The Look of Paris巴黎的樣貌

【導讀】伊迪絲·華頓（1862—1937）被認為是最了解巴黎的美國作家。她從19世紀90年代開始旅居巴黎，隨后生活重心由美國移到法國，直至去世。在旅居巴黎的歲月里，華頓融入了法國的文學藝術界，也見證了歐洲歷史上最重大的變遷。

第一次世界大戰即將爆發之際，人們紛紛逃離巴黎，華頓卻選擇成為一個逆行者，寫下著名的游記《戰斗的法國》（Fighting France）。本文節選自該書第一篇文章“The Look of Paris”，記敘了1914年7月末至8月初作者從普瓦捷回巴黎途中以及回到巴黎后的景、情、見、聞。作者運用超凡的想象力和細膩的筆觸極好地捕捉住夏日光影下的法國鄉野、沙特爾大教堂和巴黎城，也將戰事一觸即發之時巴黎人的生活和心理刻畫得淋漓盡致。其中，對沙特爾大教堂的描寫更是極盡想象與修辭之能事，令人嘆為觀止;語言之深、之難，于譯家而言也是一大樂事！

On the 30th of July， 1914， motoring north from Poitiers， we had lunched somewhere by the roadside under apple-trees on the edge of a field. Other fields stretched away on our right and left to a border of woodland and a village steeple. All around was noonday quiet， and the sober disciplined landscape which the travellers memory is apt to evoke as distinctly French. Sometimes， even to accustomed eyes， these ruled-off fields and compact grey villages seem merely flat and tame; at other moments the sensitive imagination sees in every thrifty sod and even furrow the ceaseless vigilant attachment of generations faithful to the soil. The particular bit of landscape before us spoke in all its lines of that attachment. The air seemed full of the long murmur of human effort， the rhythm of oft-repeated tasks; the serenity of the scene smiled away the war rumours which had hung on us since morning.

All day the sky had been banked with thunder-clouds， but by the time we reached Chartres， toward four oclock， they had rolled away under the horizon， and the town was so saturated with sunlight that to pass into the cathedral was like entering the dense obscurity of a church in Spain. At first all detail was imperceptible： we were in a hollow night. Then， as the shadows gradually thinned and gathered themselves up into pier and vault and ribbing， there burst out of them great sheets and showers of colour. Framed by such depths of darkness， and steeped in a blaze of mid-summer sun， the familiar windows seemed singularly remote and yet overpoweringly vivid. Now they widened into dark-shored pools splashed with sunset， now glittered and menaced like the shields of fighting angels. Some were cataracts of sapphires， others roses dropped from a saints tunic， others great carven platters strewn with heavenly regalia， others the sails of galleons bound for the Purple Islands; and in the western wall the scattered fires of the rose-window hung like a constellation in an African night. When one dropped ones eyes from these ethereal harmonies， the dark masses of masonry below them， all veiled and muffled in a mist pricked by a few altar lights， seemed to symbolize the life on earth， with its shadows， its heavy distances and its little islands of illusion. All that a great cathedral can be， all the meanings it can express， all the tranquillizing power it can breathe upon the soul， all the richness of detail it can fuse into a large utterance of strength and beauty， the cathedral of Chartres gave us in that perfect hour.

It was sunset when we reached the gates of Paris. Under the heights of St. Cloud and Suresnes the reaches of the Seine trembled with the blue-pink lustre of an early Monet. The Bois lay about us in the stillness of a holiday evening， and the lawns of Bagatelle were as fresh as June. Below the Arc de Triomphe， the Champs Elysées sloped downward in a sun-powdered haze to the mist of fountains and the ethereal obelisk; and the currents of summer life ebbed and flowed with a normal beat under the trees of the radiating avenues. The great city， so made for peace and art and all humanist graces， seemed to lie by her river-side like a princess guarded by the watchful giant of the Eiffel Tower.

The next day the air was thundery with rumours. Nobody believed them， everybody repeated them. War？ Of course there couldnt be war！ The Cabinets， like naughty children， were again dangling their feet over the edge; but the whole incalculable weight of things-as-they-were， of the daily necessary business of living， continued calmly and convincingly to assert itself against the bandying of diplomatic words. Paris went on steadily about her midsummer business of feeding， dressing， and amusing the great army of tourists who were the only invaders she had seen for nearly half a century.

All the while， every one knew that other work was going on also. The whole fabric of the countrys seemingly undisturbed routine was threaded with noiseless invisible currents of preparation， the sense of them was in the calm air as the sense of changing weather is in the balminess of a perfect afternoon. Paris counted the minutes till the evening papers came.

They said little or nothing except what every one was already declaring all over the country. “We dont want war—mais il faut que cela finisse！1” “This kind of thing has got to stop”： that was the only phrase one heard. If diplomacy could still arrest the war， so much the better： no one in France wanted it. All who spent the first days of August in Paris will testify to the agreement of feeling on that point. But if war had to come， then the country， and every heart in it， was ready.

At the dressmakers， the next morning， the tired fitters were preparing to leave for their usual holidays. They looked pale and anxious—decidedly， there was a new weight of apprehension in the air. And in the rue Royale， at the corner of the Place de la Concorde， a few people had stopped to look at a little strip of white paper against the wall of the Ministère de la Marine. “General mobilization” they read—and an armed nation knows what that means. But the group about the paper was small and quiet. Passers-by read the notice and went on. There were no cheers， no gesticulations： the dramatic sense of the race had already told them that the event was too great to be dramatized. Like a monstrous landslide it had fallen across the path of an orderly laborious nation， disrupting its routine， annihilating its industries， rending families apart， and burying under a heap of senseless ruin the patiently and painfully wrought machinery of civilization.

1914年7月30日，我們從普瓦捷驅車北上，在路邊一塊田地旁的蘋果樹下用午餐。我們的左右兩旁也是連片的田野，分別延伸至林地的邊緣和一座鄉村尖頂教堂。正午時分，周遭一片寂靜，淡雅嚴整的風景，在旅行者記憶中往往會喚起一種特有的法蘭西印象。即使慣看這風景的人，有時候也會覺得這些分割整齊的田地和排列緊湊的灰白村落過于單調乏味。而另一些時候，敏銳的想象力又讓人從每一塊青草茂盛的草皮甚至每一道犁溝中看到忠誠于土地的一代代人生生不息的警醒和眷戀。我們眼前這一小片風景就是這種眷戀的極好詮釋。空氣中似乎彌漫著人類勞作的漫長回響，那是周而復始的農忙節奏。從早晨開始，開戰傳言便壓在我們心頭，而這寧靜祥和的風景讓人不禁對那傳言一笑置之。

一整天，天空堆積著雷雨云，但將近四點我們抵達沙特爾時，陰云已消散在地平線下，整個市鎮完全沐浴在陽光中，步入大教堂就像走進一座西班牙的幽暗教堂。一開始，所有細節都看不見：我們仿佛置身于空洞的黑夜之中。然后，陰影漸漸收窄、聚攏并上移至扶垛、拱頂和肋架，那里突然迸灑大片大片或星星點點的色彩。在這深度黑暗的包裹中，在仲夏烈日的浸染下，原本熟悉的高窗變得似乎異常遙遠，卻又生動到令人震撼。它們忽而變寬，仿若水池岸邊一片黯淡，但池中灑滿夕陽;忽而金光閃爍，像戰斗天使們手中盾牌逼近時那般耀眼。有的是一道道藍寶石瀑布，有的是從圣徒短袍上掉落的朵朵玫瑰，有的是鑲著天國徽紋的雕花大淺盤，還有的是朝著紫色群島行進的大帆船;西墻上，玫瑰花窗上散落的火焰就像非洲夜空里的璀璨群星。當我們將視線從這些諧美之物移開，其下大量的磚石都籠在一層黑霧之中，圣壇上的幾盞燈光將它刺破，似乎象征著世間的生命，有其陰影，有其沉重的距離，有其幻想的座座小島。一座大教堂能承載的所有一切，能表達的所有意義，能為靈魂注入的所有安寧之力，能為力與美的昭示增添的所有豐富細節，沙特爾大教堂都在那樣一個完美時刻為我們呈現。

我們到達巴黎城門時已是日落時分。在圣克盧和敘雷訥高大建筑的映襯下，塞納河之波閃爍著若藍若粉的光彩，就像莫奈早期的作品。在我們的周圍，布洛涅林苑安臥在假日傍晚的寂靜中，巴加泰勒公園的草地像六月一般清新。凱旋門下，香榭麗舍大街斜斜向下，在金粉般的暮靄中伸向水霧籠罩的噴泉和直插云霄的方尖碑。各條大道由中心向外伸展，路邊樹下，夏日生活的洪流以其正常的節奏起起落落。這座為和平和藝術以及所有人文之美而生的偉大城市，此刻就像一個公主，在埃菲爾鐵塔這個警覺巨人的守衛下，靜靜躺臥在她的河岸上。

第二天，傳言四起。沒有人相信，但人們口口相傳。戰爭？當然不可能爆發戰爭！那些內閣閣員就像頑皮的孩子，又在懸崖邊吊甩雙腳;但是，“一切照舊”的想法、必不可少的日常營生有著不可估量的分量，繼續抗拒著外交辭令的喧囂，平靜而讓人信服。巴黎有條不紊地繼續著仲夏時節的工作——為旅游大軍提供衣食和娛樂，這些人是她在近半個世紀里見過的唯一“入侵者”。

與此同時，每個人都知道其他的工作也在繼續。這個國家表面風平浪靜、諸事如常，其間穿插著悄無聲息的備戰潛流。平靜的氣氛中能嗅出這種味道，就像一個風和日麗的完美午后讓人隱約覺得就要變天。巴黎數著分秒等待晚報上市。

報紙上沒有什么新消息，有的只是全國上下每個人都已發出的宣言。“我們不想打仗——mais il faut que cela finisse！”“這種事該結束了”——人們聽到的只有這句話。如果外交還能制止戰爭，那更好：在法國，沒人想要戰爭。所有八月初在巴黎的人都可以證明這樣一種情緒的共鳴。但要是戰爭非來不可，那這個國家連同每一個國民，也都準備好了。

第二天早晨，裁縫店里疲倦的試衣裁縫們正準備離店，例行休假。他們看上去蒼白、不安——空氣中明顯增添了一份沉沉的憂慮。在皇家路上，協和廣場的拐角處，幾個人停下來看海軍部墻上張貼的一小張白紙。上面寫著“總動員”——一個已經武裝的國家知道它的意思。但是圍觀的人不多，而且沉默不語。路過的人讀完后繼續前行。沒有歡呼，沒有手勢：這個民族的戲劇直覺已經告訴他們，茲事體大，不可兒戲。戰爭已經降臨，就像一場巨大的山崩地陷，阻斷了一個勤勞有序的民族前行的道路，擾亂它的日常，摧毀它的工業，造成家庭離散，將歷盡艱辛、精心打造的文明制度埋葬在一堆無意義的廢墟之下。

（譯者單位：北京語言大學）