Вдогонку - спойлер из второго тома трилогии)
After Javert shut the door behind him, Valjean pensively regarded his hands in his lap. Presently he said to the empty room in a perfectly calm and natural voice, “Stubborn old goat.”
A moment later he heard the door creak open again. “You might do well to remember,” Javert growled as he reached for his walking stick, “not to speak after a person until that person is beyond earshot!”
“If I had done that,” said Valjean without turning around, “then you would not have heard me.”
Javert clenched his teeth and stuck his cane under his arm. He slammed the door behind him with such ferocity that the windows rattled in their sashes and the room vibrated with the force and the echo as if a temblor had jolted the island.
When at last the sound died away, Jean Valjean reached for the book beside his chair, the Bible he had received as a gift long ago, on another continent. It was a Protestant Bible, but that did not matter to Jean Valjean, who felt at home in any church; it was written in English, which Valjean had learned to read when he left France in his own state of exile. He closed his eyes as he put his hand on the cover; he drew a deep breath and opened the book to a page at random, letting his eyes fall where they would:
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth itself not, is not puffed up.
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophesies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.
For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.
But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man I put away childish things.
For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part; but then I shall know even as also I am known.
And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
Jean Valjean held the Bible tightly against him and shut his eyes again. Against all this he remembered Javert’s words of long ago: “It is easy to be kind. It is difficult to be just.”
He sat thusly for some time, thinking on the passage he had found by accident-or had it been accident? He had read over those words many times, the old Bible’s spine creased to the page where that passage lay. Perhaps that’s why he had found it so readily? Or did it really matter how he had found it, so long as he found it?
Now he regretted what he had said to Hugo in the street, complaining of his long hardships in charity’s name; he felt even more unworthy of the good will the writer had bestowed on him, that he had brought it to the man’s attention at all. Charity does not declare itself to the skies; it works in secret, in shadow, where none see but God and the giver and none know but God and the recipient.
And now Javert was angry with him. It did not matter whether Valjean was right or wrong, or whether Javert was right or wrong. What mattered was that Javert was angry, and anger and stubbornness made for a bad combination. Valjean cast his blanket aside and stood up. His legs were not as strong as they once had been, but he still had vigor in him, even after such a long, strenuous walk in the bitterly cold and damp November air. He donned his own coat and hat and left the fire to die untended and abandoned as he made his way back through town once more, as twilight deepened into evening on its way to complete darkness.
HE FOUND JAVERT precisely where he knew he would, back at the house at the end of the Rue Hauteville. The gate was open; Javert had a key of his own.
Javert had retaken his post beneath the oak tree, just before the cliff, where they had been standing that afternoon immediately before their meeting with Hugo. His arms were folded defiantly across his chest as his greatcoat billowed out behind him, snapping in the high wind; stray strands of gray hair flew out from beneath his tall black hat, obscuring his eyes. In the combined darkness of the evening and the overcast sky, the lights of the harbor far below him hardly reached him, and he was nearly indistinguishable against the tree but for the glowing ember at the end of the cigarillo he held between his teeth.
He didn’t acknowledge Valjean as he approached, and the older man did not announce himself. Instead he stood against the tree in a similar attitude, his arms wrapped around himself as poor proof against the cold.
“There’s a storm coming,” Javert said without preamble. He took a long drag from his cigarillo and flicked the ashes into the face of the gale. “It’ll rain before we reach home.”
“Yes,” said Jean Valjean.
After a protracted silence, Javert said, “You think I’m wrong to feel this way, don’t you?”
“I never said you were wrong. I just-there’s too much to consider.” He shrugged. “And I did not mean to suggest you did not care what happened to Mme Nichols.”
Javert nodded. “If ever a woman deserved a measure of happiness, it’s that one.”
“Then she should go home,” Jean Valjean insisted. “If she could make a home of this house, if she could live here without remembering, without reminding herself of what happened, I would be the first to encourage M. Hugo to find another house. But she cannot part with the association.”
“Can you say the same about the cottage in San Francisco?”
“She was happy there.” His scarf came unwound and he fumbled with it, retying it and stuffing the ends between his coat and his vest. “She has known very little happiness here.”
“And if she leaves?” Javert glanced at him. “Who will stand with her then? Or do you propose we send her packing without an escort?”
Valjean sighed. “Do you want to go back to California?”
“After all we’ve been through, what’s one more ocean voyage?” Javert shrugged. “Why? Do you want to go back there?”
“I had not thought about that.”
“In truth I had not thought on that myself. I spoke in haste just now. Besides, if I dared to take you to America with me Madame la Baronne would be quite cross with me.”
“With both of us.” Valjean nodded. “I agree that Mme Nichols should not make the journey unaccompanied, but surely that decision can wait until after the current situation is resolved?”
“All right.” He rolled the cigarillo between his thumb and forefinger absently. He had given up snuff years ago, exchanging one habit for another. This one was less expensive, but more addictive-even so he made certain not to indulge indoors, out of respect for the sensitivity to smoke that Valjean had developed. “So she should give up the house,” Javert said with a disappointed sigh. “To him.”
“She should give up the house,” Valjean repeated, “but whether to him or to another is her decision. But first we must convince her to part with the house.”
“Well then, let’s see if we can arrange this affair with less tribulation than our other debacles, shall we? For her sake.” He took a long drag, exhaling the smoke in rings as he had learned to do in the wilds of the Barbary Coast. “Certainly not for M. Hugo’s,” he added offhandedly.
Valjean nodded, a wry smile on his lips. “And for the house.”
“The house....” Javert snorted. “Valjean, tell me, do you ever get tired of being right all the time?”
At that Jean Valjean laughed openly, easily, without his usual restraint. “I have not always been in the right,” he protested.
“That is true,” said Javert.
Valjean glanced at him, still smiling. “And you? Don’t you ever tire of being stubborn all the time?”
Javert opened his mouth and Valjean half-expected him to counter with “I have not always been stubborn,” but instead he began to laugh himself, aloud, which was unusual for him, shaking his head as he did so. “No,” he admitted. “I like my stubbornness. I need it. It’s another habit, like this.” He held up the cigarillo. “Every old dog needs a bone to gnaw on, Valjean, and my stubbornness is mine.” He looked up into the night sky, empty of stars, and he could smell the rain in the wind waiting to pour down on them. “I feel like this tree, Valjean: rooted to the bluffs, the wind howling and buffeting it, railing against it incessantly. Its branches have molded themselves to the wind, flying back against it, but the trunk leans into it, standing defiant against its power. It’s the same with me. The winds of change are not my friend. I will always stand fast against them. It is my nature.”
Javert turned to look at him, and was surprised at the expression on his companion’s face. “That’s quite profound,” said Jean Valjean.
Javert scoffed, waving away the compliment like a bothersome gnat.
“No, really, it is. I would expect something like that from another man, but not from you.”
“By another man, you mean Hugo.”
“Well, yes.”
“Hah!” Javert pushed himself away from the tree, surveying the harbor below. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised by it. After all, I learned it from you.”
“From me?”
“Yes. Remember? When you taught me gardening. You called it ‘the art of subtle change.’”
Jean Valjean cupped his hands and put them to his face; his nose and cheeks were burning from the cold. He exhaled into his hands. “So I did. I had forgotten.”
“I never have. There’s so little I forget. Even the things I would wish to.” Javert tossed his cigarillo, still lit, over the edge of the cliff; it sparked against the rocks one by one as it fell, like a shooting star, extinguished before it touched the ground. At that moment Javert felt a drop of water on his face, and he looked up just as a light drizzle commenced. He took Valjean’s arm and guided him towards the garden gate. “Come on,” he said roughly. “You’re too old to be out on a night like this. For that matter, so am I..."
A moment later he heard the door creak open again. “You might do well to remember,” Javert growled as he reached for his walking stick, “not to speak after a person until that person is beyond earshot!”
“If I had done that,” said Valjean without turning around, “then you would not have heard me.”
Javert clenched his teeth and stuck his cane under his arm. He slammed the door behind him with such ferocity that the windows rattled in their sashes and the room vibrated with the force and the echo as if a temblor had jolted the island.
When at last the sound died away, Jean Valjean reached for the book beside his chair, the Bible he had received as a gift long ago, on another continent. It was a Protestant Bible, but that did not matter to Jean Valjean, who felt at home in any church; it was written in English, which Valjean had learned to read when he left France in his own state of exile. He closed his eyes as he put his hand on the cover; he drew a deep breath and opened the book to a page at random, letting his eyes fall where they would:
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth itself not, is not puffed up.
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophesies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.
For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.
But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man I put away childish things.
For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part; but then I shall know even as also I am known.
And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
Jean Valjean held the Bible tightly against him and shut his eyes again. Against all this he remembered Javert’s words of long ago: “It is easy to be kind. It is difficult to be just.”
He sat thusly for some time, thinking on the passage he had found by accident-or had it been accident? He had read over those words many times, the old Bible’s spine creased to the page where that passage lay. Perhaps that’s why he had found it so readily? Or did it really matter how he had found it, so long as he found it?
Now he regretted what he had said to Hugo in the street, complaining of his long hardships in charity’s name; he felt even more unworthy of the good will the writer had bestowed on him, that he had brought it to the man’s attention at all. Charity does not declare itself to the skies; it works in secret, in shadow, where none see but God and the giver and none know but God and the recipient.
And now Javert was angry with him. It did not matter whether Valjean was right or wrong, or whether Javert was right or wrong. What mattered was that Javert was angry, and anger and stubbornness made for a bad combination. Valjean cast his blanket aside and stood up. His legs were not as strong as they once had been, but he still had vigor in him, even after such a long, strenuous walk in the bitterly cold and damp November air. He donned his own coat and hat and left the fire to die untended and abandoned as he made his way back through town once more, as twilight deepened into evening on its way to complete darkness.
HE FOUND JAVERT precisely where he knew he would, back at the house at the end of the Rue Hauteville. The gate was open; Javert had a key of his own.
Javert had retaken his post beneath the oak tree, just before the cliff, where they had been standing that afternoon immediately before their meeting with Hugo. His arms were folded defiantly across his chest as his greatcoat billowed out behind him, snapping in the high wind; stray strands of gray hair flew out from beneath his tall black hat, obscuring his eyes. In the combined darkness of the evening and the overcast sky, the lights of the harbor far below him hardly reached him, and he was nearly indistinguishable against the tree but for the glowing ember at the end of the cigarillo he held between his teeth.
He didn’t acknowledge Valjean as he approached, and the older man did not announce himself. Instead he stood against the tree in a similar attitude, his arms wrapped around himself as poor proof against the cold.
“There’s a storm coming,” Javert said without preamble. He took a long drag from his cigarillo and flicked the ashes into the face of the gale. “It’ll rain before we reach home.”
“Yes,” said Jean Valjean.
After a protracted silence, Javert said, “You think I’m wrong to feel this way, don’t you?”
“I never said you were wrong. I just-there’s too much to consider.” He shrugged. “And I did not mean to suggest you did not care what happened to Mme Nichols.”
Javert nodded. “If ever a woman deserved a measure of happiness, it’s that one.”
“Then she should go home,” Jean Valjean insisted. “If she could make a home of this house, if she could live here without remembering, without reminding herself of what happened, I would be the first to encourage M. Hugo to find another house. But she cannot part with the association.”
“Can you say the same about the cottage in San Francisco?”
“She was happy there.” His scarf came unwound and he fumbled with it, retying it and stuffing the ends between his coat and his vest. “She has known very little happiness here.”
“And if she leaves?” Javert glanced at him. “Who will stand with her then? Or do you propose we send her packing without an escort?”
Valjean sighed. “Do you want to go back to California?”
“After all we’ve been through, what’s one more ocean voyage?” Javert shrugged. “Why? Do you want to go back there?”
“I had not thought about that.”
“In truth I had not thought on that myself. I spoke in haste just now. Besides, if I dared to take you to America with me Madame la Baronne would be quite cross with me.”
“With both of us.” Valjean nodded. “I agree that Mme Nichols should not make the journey unaccompanied, but surely that decision can wait until after the current situation is resolved?”
“All right.” He rolled the cigarillo between his thumb and forefinger absently. He had given up snuff years ago, exchanging one habit for another. This one was less expensive, but more addictive-even so he made certain not to indulge indoors, out of respect for the sensitivity to smoke that Valjean had developed. “So she should give up the house,” Javert said with a disappointed sigh. “To him.”
“She should give up the house,” Valjean repeated, “but whether to him or to another is her decision. But first we must convince her to part with the house.”
“Well then, let’s see if we can arrange this affair with less tribulation than our other debacles, shall we? For her sake.” He took a long drag, exhaling the smoke in rings as he had learned to do in the wilds of the Barbary Coast. “Certainly not for M. Hugo’s,” he added offhandedly.
Valjean nodded, a wry smile on his lips. “And for the house.”
“The house....” Javert snorted. “Valjean, tell me, do you ever get tired of being right all the time?”
At that Jean Valjean laughed openly, easily, without his usual restraint. “I have not always been in the right,” he protested.
“That is true,” said Javert.
Valjean glanced at him, still smiling. “And you? Don’t you ever tire of being stubborn all the time?”
Javert opened his mouth and Valjean half-expected him to counter with “I have not always been stubborn,” but instead he began to laugh himself, aloud, which was unusual for him, shaking his head as he did so. “No,” he admitted. “I like my stubbornness. I need it. It’s another habit, like this.” He held up the cigarillo. “Every old dog needs a bone to gnaw on, Valjean, and my stubbornness is mine.” He looked up into the night sky, empty of stars, and he could smell the rain in the wind waiting to pour down on them. “I feel like this tree, Valjean: rooted to the bluffs, the wind howling and buffeting it, railing against it incessantly. Its branches have molded themselves to the wind, flying back against it, but the trunk leans into it, standing defiant against its power. It’s the same with me. The winds of change are not my friend. I will always stand fast against them. It is my nature.”
Javert turned to look at him, and was surprised at the expression on his companion’s face. “That’s quite profound,” said Jean Valjean.
Javert scoffed, waving away the compliment like a bothersome gnat.
“No, really, it is. I would expect something like that from another man, but not from you.”
“By another man, you mean Hugo.”
“Well, yes.”
“Hah!” Javert pushed himself away from the tree, surveying the harbor below. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised by it. After all, I learned it from you.”
“From me?”
“Yes. Remember? When you taught me gardening. You called it ‘the art of subtle change.’”
Jean Valjean cupped his hands and put them to his face; his nose and cheeks were burning from the cold. He exhaled into his hands. “So I did. I had forgotten.”
“I never have. There’s so little I forget. Even the things I would wish to.” Javert tossed his cigarillo, still lit, over the edge of the cliff; it sparked against the rocks one by one as it fell, like a shooting star, extinguished before it touched the ground. At that moment Javert felt a drop of water on his face, and he looked up just as a light drizzle commenced. He took Valjean’s arm and guided him towards the garden gate. “Come on,” he said roughly. “You’re too old to be out on a night like this. For that matter, so am I..."