not
precisely see what you find to laugh at in the Grand Lama, you peoples
of the west, who have mingled with your fashions and your elegances all
the complicated filth of majesty, from the dirty chemise of Queen
Isabella to the chamber-chair of the Dauphin. Gentlemen of the human
race, I tell you, not a bit of it! It is at Brussels that the most beer
is consumed, at Stockholm the most brandy, at Madrid the most
chocolate, at Amsterdam the most gin, at London the most wine, at
Constantinople the most coffee, at Paris the most absinthe; there are
all the useful notions. Paris carries the day, in short. In Paris, even
the rag-pickers are sybarites; Diogenes would have loved to be a
rag-picker of the Place Maubert better than to be a philosopher at the
Piræus. Learn this in addition; the wineshops of the rag-pickers are
called _bibines_; the most celebrated are the _Saucepan_ and _The
Slaughter-House_. Hence, tea-gardens, goguettes, caboulots, bouibuis,
mastroquets, bastringues, manezingues, bibines of the rag-pickers,
caravanseries of the caliphs, I certify to you, I am a voluptuary, I
eat at Richard’s at forty sous a head, I must have Persian carpets to
roll naked Cleopatra in! Where is Cleopatra? Ah! So it is you, Louison.
Good day.”
