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双语·流动的盛宴 第五章 塞纳河畔的人们

所属教程:译林版·流动的盛宴

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2022年04月19日

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People of the Seine

There were many ways of walking down to the river from the top of the rue Cardinal Lemoine. The shortest one was straight down the street but it was steep and it brought you out, after you hit the flat part and crossed the busy traffic of the beginning of the Boulevard St-Germain, onto a dull part where there was a bleak, windy stretch of river bank with the Halle aux Vins on your right. This was not like any other Paris market but was a sort of bonded warehouse where wine was stored against the payment of taxes and was as cheerless from the outside as a military depot or a prison camp.

Across the branch of the Seine was the Île St.-Louis with the narrow streets and the old, tall, beautiful houses, and you could go over there or you could turn left and walk along the quais with the length of the Île St.-Louis and then Notre-Dame and Île de la Cité opposite as you walked.

In the bookstalls along the quais you could sometimes find American books that had just been published for sale very cheap. The Tour D’Argent restaurant had a few rooms above the restaurant that they rented in those days, giving the people who lived there a discount in the restaurant, and if the people who lived there left any books behind there was a bookstall not far along the quai where the valet de chambre sold them and you could buy them from the proprietress for a very few francs. She had no confidence in books written in English, paid almost nothing for them, and sold them for a small and quick profit.

“Are they any good?” she asked me after we had become friends.

“Sometimes one is.”

“How can anyone tell?”

“I can tell when I read them.”

“But still it is a form of gambling. And how many people can read English?”

“Save them for me and let me look them over.”

“No. I can’t save them. You don’t pass regularly. You stay away too long at a time. I have to sell them as soon as I can. No one can tell if they are worthless. If they turn out to be worthless, I would never sell them.”

“How do you tell a valuable French book?”

“First there are the pictures. Then it is a question of the quality of the pictures. Then it is the binding. If a book is good, the owner will have it bound properly. All books in English are bound, but bound badly. There is no way of judging them.”

After that bookstall near the Tour D’Argent there were no others that sold American and English books until the quai des Grands Augustins. There were several from there on to beyond the quai Voltaire that sold books they bought from employees of the left bank hotels and especially the Hotel Voltaire which had a wealthier clientele than most. One day I asked another woman stall-keeper who was a friend of mine if the owners ever sold the books.

“No,” she said. “They are all thrown away. That is why one knows they have no value.”

“Friends give them to them to read on the boats.”

“Doubtless,” she said. “They must leave many on the boats.”

“They do,” I said. “The line keeps them and binds them and they become the ships’ libraries.”

“That’s intelligent,” she said. “At least they are properly bound then. Now a book like that would have value.”

I would walk along the quais when I had finished work or when I was trying to think something out. It was easier to think if I was walking and doing something or seeing people doing something that they understood. At the head of the Île de la Cité below the Pont Neuf where there was the statue of Henri Quatre, the island ended in a point like the sharp bow of a ship and there was a small park at the water’s edge with fine chestnut trees, huge and spreading, and in the currents and back waters that the Seine made flowing past, there were excellent places to fish. You went down a stairway to the park and watched the fishermen there and under the great bridge. The good spots to fish changed with the height of the river and the fishermen used long, jointed, cane poles but fished with very fine leaders and light gear and quill floats and expertly baited the piece of water that they fished. They always caught some fish, and often they made excellent catches of the dace-like fish that were called goujon. They were delicious fried whole and I could eat a plateful. They were plump and sweet-fleshed with a finer flavor than fresh sardines even, and were not at all oily, and we ate them bones and all.

One of the best places to eat them was at an open-air restaurant built out over the river at Bas Meudon where we would go when we had money for a trip away from our quarter. It was called La Pêche Miraculeuse and had a splendid white wine that was a sort of Muscadet. It was a place out of a Maupassant story with the view over the river as Sisley had painted it. You did not have to go that far to eat goujon. You could get a very good friture on the Île St.-Louis.

I knew several of the men who fished the fruitful parts of the Seine between the Île St.-Louis and the Place du Verte Galente and sometimes, if the day was bright, I would buy a liter of wine and a piece of bread and some sausage and sit in the sun and read one of the books I had bought and watch the fishing.

Travel writers wrote about the men fishing in the Seine as though they were crazy and never caught anything; but it was serious and productive fishing. Most of the fishermen were men who had small pensions, which they did not know then would become worthless with inflation, or keen fishermen who fished on their days or half-days off from work. There was better fishing at Charenton, where the Marne came into the Seine, and on either side of Paris, but there was very good fishing in Paris itself. I did not fish because I did not have the tackle and I preferred to save my money to fish in Spain. Then too I never knew when I would be through working, nor when I would have to be away, and I did not want to become involved in the fishing which had its good times and its slack times. But I followed it closely and it was interesting and good to know about, and it always made me happy that there were men fishing in the city itself, having sound, serious fishing and taking a few fritures home to their families.

With the fishermen and the life on the river, the beautiful barges with their own life on board, the tugs with their smoke-stacks that folded back to pass under the bridges, pulling a tow of barges, the great elms on the stone banks of the river, the plane trees and in some places the poplars, I could never be lonely along the river. With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring coming each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. This was the only truly sad time in Paris because it was unnatural. You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.

In those days, though, the spring always came finally but it was frightening that it had nearly failed.

第五章 塞纳河畔的人们

在勒穆瓦纳主教街的尽头,有多条路通向塞纳河畔。最短的一条路是顺着大街直走,只不过这条路陡得厉害。等到你抵达平坦的路段,你就穿过圣日耳曼林荫大道街口处的车水马龙,走到一个气氛沉闷的地方——那儿有一段荒凉的河岸,风很大,右边就是葡萄酒市场。那儿的葡萄酒市场跟巴黎别的市场都不同,只是一种扣存葡萄酒以待完税的仓库,外表阴沉沉的,像个兵站或俘虏营。

跨过塞纳河的支流就是圣路易岛。岛上的街道十分狭窄,房子古香古色,高高的,非常漂亮。你可以到岛上游览,或者向左拐,沿着同圣路易岛一样长的码头走,途中可以看到对面的巴黎圣母院和西岱岛。

码头上有一些书摊,有时可以在书摊上发现刚出版的美国书,价钱很便宜。银塔饭店就在跟前,楼上有客房供客人住,房客吃饭时享受打折优惠。如果房客把自己看的书落在了房间里,服务生就会把书拿到近旁的书摊去卖,你花几个法郎就可以从女摊主手中将书买来。摊主对销售英语书籍缺乏信心,买书时几乎没花什么钱,所以见利就卖,急于脱手。

“这些书值得一读吗?”我和女摊主混熟后,她这样问我。

“有时候会有那么一两本是值得一读的。”

“这怎么能看得出来呢?”

“反正我在读的过程中是能区别出来的。”

“卖这样的书简直就跟赌博一样。有多少人能看得懂英语书呢?”

“你把书留下,等我过来看了再说吧。”

“那可不行,不能等你来。你并不经常路过这里,总要隔好长一段时间才来一次。我得尽快出手。万一是没有价值的书,谁又能说得来呢。碰上没有价值的书,那就一辈子也卖不出去了。”

“法语书有无价值你是怎么辨别的?”

“首先看有无插图以及插图的质量如何,接下来就看装帧——如果是好书,书的主人就舍得花钱把它装帧得美轮美奂。所有的英语书都是装帧好的,但良莠不齐,难以区分。”

过了银塔饭店附近的这家书摊,在抵达奥古斯丁大码头之前,再也没有别的书摊卖美国和英国书的了。从奥古斯丁大码头到伏尔泰码头,然后再朝前走几步,有几家书摊卖英语书——那些书是左岸那些旅馆的服务员,尤其是伏尔泰旅馆(这家旅馆住的都是些有钱的客人)的服务员,卖给摊主的。一天我问另一个女摊主(此人是我的朋友),摊上卖的英语书是不是旅馆客人卖给她的。

“不是的。”她说,“是他们扔掉的。据此判断都不是什么有价值的书。”

“他们乘船旅行,那是朋友送给他们读一读解闷的。”

“毋庸置疑。”女摊主说,“船上一定有许多这样被丢弃的书。”

“是的。”我说,“航运公司把这些书保存下来,重新装订好,它们就成了船上的藏书。”

“高明!”她说,“至少,把书装订得像模像样,就显得有价值了。”

我在写作之余,或者在思考问题时,总喜欢到码头上转转。走走路,找点事做,或者看别人干他们熟悉的事——在这种情况下,我的思路会顺畅一些。在西岱岛的西端,新桥南面,矗立着亨利四世的雕像。西岱岛的西端尖尖的,像一只船的船头。那儿有个临水小公园,公园里有许多漂亮的参天栗树,绿荫如盖。塞纳河汩汩流淌,而河水流经之处以及滞水湾有不少适于垂钓的好地方。你步下一段台阶,走进小公园,就能看见岸边和大桥下有人在垂钓。垂钓地点的好坏,随着河水的涨落而变化。那些钓鱼人用的长钓竿是一节一节连接起来的,钓线很细,齿轮轻轻的,鱼饵漂浮在水面——他们个个身手不凡,人人是行家里手。总会有鱼上钩,他们常常钓到类似鲦鱼那样的鱼(他们称之为鲶鱼),满载而归。这种鱼整条放在油里煎了吃味道极佳,我能吃下一大盘。这种鱼肥壮、味鲜,味道甚至能超过新鲜的沙丁鱼,而且一点也不油腻,我们吃的时候连骨头一起吃。

吃鲶鱼的一个最好去处是一家露天餐厅,位于下默冬,傍河而建。我们一旦有钱,就离开我们住的地方到那儿大快朵颐。那家餐厅名叫“神奇的垂钓”,佐饭的是一种口感极好的白葡萄酒,属于麝香干白葡萄酒类型。在此餐厅,可以一览塞纳河的风光,这一情景在莫泊桑的短篇小说中描绘过,也曾出现在西斯莱[1]的画作里。不过,你也没必要跑那么远去吃鲶鱼,在圣路易岛上就能吃到很好的油炸鲶鱼。

我认识几个垂钓者,他们常在圣路易岛和维尔-加隆广场之间的几处地方钓鱼,那儿鱼多。天晴日好的时候,我会买上一升葡萄酒、一个面包和一些香肠,坐在阳光下阅读从书摊上买来的书,观看他们钓鱼。

有些游记作家在描绘塞纳河畔的垂钓者时,把他们写成了一群饭桶,连一条鱼也钓不上。其实,这儿的垂钓者都是干实事的,出手便能钓到许多鱼。他们大多是靠微薄的养老金过活(岂不知那点钱遇到通货膨胀就会大大缩水),还有一些人是钓鱼迷,利用假期钓上一天半天的鱼。除了这儿,有一个更好的钓鱼点在夏朗通——那是马恩河汇入塞纳河的地方。按说,巴黎城外两侧都适合钓鱼,但真正好的钓鱼点则在城区内。我本人是不钓鱼的,因为我没有钓具——我宁愿省下钱来到西班牙去钓鱼。再说,我心里没谱,不知自己手头的稿子何时才能脱稿,也不知自己何时会因事而出远门。我可不想沉迷于钓鱼,因为钓鱼固然能给人带来快乐,但你必须有闲情逸致才行。不过,我在密切关注着它,觉得了解一些钓鱼知识是很有意思的,是件很好的事情。看见人们在巴黎城里的河边钓鱼,认认真真地钓,而且收获颇丰,把钓到的鱼拿回家让亲人享用,我总是由衷地感到高兴。

在塞纳河畔,看一看人们钓鱼,欣赏一下河上的景色——漂亮的驳船上一片忙碌的景象;拖轮拖曳着一长列驳船,从桥下通过时,拖轮的烟囱便自动向后折叠;河边石堤上生长着高大的榆树、梧桐树,有些地方则是白杨——这时的我一点也不感到孤独。

巴黎城里绿树成荫,仿佛每一天都是融融的春日——仿佛夜间暖风起,次日清晨春季便从天而降。有时,大雨突然来临,天气变得寒冷,春天的感觉便顿时消失,似乎再也不会出现——这样,一个美好的季节退出了你的生活。这种现象是很不正常的,是真正叫巴黎的人们感到悲哀的时刻。秋天来到时,你一定会觉得悲伤。每年的这个时候,树叶纷纷落地,光秃秃的树枝在寒风中和冷气袭人的冬阳下发抖,这时你的一颗心就像死了一样。不过,你知道春天终究还会来临,冰冻的河水终究还会汩汩流淌。如果阴雨连绵,冷冰冰的,扼杀了温暖的春天,这情景就像一个年轻人突然死去,死得不明不白。

在那些日子里,春天最后总会回到我们身边,但我们总会提心吊胆,因为它每一次都差点没能再次出现。

注释:

[1] 法国19世纪风景画画家。

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