Les Misérables (Volume 1, Volume 2)

Author: Hugo
Translator: Zheng Kelu / Country: France/France
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2003-04-01
Features: What are his views on this doctrine or mystical perspective? The secrets of the human heart can only be known when the soul enters the grave bare. We are certain that for him, the confusion of faith never resolved deceitfully. Diamonds never rot. He believed as much as he could. "Credoin Patrem," he often said. He also drew this guiltless satisfaction from good deeds, which whispered to him, "You are with God." We believe what we want to write is that, superficially, beyond the bishop's faith, he had an excessive love. It was precisely because he multum amavit that the "serious people," the "solemn people," and the "rational people" thought him weak; among the sorrowful people of the world, there are some beloved maxims, in which selfish thoughts are given an academic sharpness. What is this excessive love? It is a serene benevolence, as mentioned above, capable of empathy and, if given the opportunity, extending to things. He lived without complaint. He had a tolerant attitude toward God's creation. Even the best of humans have an unthinking severity, especially toward animals. The bishop of Die was completely devoid of this severity, while many clergy possessed it intrinsically. He had not yet reached the level of Brahmanism, but he seemed to have pondered the words of Ecclesiastes: "Do people know where the souls of animals go?" Ugly appearance, deformed instincts—this did not disturb him or make him angry. He felt was excitement, almost pity. When he reflected, it was as if he sought reasons, explanations, or justifications beyond the surface of life. At such times, he seemed to ask God to lessen the punishment. He observed the vast chaos in nature without irritation, with the gaze of a linguist discerning hidden manuscripts. This meditation sometimes made him say odd things. One morning, he was in the garden; he thought he was alone, but his sister was following him, though he did not see her; he suddenly stopped, looking at something on the ground; it was a large black spider, hairy and terrifying. His sister heard him say, "A terrible animal! It's not its fault." Why could these innocent, almost sacred words not be spoken? Innocent, yes; but these sublime innocence belong to the words of St. Francis of Assisi and Mark-Aurel. One day, he twisted his waist to avoid stepping on an ant. This upright man lived like this. Sometimes, he slept in the garden, nothing more admirable. If one believed the accounts of his youth and even his prime, the Bishop of Valence was once a man easily moved, perhaps even passionate. His charity to the world was not an instinct but the result of a great belief that had weathered the years and settled slowly in his heart; for character, like for rock climbing, is water that wears stone. This digging cannot be erased; this formation cannot be destroyed. As mentioned above, in 1815, he was already seventy-five, but he looked no older than sixty. He was not tall, a bit stout, and often walked long distances to lose weight; his steps were steady, slightly bent, but we did not want to draw any conclusions; Gregory XVI was straight-backed and always smiling at eighty, yet he was still a bad bishop. The Bishop of Valence had the "pretty face" that the common people spoke of, but this face was so lovely that people forgot it was pretty. He talked with joy and innocence, one of his elegant manners, as mentioned above; people felt at ease around him, as if joy radiated from his entire being. His rosy, bright face, with a set of white teeth intact, would show when he smiled, giving him an open and amiable demeanor, which led people to say of him: "This is a good old man," and of a celebrity: "This is a simple old man." Readers will remember this was Napoleon's impression of him. Those who first met or saw him for the first time certainly thought this was a simple old man. But if one stayed with him for a few more hours, just to see him in deep thought, this simple old man gradually changed, taking on an indescribable dignity; his full forehead, now streaked with white hair, seemed serious and solemn, and his thoughts made him awe-inspiring; stability showed from his benevolence, and benevolence shone constantly; one felt a certain excitement, as if seeing an angel keep smiling and slowly spread its wings, one would feel this way. A hard-to-express reverence gradually seeped into you, rising to your heart. One felt before you was a strong, reliable, and tolerant soul, whose thoughts were vast and therefore also gentle. Grandfather Gervais had once been a notary, belonging to the patient country folk. A bit ignorant but very clever. This was a strength: without suspicion, one would be deceived. For over two years, living in the monastery, Gervais had succeeded in his dealings: he always stayed alone, busy with garden work. When he had nothing to do, he became curious, watching these women in veils coming and going, with only ghosts moving before him. He was focused and sharp, eventually giving these ghosts flesh and blood; to him, these dead people were alive. He saw farther with the eyes of a deaf person and heard more clearly than a blind person. He devoted himself to discerning the meanings of different bells; he succeeded, so that the mysterious silence of the monastery held no secrets for him; the Sphinx whispered its secrets to him in his ear. Gervais knew everything, concealed everything. This was his cleverness. The entire monastery thought him foolish. In religion, this was a great virtue. The sister superior, who had the right to vote, valued Gervais as a curious deaf person. He was trusted. Moreover, he was disciplined, going out only for essential tasks in the orchard and vegetable garden. His cautious actions were also recognized. But he still managed to extract information from two people: the monastery's porter, whom he knew the special circumstances of the reception room; and the gravedigger, who knew the strange happenings in the cemetery; thus, in the life of the nuns, he had a double light, one directed toward life and the other toward death. But he never overused it. The sister superior valued him greatly. He was old, lame, and nearsighted, perhaps a bit deaf, with so many virtues! It was hard to find a replacement for him. The old man, with respected confidence, spoke at length to the reverend abbess, using the rustic yet profound words of a countryman. He talked for a long time about his age, his disability, how the years would now weigh even more heavily on him, how much work would increase, how large the garden was, how he had to stay up late—for example, the previous night, he had covered the melon beds with mats under the moonlight. Then he talked about having a brother—(the abbess shifted slightly) —an old brother—(the abbess shifted again, but this was a reassuring movement) —if the monastery were willing, his brother could live with him and help him; he was an excellent gardener, and the monastery would benefit greatly from him; his brother's work was better than his. —Also, if they did not accept his brother, he, the older brother, felt weak and unable to bear it. It was a great pity that he had to leave; —his brother had a young daughter with him, whom he wanted to raise in the monastery in faith. Who knows if one day she might become a nun. He finished speaking, and the abbess stopped her beads, asking him, "Before tonight, can you get a sturdy iron rod?" "What for?" "To make a lever." "You can find one, reverend sister," Gervais replied. The abbess said no more and stood up, walking into the next room, which was the meeting room, where the sister superior might gather. Gervais was alone. "Father, Théodule is coming to see you this morning." "Théodule, who is he?" "Your great-nephew." "Ah!" the old man said. Then he seemed to forget about the great-nephew, Théodule was nothing, and he soon grew angry, almost as if looking at the newspaper would make him angry. The "newspaper" he held, of course, was royalist and hostile, announcing the next day a small, everyday event that would happen in Paris: law students and medical students would hold a meeting at the Pantheon Square at noon; they would "discuss" a hot topic: the artillery of the National Guard and the Minister of War, and the "militia," regarding the placement of cannons in the Louvre courtyard. The students would "discuss" this. Monsieur Guernon was furious; he did not need any more news. He thought of Marius, the boy was a student, and he might go too, "discussing" at the Pantheon Square at noon." Just as he was feeling distressed, Lieutenant Théodule entered, dressed in civilian clothes, making him more agile; he was carefully brought in by Mademoiselle Guernon. The dragoon had calculated: "The old priest of the Drouais has not turned everything into a pension. That is worth changing into civilian clothes from time to time." Mademoiselle Guernon loudly told her father, "Théodule, your great-nephew." Then she whispered to the lieutenant, "I approve of everything." She withdrew. The lieutenant, not used to meeting a venerable elder, timidly whispered, "Good day, great-uncle," and gave a mixed salute, starting with the military salute and ending with the civilian one. "Ah! It is you; very well, sit down," the old man said. Then he completely forgot the dragoon. Théodule sat down, and Guernon stood up. Guernon began pacing back and forth, his hands in his pockets, speaking loudly, his aging fingers furiously fiddling with the two watches in his vest pocket. "These sniveling brats! Meeting at the Pantheon Square! The kind of people my girlfriend is like! A bunch of children who were still nursing yesterday! If you squeeze their noses, milk would come out! Discussing at noon! Where are they going? Where are they going? It's clear they're heading for the abyss. These Republicans are leading us where! The National Artillery! Discussing the National Artillery! Running to the streets to shout obscenities against the National Guard! Who are they hanging out with? Take a look at how far Jacobinism has come. I'd bet on anything, a million, they're all recidivists and released convicts. Republicans and convicts, just the same thing. Carnot said, 'Traitor, where do you want me to go?' Fouché replied, 'Fool, wherever you want to go!' Republicans are just like that." "That's right," Théodule said. Monsieur Guernon half turned his head to see it was Théodule and continued, "Think about it, this fellow is so despicable, he's even become a Carbonari! Why did you leave my house? To become a Republican. Pah! First of all, the people don't want your Republic, the people don't want it, the people are reasonable, they know there were kings before and there will be kings in the future, the people know, ultimately, the people are just the people, the people sneer at your Republic, do you understand, fool! So willful, it's terrible! Falling for old Duchesne, making eyes at the guillotine, singing love songs and playing the guitar under the balcony in 93, what fools! They've all gotten to this point. Not one exception. Just breathe the air on the street, and you'll go mad. The nineteenth century is poison. Any rascal who leaves a goat beard is suddenly all grown up, leaving the elders behind. That's the Republicans, that's the Romantics. What is Romanticism, please tell me, what is this thing? It's utterly absurd. A year ago, Hernani was performed to your liking. I'll ask you, Hernani, what contrasts, annoying sentences, it's not even written in French! Then they're putting cannons in the Louvre courtyard. This is the kind of banditry of this age."