（）: Les Misérables (Volumes 1 and 2)

Author: (French) Hugo, translated by Zheng Kelu
Translator: Zheng Kelu / Country:
Publisher:
Publishing Time: 2003-06-01
Features: This is another grand epic masterpiece created by Hugo, the leader of the French Romantic movement, following The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. With outstanding artistic charm, the novel presents a magnificent panorama of modern French social and political life from the French Revolution of 1793 to the Paris Uprising of 1832, fully demonstrating Hugo's exceptional narrative talent. It is a classic in world literature that combines realism and romanticism. The novel reflects Hugo's humanitarianism, embodying his concern for human suffering and his unwavering belief in the future, with an artistic impact that is deeply moving. We should not overlook a detail: Jean Valjean possessed a physique far superior to that of a convict, capable of pulling wires, turning cranks, and even outperforming four men despite fatigue. He could lift heavy weights, sometimes balancing them on his back, and could substitute for a jack when the opportunity arose. This tool was called "Pride," and incidentally, the street near Paris's market, Pride Street, was named after it. His companions gave him the nickname "The Jack." Once, while repairing the balcony of Toulon's town hall, a magnificent female statue column by Préaux supporting the balcony cracked and was on the verge of collapsing. Jean Valjean was there and used his shoulder to steady the statue, allowing workers to arrive in time. His agility surpassed his strength. Some convicts, consumed by the desire to escape, combined their strength and agility into a true art. This was the art of the muscles. Prisoners always envied flies and birds, practicing a mysterious form of statics daily. Climbing cliffs, searching for support points on a single protrusion, was a game for Jean Valjean. Using a corner of a wall, with the tension of his back and knees, and his elbows and heels against the unevenness of the stone, he seemed to perform magic, climbing to the fourth floor. Sometimes, he climbed this way to the rooftop of the prison. He was taciturn and rarely smiled. Only on extremely rare occasions, once or twice a year, would this convict reveal a gloomy, devilish smile. When seen, he appeared as if fixated on something terrible, deeply absorbed. Through his frail body and the distorted perception of his oppressed intellect, he faintly sensed something demonic pressing upon him. In the confusion of his crouching state, whenever he turned around and tried to lift his gaze, he would see in fear and frenzy the terrible pile of things, laws, prejudices, people, and facts towering above his head, rising to an unseen height. The base of this astonishing pyramid was boundless, vast, and terrifying—it was, in fact, what we call civilization. In this cramped and ugly whole, here and there, sometimes near him, sometimes far away, on unreachable platforms, he could discern a brilliantly illuminated spot—the jailer and his cane, the police and their swords, a bishop wearing a mitre, high above, the Emperor in his crown, shining like the sun. He felt that this distant radiance not only did not dispel his darkness but made the darkness even darker and more miserable. All these—laws, prejudices, facts, people, and things—hovered above his head, moving according to the complex and mysterious motion granted by God to civilization, trampling upon him with an indescribable calmness, cruelly and callously crushing him. Those excluded by the law fell into the depths of extreme misfortune, abandoned to the lowest depths of hell, the wretchedest of the wretched, feeling the weight of human society pressing upon them. To those outside this society, it was terrifying; to those at the bottom, it was utterly horrifying. These narratives seem to belong to another era. Such scenes undoubtedly appeared in the ancient epic of Orpheus; such epics described half-men, half-horses, ancient man-beasts, racing up to Olympus, terrible, unstoppable, sublime—both gods and beasts. It is a strange coincidence in numbers, twenty-six battalions facing twenty-six cavalry regiments. Behind the ridge lay the shadow of a battery, while British infantry formed thirteen squares, each with two battalions, arranged in two lines—one line with seven squares, the other with six. Bayonets rested on their shoulders, aimed at the approaching enemy, calm, silent, motionless, waiting. The British infantry did not see the heavy cavalry, nor did the heavy cavalry see the British infantry. The British infantry heard the sound of a crowd climbing up, the sound of three thousand horses growing louder as they galloped, the rhythmic and alternating sound of hooves, the friction of breastplates, the clashing of sabers, and a huge, rough aura. The silence was terrifyingly profound, then suddenly, a long line of arms raised with sabers appeared on the ridge, along with helmets, trumpets, and flags, as three thousand bearded heads shouted, "Long live the Emperor!" The entire cavalry appeared on the high ground, like an earthquake striking. Suddenly, a horrifying scene unfolded—on the left flank of the British army and the right flank of the French, the front rank of the heavy cavalry horses stood upright, creating an awful roar. The heavy cavalry arrived at the summit, unstoppable, ready to charge wildly down to annihilate the enemy squares and cannons, only to discover a trench and a pit between them and the British—the Ouan Valley. This moment was electrifying. The trench was there, unexpected, gaping straight up, two meters deep between the slopes; the second row of cavalry advanced into the pit, and the third row pushed the second row in; the horses stood upright, leaned back, fell onto their buttocks, slid head over heels, crushing and overturning the riders, unable to retreat. The cavalry, like a cannonball, gathered to destroy the British forces but instead destroyed the French. The merciless trench could only be filled to its brim, as cavalry and horses tumbled into it, crashing against each other, becoming a pile of flesh and blood in the abyss. When the pit was filled with living men, the remaining horses and men trampled over them from above. Almost one-third of the Dubois regiment fell into this. Defeat began here. There was a local legend, clearly exaggerated, that two thousand horses and fifteen hundred men were buried in the Ouan Valley. To be honest, this number included all the dead thrown into the pit the day after the battle. It is worth noting that this was the Dubois regiment, heavily casualties, which had been fighting alone an hour earlier and had captured the regimental flag of Lunéville. Before ordering the Milo heavy cavalry to attack, Napoleon had inspected the terrain but failed to notice the trench, which left no visible mark on the surface of the high ground. However, he did notice the small white chapel at the bend of the Nivelles road, which raised his, possibly an obstacle, so he asked his guide, Lacost, a question. The guide replied that there were no obstacles. It can be said that Napoleon's disaster came from a farmer's shake of the head. Barbès's gaunt and scholarly appearance contrasted sharply with Gavroche's bulky physique. Barbès was lean and erudite, uncalculating yet inscrutable. One could see light through his bones but nothing through his eyes. He claimed to be a chemist. He had once been a clown in the Bobechet theater and a comedian in the Bobino theater. He had performed in operettas at Saint-Michel. This man was full of tricks, eloquent, with smiles that held deep meaning and gestures that were ambiguous. His specialty was selling plaster busts and portraits of "the head of state" in the open air. Additionally, he extracted teeth. He performed strange feats at the market, with a wooden cart equipped with a trumpet, plastered with this advertisement: "Barbès, dental expert, member of the Academy of Sciences, conducts physical experiments on metals and non-metals, extractions, treats the broken teeth abandoned by his colleagues. Prices: one tooth, fifty centimes; two teeth, two francs; three teeth, two francs and fifty centimes. Opportunity knocks!" ("Opportunity knocks" means, "Try to extract as many teeth as possible.") He was married and had two children. He did not know where his wife and children were. He had lost them as if he had lost a handkerchief. Barbès read the newspaper, a rare occurrence in his gangster circle. One day, while he was still with his family and his cart, he read in the Messenger about a woman who had just given birth to a living cow-mouthed baby and exclaimed, "This is fortune! My wife never thought of giving me a child like that!" After that, he abandoned everything and set out to "roam Paris," as he put it. What kind of person was Claquesous? He was the night. He only appeared when it was pitch black and returned before dawn. Where was his hole? No one knew. Even in the darkest of places, he spoke with his back to his accomplices. He called himself Claquesous? No. He said, "I am called nothing at all." If a candle suddenly appeared, he would put on a mask. He could perform ventriloquism. Barbès said, "Claquesous is a duet serenade." Claquesous was nomadic, terrifying. People could not be sure if he had a name—Claquesous was just a nickname; if he had a voice—his stomach spoke more than his mouth; if he had a face—only his mask was visible. He vanished without a trace; he seemed to emerge from the earth. Montparnasse was eerie. He was a child, not yet twenty, handsome with cherry-red lips and lovely black hair, his eyes sparkling with the light of spring. He had various vices and a desire to commit crimes. He declined, his appetite for wrongdoing growing ever larger. From a mischievous boy, he became a rogue, then a bandit. He was charming, effeminate, refined, strong, listless, and brutally fierce. His left cap brimmed up in the style of 1829, revealing a strand of hair. He lived by robbing. His coat was finely made but worn. Montparnasse was a scene from a folk print, a murderer driven by poverty. The motive for this young man's murders was simply to dress well. The first frivolous girl who told him, "You are beautiful," cast a dark shadow in his heart, turning him from Adam into Cain. Because he was handsome, he wanted to be elegant; and the first elegance was idleness—a poor man's idleness is crime. There were few idlers as terrifying as Montparnasse. By the time he was eighteen, he had left behind several corpses. Not one passerby, arms spread, face buried in pools of blood, lay beneath the shadow of this villain. His hair was curled, waxed, his waist cinched, the buttocks of a woman, the chest of a Prussian officer, girls around him whispering in admiration, his tie neatly tied, his pockets filled with leaden cudgels, a flower inserted into his buttonhole—a dandy who took lives. To reduce the universe to a single person and expand a single person to God—that is love. Love, this is the hymn of angels to the stars. The heart suffers because of love, how wretched it is! The absence of the one who fills the world is so empty! Oh! The beloved becomes God—that is a real thing. If the Father of All Things did not create all things for the heart and create the heart for love, one could understand that God might be jealous of this as well. To glimpse a smile from beneath the purple sash and white crepe hat on the other side, the heart enters the realm of fantasy. God came after all things, but all things hid God. Things are black, people are opaque. To love someone is to make them transparent. Some thoughts are prayers. Sometimes, no matter what the body is doing, the heart is kneeling. Separated lovers, through countless illusory yet real things, find ways to communicate. Others prevent them from meeting, they cannot write to each other; they find many mysterious methods of exchange. They pass messages of birdsong, fragrant flowers, the laughter of children, sunlight, the sigh of the wind, starlight, all things in the universe. Why not? All of God's creations serve love. Love is strong enough to let nature convey its message. Oh, spring, you are a letter I write to you. The future belongs to the heart, not the spirit. Love is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity. It must never be exhausted to be fit for infinity. Love has the essence of the heart itself. They are of the same nature. Love, like the heart, is a sacred spark, equally incorruptible, indivisible, and inexhaustible. It is the spark that ignites within us, immortal and infinite, nothing can limit it, nothing can extinguish it. It can be felt burning deep into the bones, its light reaching to the heavens.