第一百八十八章 第一卷 绰号的来源和姓氏的生成方式
第一卷 绰号的来源和姓氏的生成方式
马吕斯此时已是一个俊美的青年，中等身材，秀发浓密乌黑，天庭饱满聪慧，鼻翼开阔热情，神情沉着真诚，面容上带着一种难以言表的傲气、沉思与纯真。他的侧影轮廓圆润而不失刚毅，带着某种日耳曼式的温柔——这种特质经由阿尔萨斯和洛林渗入了法兰西人的面容——完全没有棱角，使西康布人①在罗马人中极易辨认，也区分着狮族与鹰族的气质。他正处在思考者心智由深度与纯真近乎相等地构成的年纪。在严肃情境下，他具备了一切变得愚钝的条件：再多拧一转钥匙，他便可能变得崇高。他的举止矜持、冷淡、文雅，却不太亲切。他的嘴唇极红润，牙齿极洁白，笑容冲淡了整个面容的严肃。有时，那纯净的前额与那妩媚的笑容形成奇特的对比。他的眼睛虽小，目光却宏阔。
①西康布人（Sicambres），古代日耳曼民族的一支。
在他最悲惨的时期，他发现少女们经过时会回头看他，他便带着心如死灰的心情逃避或躲藏。他以为她们在看他是因为他的旧衣服，在嘲笑它们；而事实上，她们看他是因为他的优雅，并在心中梦想着他。
这种他与美丽路人之间无声的误会使他变得腼腆。他谁也不选，绝佳的理由是他躲避所有人。他这样无限期地生活着——如古费拉克所说，愚钝地。
古费拉克还对他说：“别指望受人敬重”（他们彼此用“你”相称，这是青年友谊的自然趋向）。“让我给你个建议，老兄。别读那么多书，多看看姑娘们。那些小娘们儿还是有些优点的，哦，马吕斯！总是逃避脸红，你会变得粗野的。”
另一些时候，古费拉克遇到他，会说：“早安，神父先生！”
每当古费拉克对他讲了这类话，接下来整整一周，马吕斯比以往更甚地躲避女人，无论老少，甚至连古费拉克也一并躲避。
然而，在整个广袤的天地间，却有两个女人是马吕斯不躲避的，也毫不留意她们的。事实上，如果有人告诉他她们是女人，他会非常吃惊。一个是替他打扫房间、胡子拉碴的老妇人——古费拉克因此说：“既然他的女佣人留着胡子，马吕斯自己就不留胡子了。”另一个是他经常见到却从未正眼看过的小姑娘。
一年多来，马吕斯在卢森堡公园一条小径上——那条紧挨着苗圃护墙的小径——注意到一个男人和一个很年轻的女孩，他们几乎总是并肩坐在同一条长凳上，在小径最僻静的尽头，靠近西街的那一侧。每当那种干预内向者散步的偶然机会——几乎每天如此——把马吕斯带到那条小径上时，他都发现这对人坐在那里。那男人看起来六十岁上下，神情忧郁而严肃；整个人透出军人退役后特有的健壮与疲惫。如果他佩戴着勋章，马吕斯会说：“他是个退役军官。”他面容和善却难以接近，目光从不与任何人对视。他穿着蓝裤子、蓝礼服，一顶宽边帽——那帽子总像是新的，系着黑领带，穿着贵格会衬衫——就是说，衬衫洁白耀眼，却是粗布质地。有一天一个女工经过他身边，说：“这是个很干净的鳏夫。”他的头发很白。
第一次陪着那个年轻女孩来，坐在他们似乎选定的那条长凳上时，那女孩是个十三四岁的孩子，瘦弱得近乎丑陋，笨拙，不起眼，但有一双可能变得美丽的眼睛——只是它们总是带着某种令人不快的自信向上抬起。她的衣着既老气又孩子气，像修道院女学生的打扮：一件剪裁很差的黑色美利奴羊毛连衣裙。他们看起来像是父女。
马吕斯观察了这个尚未年老的男人和这个尚未成人的女孩几天，此后便不再留意他们了。而他们那边，似乎甚至没看见他。他们平静而淡漠地交谈着。女孩叽叽喳喳说个不停，很快活。男人话很少，有时把目光投向她，满含着难以言表的父爱。
马吕斯养成了在那条小径散步的习惯性动作。他总在那儿见到他们。
事情是这样的——
马吕斯喜欢从离他们长凳最远的小径尽头到达；他走完整条小径，从他们面前经过，然后回到他来的那一端，再重新开始。他在一次散步中这样走上五六回，而这样的散步每周进行五六次，从未想到过他与这些人要互相问候。那个人和那个年轻女孩，虽然他们似乎——或许正因为他们似乎——躲避所有目光，自然引起了一些时常在苗圃散步的五六个学生的注意：课后用功的学生和打完台球的学生。古费拉克属于后者，他曾多次观察到他们，但觉得那女孩相貌平平，便迅速小心地避开了。他逃跑时抛给他们一个绰号，像一支帕提亚人的箭①。他只记得女孩的裙子和老人的头发，便给女儿起名“黑妞小姐”，给父亲起名“白先生”，因此，既然没有人知道他们的任何其他称呼，在缺乏正式姓名的情况下，这个绰号就成了定律。学生们说：“啊！白先生坐在他的长凳上了。”马吕斯也和大家一样，觉得称这位不知名的先生为白先生很方便。
①帕提亚人以骑射著称，撤退时回身射箭的战术闻名；意为“临别一击”或“讽刺的告别”。
我们将效仿他们，为了叙述方便，称他为白先生。
于是，马吕斯几乎每天同一时刻见到他们，整整第一年。他觉得那男人合他的意，但女孩索然无味。
Marius was, at this epoch, a handsome young man, of medium stature,
with thick and intensely black hair, a lofty and intelligent brow,
well-opened and passionate nostrils, an air of calmness and sincerity,
and with something indescribably proud, thoughtful, and innocent over
his whole countenance. His profile, all of whose lines were rounded,
without thereby losing their firmness, had a certain Germanic
sweetness, which has made its way into the French physiognomy by way of
Alsace and Lorraine, and that complete absence of angles which rendered
the Sicambres so easily recognizable among the Romans, and which
distinguishes the leonine from the aquiline race. He was at that period
of life when the mind of men who think is composed, in nearly equal
parts, of depth and ingenuousness. A grave situation being given, he
had all that is required to be stupid: one more turn of the key, and he
might be sublime. His manners were reserved, cold, polished, not very
genial. As his mouth was charming, his lips the reddest, and his teeth
the whitest in the world, his smile corrected the severity of his face,
as a whole. At certain moments, that pure brow and that voluptuous
smile presented a singular contrast. His eyes were small, but his
glance was large.
At the period of his most abject misery, he had observed that young
girls turned round when he passed by, and he fled or hid, with death in
his soul. He thought that they were staring at him because of his old
clothes, and that they were laughing at them; the fact is, that they
stared at him because of his grace, and that they dreamed of him.
This mute misunderstanding between him and the pretty passers-by had
made him shy. He chose none of them for the excellent reason that he
fled from all of them. He lived thus indefinitely,—stupidly, as
Courfeyrac said.
Courfeyrac also said to him: “Do not aspire to be venerable” [they
called each other _thou_; it is the tendency of youthful friendships to
slip into this mode of address]. “Let me give you a piece of advice, my
dear fellow. Don’t read so many books, and look a little more at the
lasses. The jades have some good points about them, O Marius! By dint
of fleeing and blushing, you will become brutalized.”
On other occasions, Courfeyrac encountered him and said:—“Good morning,
Monsieur l’Abbé!”
When Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this nature, Marius
avoided women, both young and old, more than ever for a week to come,
and he avoided Courfeyrac to boot.
Nevertheless, there existed in all the immensity of creation, two women
whom Marius did not flee, and to whom he paid no attention whatever. In
truth, he would have been very much amazed if he had been informed that
they were women. One was the bearded old woman who swept out his
chamber, and caused Courfeyrac to say: “Seeing that his servant woman
wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard.” The other was a
sort of little girl whom he saw very often, and whom he never looked
at.
For more than a year, Marius had noticed in one of the walks of the
Luxembourg, the one which skirts the parapet of the Pépinière, a man
and a very young girl, who were almost always seated side by side on
the same bench, at the most solitary end of the alley, on the Rue de
l’Ouest side. Every time that that chance which meddles with the
strolls of persons whose gaze is turned inwards, led Marius to that
walk,—and it was nearly every day,—he found this couple there. The man
appeared to be about sixty years of age; he seemed sad and serious; his
whole person presented the robust and weary aspect peculiar to military
men who have retired from the service. If he had worn a decoration,
Marius would have said: “He is an ex-officer.” He had a kindly but
unapproachable air, and he never let his glance linger on the eyes of
any one. He wore blue trousers, a blue frock coat and a broad-brimmed
hat, which always appeared to be new, a black cravat, a quaker shirt,
that is to say, it was dazzlingly white, but of coarse linen. A
grisette who passed near him one day, said: “Here’s a very tidy
widower.” His hair was very white.
The first time that the young girl who accompanied him came and seated
herself on the bench which they seemed to have adopted, she was a sort
of child thirteen or fourteen years of age, so thin as to be almost
homely, awkward, insignificant, and with a possible promise of handsome
eyes. Only, they were always raised with a sort of displeasing
assurance. Her dress was both aged and childish, like the dress of the
scholars in a convent; it consisted of a badly cut gown of black
merino. They had the air of being father and daughter.
Marius scanned this old man, who was not yet aged, and this little
girl, who was not yet a person, for a few days, and thereafter paid no
attention to them. They, on their side, did not appear even to see him.
They conversed together with a peaceful and indifferent air. The girl
chattered incessantly and merrily. The old man talked but little, and,
at times, he fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity.
Marius had acquired the mechanical habit of strolling in that walk. He
invariably found them there.
This is the way things went:—
Marius liked to arrive by the end of the alley which was furthest from
their bench; he walked the whole length of the alley, passed in front
of them, then returned to the extremity whence he had come, and began
again. This he did five or six times in the course of his promenade,
and the promenade was taken five or six times a week, without its
having occurred to him or to these people to exchange a greeting. That
personage, and that young girl, although they appeared,—and perhaps
because they appeared,—to shun all glances, had, naturally, caused some
attention on the part of the five or six students who strolled along
the Pépinière from time to time; the studious after their lectures, the
others after their game of billiards. Courfeyrac, who was among the
last, had observed them several times, but, finding the girl homely, he
had speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fled,
discharging at them a sobriquet, like a Parthian dart. Impressed solely
with the child’s gown and the old man’s hair, he had dubbed the
daughter Mademoiselle Lanoire, and the father, Monsieur Leblanc, so
that as no one knew them under any other title, this nickname became a
law in the default of any other name. The students said: “Ah! Monsieur
Leblanc is on his bench.” And Marius, like the rest, had found it
convenient to call this unknown gentleman Monsieur Leblanc.
We shall follow their example, and we shall say M. Leblanc, in order to
facilitate this tale.
So Marius saw them nearly every day, at the same hour, during the first
year. He found the man to his taste, but the girl insipid.
