姐,我要。。。
轻松的小说阅读环境
巴黎圣母院英文版 - BOOK SIXTH CHAPTER IV.A TEAR FOR A DROP OF WATER.
繁体
恢复默认
返回目录【键盘操作】左右光标键:上下章节;回车键:目录;双击鼠标:停止/启动自动滚动;滚动时上下光标键调节滚动速度。
  These words were, so to speak, the point of union of two scenes, which had, up to that time, been developed in parallel lines at the same moment, each on its particular theatre; one, that which the reader has just perused, in the Rat-Hole; the other, which he is about to read, on the ladder of the pillory.The first had for witnesses only the three women with whom the reader has just made acquaintance; the second had for spectators all the public which we have seen above, collecting on the place de Grève, around the pillory and the gibbet.That crowd which the four sergeants posted at nine o'clock in the morning at the four corners of the pillory had inspired with the hope of some sort of an execution, no doubt, not a hanging, but a whipping, a cropping of ears, something, in short,--that crowd had increased so rapidly that the four policemen, too closely besieged, had had occasion to "press" it, as the expression then ran, more than once, by sound blows of their whips, and the haunches of their horses.This populace, disciplined to waiting for public executions, did not manifest very much impatience.It amused itself with watching the pillory, a very simple sort of monument, composed of a cube of masonry about six feet high and hollow in the interior.A very steep staircase, of unhewn stone, which was called by distinction "the ladder," led to the upper platform, upon which was visible a horizontal wheel of solid oak.The victim was bound upon this wheel, on his knees, with his hands behind his back.A wooden shaft, which set in motion a capstan concealed in the interior of the little edifice, imparted a rotatory motion to the wheel, which always maintained its horizontal position, and in this manner presented the face of the condemned man to all quarters of the square in succession.This was what was called "turning" a criminal.As the reader perceives, the pillory of the Grève was far from presenting all the recreations of the pillory of the Halles. Nothing architectural, nothing monumental.No roof to the iron cross, no octagonal lantern, no frail, slender columns spreading out on the edge of the roof into capitals of acanthus leaves and flowers, no waterspouts of chimeras and monsters, on carved woodwork, no fine sculpture, deeply sunk in the stone.They were forced to content themselves with those four stretches of rubble work, backed with sandstone, and a wretched stone gibbet, meagre and bare, on one side.The entertainment would have been but a poor one for lovers of Gothic architecture.It is true that nothing was ever less curious on the score of architecture than the worthy gapers of the Middle Ages, and that they cared very little for the beauty of a pillory.The victim finally arrived, bound to the tail of a cart, and when he had been hoisted upon the platform, where he could be seen from all points of the place, bound with cords and straps upon the wheel of the pillory, a prodigious hoot, mingled with laughter and acclamations, burst forth upon the place.They had recognized Quasimodo.It was he, in fact.The change was singular.pilloried on the very place where, on the day before, he had been saluted, acclaimed, and proclaimed pope and prince of Fools, in the cortege of the Duke of Egypt, the King of Thunes, and the Emperor of Galilee!One thing is certain, and that is, that there was not a soul in the crowd, not even himself, though in turn triumphant and the sufferer, who set forth this combination clearly in his thought.Gringoire and his philosophy were missing at this spectacle.Soon Michel Noiret, sworn trumpeter to the king, our lord, imposed silence on the louts, and proclaimed the sentence, in accordance with the order and command of monsieur the provost. Then he withdrew behind the cart, with his men in livery surcoats.Quasimodo, impassible, did not wince.All resistance had been rendered impossible to him by what was then called, in the style of the criminal chancellery, "the vehemence and firmness of the bonds" which means that the thongs and chains probably cut into his flesh; moreover, it is a tradition of jail and wardens, which has not been lost, and which the handcuffs still preciously preserve among us, a civilized, gentle, humane people (the galleys and the guillotine in parentheses).He had allowed himself to be led, pushed, carried, lifted, bound, and bound again.Nothing was to be seen upon his countenance but the astonishment of a savage or an idiot. He was known to be deaf; one might have pronounced him to be blind.They placed him on his knees on the circular plank; he made no resistance.They removed his shirt and doublet as far as his girdle; he allowed them to have their way.They entangled him under a fresh system of thongs and buckles; he allowed them to bind and buckle him.Only from time to time he snorted noisily, like a calf whose head is hanging and bumping over the edge of a butcher's cart."The dolt," said Jehan Frollo of the Mill, to his friend Robin poussepain (for the two students had followed the culprit, as was to have been expected), "he understands no more than a cockchafer shut up in a box!"There was wild laughter among the crowd when they beheld Quasimodo's hump, his camel's breast, his callous and hairy shoulders laid bare.During this gayety, a man in the livery of the city, short of stature and robust of mien, mounted the platform and placed himself near the victim.His name speedily circulated among the spectators.It was Master pierrat Torterue, official torturer to the Chatelet.He began by depositing on an angle of the pillory a black hour-glass, the upper lobe of which was filled with red sand, which it allowed to glide into the lower receptacle; then he removed his parti-colored surtout, and there became visible, suspended from his right hand, a thin and tapering whip of long, white, shining, knotted, plaited thongs, armed with metal nails.With his left hand, he negligently folded back his shirt around his right arm, to the very armpit.In the meantime, Jehan Frollo, elevating his curly blonde head above the crowd (he had mounted upon the shoulders of Robin poussepain for the purpose), shouted: "Come and look, gentle ladies and men! they are going to peremptorily flagellate Master Quasimodo, the bellringer of my brother, monsieur the archdeacon of Josas, a knave of oriental architecture, who has a back like a dome, and legs like twisted columns!"And the crowd burst into a laugh, especially the boys and young girls.At length the torturer stamped his foot.The wheel began to turn.Quasimodo wavered beneath his bonds.The amazement which was suddenly depicted upon his deformed face caused the bursts of laughter to redouble around him.All at once, at the moment when the wheel in its revolution presented to Master pierrat, the humped back of Quasimodo, Master pierrat raised his arm; the fine thongs whistled sharply through the air, like a handful of adders, and fell with fury upon the wretch's shoulders.Quasimodo leaped as though awakened with a start.He began to understand.He writhed in his bonds; a violent contraction of surprise and pain distorted the muscles of his face, but he uttered not a single sigh.He merely turned his head backward, to the right, then to the left, balancing it as a bull does who has been stung in the flanks by a gadfly.A second blow followed the first, then a third, and another and another, and still others.The wheel did not cease to turn, nor the blows to rain down.Soon the blood burst forth, and could be seen trickling in a thousand threads down the hunchback's black shoulders; and the slender thongs, in their rotatory motion which rent the air, sprinkled drops of it upon the crowd.Quasimodo had resumed, to all appearance, his first imperturbability.He had at first tried, in a quiet way and without much outward movement, to break his bonds.His eye had been seen to light up, his muscles to stiffen, his members to concentrate their force, and the straps to stretch.The effort was powerful, prodigious, desperate; but the provost's seasoned bonds resisted.They cracked, and that was all.Quasimodo fell back exhausted.Amazement gave way, on his features, to a sentiment of profound and bitter discouragement.He closed his single eye, allowed his head to droop upon his breast, and feigned death.From that moment forth, he stirred no more.Nothing could force a movement from him.Neither his blood, which did not cease to flow, nor the blows which redoubled in fury, nor the wrath of the torturer, who grew excited himself and intoxicated with the execution, nor the sound of the horrible thongs, more sharp and whistling than the claws of scorpions.At length a bailiff from the Chatelet clad in black, mounted on a black horse, who had been stationed beside the ladder since the beginning of the execution, extended his ebony wand towards the hour-glass.The torturer stopped.The wheel stopped.Quasimodo's eye opened slowly.The scourging was finished.Two lackeys of the official torturer bathed the bleeding shoulders of the patient, anointed them with some unguent which immediately closed all the wounds, and threw upon his back a sort of yellow vestment, in cut like a chasuble.In the meanwhile, pierrat Torterue allowed the thongs, red and gorged with blood, to drip upon the pavement.All was not over for Quasimodo.He had still to undergo that hour of pillory which Master Florian Barbedienne had so judiciously added to the sentence of Messire Robert d'Estouteville; all to the greater glory of the old physiological and psychological play upon words of Jean de Cumène, ~Surdus absurdus~: a deaf man is absurd.So the hour-glass was turned over once more, and they left the hunchback fastened to the plank, in order that justice might be accomplished to the very end.The populace, especially in the Middle Ages, is in society what the child is in the family.As long as it remains in its state of primitive ignorance, of moral and intellectual minority, it can be said of it as of the child,--'Tis the pitiless age.We have already shown that Quasimodo was generally hated, for more than one good reason, it is true.There was hardly a spectator in that crowd who had not or who did not believe that he had reason to complain of the malevolent hunchback of Notre-Dame.The joy at seeing him appear thus in the pillory had been universal; and the harsh punishment which he had just suffered, and the pitiful condition in which it had left him, far from softening the populace had rendered its hatred more malicious by arming it with a touch of mirth.Hence, the "public prosecution" satisfied, as the bigwigs of the law still express it in their jargon, the turn came of a thousand private vengeances.Here, as in the Grand Hall, the women rendered themselves particularly prominent.All cherished some rancor against him, some for his malice, others for his ugliness.The latter were the most furious."Oh! mask of Antichrist!" said one."Rider on a broom handle!" cried another."What a fine tragic grimace," howled a third, "and who would make him pope of the Fools if to-day were yesterday?""'Tis well," struck in an old woman."This is the grimace of the pillory.When shall we have that of the gibbet?""When will you be coiffed with your big bell a hundred feet under ground, cursed bellringer?""But 'tis the devil who rings the Angelus!""Oh! the deaf man! the one-eyed creature! the hunch- back! the monster!""A face to make a woman miscarry better than all the drugs and medicines!"And the two scholars, Jehan du Moulin, and Robin poussepain, sang at the top of their lungs, the ancient refrain,--"~Une hart pour le pendard! Un fagot pour le magot~!"**A rope for the gallows bird!A fagot for the ape.A thousand other insults rained down upon him, and hoots and imprecations, and laughter, and now and then, stones.Quasimodo was deaf but his sight was clear, and the public fury was no less energetically depicted on their visages than in their words.Moreover, the blows from the stones explained the bursts of laughter.At first he held his ground.But little by little that patience which had borne up under the lash of the torturer, yielded and gave way before all these stings of insects.The bull of the Asturias who has been but little moved by the attacks of the picador grows irritated with the dogs and banderilleras.He first cast around a slow glance of hatred upon the crowd. But bound as he was, his glance was powerless to drive away those flies which were stinging his wound.Then he moved in his bonds, and his furious exertions made the ancient wheel of the pillory shriek on its axle.All this only increased the derision and hooting.Then the wretched man, unable to break his collar, like that of a chained wild beast, became tranquil once more; only at intervals a sigh of rage heaved the hollows of his chest. There was neither shame nor redness on his face.He was too far from the state of society, and too near the state of nature to know what shame was.Moreover, with such a degree of deformity, is infamy a thing that can be felt?But wrath, hatred, despair, slowly lowered over that hideous visage a cloud which grew ever more and more sombre, ever more and more charged with electricity, which burst forth in a thousand lightning flashes from the eye of the cyclops.Nevertheless, that cloud cleared away for a moment, at the passage of a mule which traversed the crowd, bearing a priest. As far away as he could see that mule and that priest, the poor victim's visage grew gentler.The fury which had contracted it was followed by a strange smile full of ineffable sweetness, gentleness, and tenderness.In proportion as the priest approached, that smile became more clear, more distinct, more radiant.It was like the arrival of a Saviour, which the unhappy man was greeting.But as soon as the mule was near enough to the pillory to allow of its rider recognizing the victim, the priest dropped his eyes, beat a hasty retreat, spurred on rigorously, as though in haste to rid himself of humiliating appeals, and not at all desirous of being saluted and recognized by a poor fellow in such a predicament.This priest was Archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo.The cloud descended more blackly than ever upon Quasimodo's brow. The smile was still mingled with it for a time, but was bitter, discouraged, profoundly sad.Time passed on.He had been there at least an hour and a half, lacerated, maltreated, mocked incessantly, and almost stoned.All at once he moved again in his chains with redoubled despair, which made the whole framework that bore him tremble, and, breaking the silence which he had obstinately preserved hitherto, he cried in a hoarse and furious voice, which resembled a bark rather than a human cry, and which was drowned in the noise of the hoots--"Drink!"This exclamation of distress, far from exciting compassion, only added amusement to the good parisian populace who surrounded the ladder, and who, it must be confessed, taken in the mass and as a multitude, was then no less cruel and brutal than that horrible tribe of robbers among whom we have already conducted the reader, and which was simply the lower stratum of the populace.Not a voice was raised around the unhappy victim, except to jeer at his thirst.It is certain that at that moment he was more grotesque and repulsive than pitiable, with his face purple and dripping, his eye wild, his mouth foaming with rage and pain, and his tongue lolling half out.It must also be stated that if a charitable soul of a bourgeois or ~bourgeoise~, in the rabble, had attempted to carry a glass of water to that wretched creature in torment, there reigned around the infamous steps of the pillory such a prejudice of shame and ignominy, that it would have sufficed to repulse the good Samaritan.At the expiration of a few moments, Quasimodo cast a desperate glance upon the crowd, and repeated in a voice still more heartrending: "Drink!"And all began to laugh."Drink this!" cried Robin poussepain, throwing in his face a sponge which had been soaked in the gutter."There, you deaf villain, I'm your debtor."A woman hurled a stone at his head,--"That will teach you to wake us up at night with your peal of a dammed soul.""He, good, my son!" howled a cripple, making an effort to reach him with his crutch, "will you cast any more spells on us from the top of the towers of Notre-Dame?""Here's a drinking cup!" chimed in a man, flinging a broken jug at his breast."'Twas you that made my wife, simply because she passed near you, give birth to a child with two heads!""And my cat bring forth a kitten with six paws!" yelped an old crone, launching a brick at him."Drink!" repeated Quasimodo panting, and for the third time.At that moment he beheld the crowd give way.A young girl, fantastically dressed, emerged from the throng.She was accompanied by a little white goat with gilded horns, and carried a tambourine in her hand.Quasimodo's eyes sparkled.It was the gypsy whom he had attempted to carry off on the preceding night, a misdeed for which he was dimly conscious that he was being punished at that very moment; which was not in the least the case, since he was being chastised only for the misfortune of being deaf, and of having been judged by a deaf man.He doubted not that she had come to wreak her vengeance also, and to deal her blow like the rest.He beheld her, in fact, mount the ladder rapidly.Wrath and spite suffocate him.He would have liked to make the pillory crumble into ruins, and if the lightning of his eye could have dealt death, the gypsy would have been reduced to powder before she reached the platform.She approached, without uttering a syllable, the victim who writhed in a vain effort to escape her, and detaching a gourd from her girdle, she raised it gently to the parched lips of the miserable man.Then, from that eye which had been, up to that moment, so dry and burning, a big tear was seen to fall, and roll slowly down that deformed visage so long contracted with despair. It was the first, in all probability, that the unfortunate man had ever shed.Meanwhile, be had forgotten to drink.The gypsy made her little pout, from impatience, and pressed the spout to the tusked month of Quasimodo, with a smile.He drank with deep draughts.His thirst was burning.When he had finished, the wretch protruded his black lips, no doubt, with the object of kissing the beautiful hand which had just succoured him.But the young girl, who was, perhaps, somewhat distrustful, and who remembered the violent attempt of the night, withdrew her hand with the frightened gesture of a child who is afraid of being bitten by a beast.Then the poor deaf man fixed on her a look full of reproach and inexpressible sadness.It would have been a touching spectacle anywhere,--this beautiful, fresh, pure, and charming girl, who was at the same time so weak, thus hastening to the relief of so much misery, deformity, and malevolence.On the pillory, the spectacle was sublime.The very populace were captivated by it, and began to clap their hands, crying,--"Noel!Noel!"It was at that moment that the recluse caught sight, from the window of her bole, of the gypsy on the pillory, and hurled at her her sinister imprecation,--"Accursed be thou, daughter of Egypt!Accursed! accursed!"
或许您还会喜欢:
将军的女儿
作者:佚名
章节:37 人气:2
摘要:“这个座位有人吗?”我向独自坐在酒吧休息室里的那位年轻而有魅力的女士问道。她正在看报,抬头看了我一眼,但没有回答。我在她对面坐了下来,把我的啤酒放在两人之间的桌子上。她又看起报来,并慢慢喝着波旁威士忌①和可口可乐混合的饮料。我又问她:“你经常来这儿吗?”①这是原产于美国肯塔基州波旁的一种主要用玉米酿制的威士忌酒。“走开。”“你的暗号是什么?”“别捣乱。”“我好像在什么地方见过你。”“没有。 [点击阅读]
庄园迷案
作者:佚名
章节:24 人气:2
摘要:范-赖多克夫人站在镜子前,又往后退了一小步,叹了一口气。“唉,只好这样了,”她低声说,“你觉得还可以吗,简?”马普尔小姐仔细打量着服装设计大师莱范理的这件作品,“我觉得这件外衣十分漂亮。”她说。“这件衣服还可以。”范-赖多克夫人说完又叹了一口飞,“帮我把它脱下来,斯蒂芬尼。”她说。一位上了年纪的女仆顺着范-赖多克夫人往上伸起的双臂小心地把衣服脱下来,女仆的头发灰色,有些干瘪的嘴显得挺小。 [点击阅读]
悲剧的诞生
作者:佚名
章节:66 人气:2
摘要:2004年3月尼采美学文选//尼采美学文选初版译序:尼采美学概要初版译序:尼采美学概要尼采(1844-1900)是德国著名哲学家、诗人。他在美学上的成就主要不在学理的探讨,而在以美学解决人生的根本问题,提倡一种审美的人生态度。他的美学是一种广义美学,实际上是一种人生哲学。他自己曾谈到,传统的美学只是接受者的美学,而他要建立给予者即艺术家的美学。 [点击阅读]
时间机器
作者:佚名
章节:13 人气:2
摘要:时间旅行者正在给我们讲解一个非常深奥的问题。他灰色的眼睛闪动着,显得神采奕奕,平日里他的面孔总是苍白得没有一点血色,但是此刻却由于激动和兴奋泛出红光。壁炉里火光熊熊,白炽灯散发出的柔和的光辉,捕捉着我们玻璃杯中滚动的气泡。我们坐的椅子,是他设计的专利产品,与其说是我们坐在椅子上面,还不如说是椅子在拥抱和爱抚我们。 [点击阅读]
末日逼近
作者:佚名
章节:31 人气:2
摘要:“萨莉!”哼了一声。“醒醒,萨莉!”“别……闹!”她含糊地应道,这次加大了嗓门。他更用力地推。“醒醒,快醒醒!”查理?是查理的声音,是在叫她。有多久了呢?她慢慢清醒过来。第一眼瞥到的是床头柜上的闹钟。两点一刻。这会儿查理不可能在家,他应该在值班的。等看清了他的面孔,萨莉心中生出一种不祥的预感:出事了。丈夫脸色惨白,鼓着眼睛,一手拿着汽车钥匙,一手还在用力地推她,似乎根本没有发现她已经睁开了眼睛。 [点击阅读]
狼的诱惑
作者:佚名
章节:74 人气:2
摘要:“彩麻,你能去安阳真的好棒,既可以见到芷希和戴寒,又可以和妈妈生活在一起,真的是好羡慕你啊!”“勾构,我以后会经常回来的,你也可以到安阳来看我呀。记得常给我写信,还有打电话。”“喂,各位!车子马上就要出发了。”长途客运站的管理员冲我们叫道。“你快去吧,否则可要被车子落下了。”“嗯,我要走了,勾构。我一到妈妈家就会给你打电话的。 [点击阅读]
直捣蜂窝的女孩
作者:佚名
章节:30 人气:2
摘要:四月八日至十二日据估计,美国南北战争期间约有六百名妇女参战。她们女扮男装投身军旅。在这方面,好莱坞错过了文化史上重要的一章,又或者就意识形态而言,这段历史太难处理?历史学者经常努力研究那些不遵守性别分际的女性,然而没有其他议题比武装战斗更清楚地画出这条分际线。(直至今日,女性参与瑞典传统的麋鹿狩猎活动仍会引发争议。 [点击阅读]
简爱
作者:佚名
章节:49 人气:2
摘要:《简·爱》是一部带有自传色彩的长篇小说,它阐释了这样一个主题:人的价值=尊严+爱。《简·爱》中的简爱人生追求有两个基本旋律:富有激情、幻想、反抗和坚持不懈的精神;对人间自由幸福的渴望和对更高精神境界的追求。 [点击阅读]
绿里奇迹
作者:佚名
章节:59 人气:2
摘要:这件事发生在1932年,当时的州立监狱还在冷山。当然了,还有电椅。狱中囚犯常拿电椅开玩笑,对令人恐惧却又摆脱不掉的东西,大家总喜欢如此地取笑一番。他们管它叫“电伙计”,或者叫“大榨汁机”。大伙谈论电费单,谈论那年秋天监狱长穆尔斯不得不自己做感恩节晚餐,因为他妻子梅琳达病得没法做饭了。不过,对于那些真得要坐到电椅上的人,这些玩笑很快就不合时宜了。 [点击阅读]
老人与海
作者:佚名
章节:9 人气:2
摘要:1961年7月2日,蜚声世界文坛的海明威用自己的猎枪结束了自己的生命。整个世界都为此震惊,人们纷纷叹息这位巨人的悲剧。美国人民更是悲悼这位美国重要作家的陨落。欧内斯特·米勒尔·海明威(1899—1961年),美国小说家。1899年7月21日,海明威出生在美国伊利诺伊州芝加哥郊外橡树园镇一个医生的家庭。 [点击阅读]
肖申克的救赎
作者:佚名
章节:37 人气:2
摘要:肖申克的救赎献给拉斯和弗洛伦斯·多尔我猜美国每个州立监狱和联邦监狱里,都有像我这样的一号人物,不论什么东西,我都能为你弄到手。无论是高级香烟或大麻(如果你偏好此道的话),或弄瓶白兰地来庆祝儿子或女儿高中毕业,总之差不多任何东西……我的意思是说,只要在合理范围内,我是有求必应;可是很多情况不一定都合情合理的。我刚满二十岁就来到肖申克监狱。 [点击阅读]
贝姨
作者:佚名
章节:16 人气:2
摘要:一八三八年七月中旬,一辆在巴黎街头新流行的叫做爵爷的马车,在大学街上走着,车上坐了一个中等身材的胖子,穿着国民自卫军上尉的制服。在那般以风雅为人诟病的巴黎人中间,居然有一些自以为穿上军服比便服不知要体面多少,并且认为女人们目光浅陋,只消羽毛高耸的军帽和全副武装,便会给她们一个好印象。这位第二军团的上尉,眉宇之间流露出一派心满意足的神气,使他红堂堂的皮色和着实肥胖的脸庞显得更光彩。 [点击阅读]