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Gobseck-Part1_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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gray, sleek, and carefully combed; his features might have been cast

in bronze; Talleyrand himself was not more impassive than this money-



lender. A pair of little eyes, yellow as a ferret's, and with scarce

an eyelash to them, peered out from under the sheltering peak of a



shabby old cap, as if they feared the light. He had the thin lips that

you see in Rembrandt's or Metsu's portraits of alchemists and shrunken



old men, and a nose so sharp at the tip that it put you in mind of a

gimlet. His voice was so low; he always spoke suavely; he never flew



into a passion. His age was a problem; it was hard to say whether he

had grown old before his time, or whether by economy of youth he had



saved enough to last him his life.

"His room, and everything in it, from the green baize of the bureau to



the strip of carpet by the bed, was as clean and threadbare as the

chilly sanctuary of some elderly spinster who spends her days in



rubbing her furniture. In winter time, the live brands of the fire

smouldered all day in a bank of ashes; there was never any flame in



his grate. He went through his day, from his uprising to his evening

coughing-fit, with the regularity of a pendulum, and in some sort was



a clockwork man, wound up by a night's slumber. Touch a wood-louse on

an excursion across your sheet of paper, and the creature shams death;



and in something the same way my acquaintance would stop short in the

middle of a sentence, while a cart went by, to save the strain to his



voice. Following the example of Fontenelle, he was thrifty of pulse-

strokes, and concentrated all human sensibility in the innermost



sanctuary of Self.

"His life flowed soundless as the sands of an hour-glass. His victims



sometimes flew into a rage and made a great deal of noise, followed by

a great silence; so is it in a kitchen after a fowl's neck has been



wrung.

"Toward evening this bill of exchange incarnate would assume ordinary



human shape, and his metals were metamorphosed into a human heart.

When he was satisfied with his day's business, he would rub his hands;



his inward glee would escape like smoke through every rift and wrinkle

of his face;--in no other way is it possible to give an idea of the



mute play of muscle which expressed sensations similar to the

soundless laughter of Leather Stocking. Indeed, even in transports of



joy, his conversation was confined to monosyllables; he wore the same

non-committal countenance.



"This was the neighbor Chance found for me in the house in the Rue de

Gres, where I used to live when as yet I was only a second clerk



finishing my third year's studies. The house is damp and dark, and

boasts no courtyard. All the windows look on the street; the whole



dwelling, in claustral fashion, is divided into rooms or cells of

equal size, all opening upon a long corridor dimly lit with borrowed



lights. The place must have been part of an old convent once. So

gloomy was it, that the gaiety of eldest sons forsook them on the



stairs before they reached my neighbor's door. He and his house were

much alike; even so does the oysterresemble his native rock.



"I was the one creature with whom he had any communication, socially

speaking; he would come in to ask for a light, to borrow a book or a



newspaper, and of an evening he would allow me to go into his cell,

and when he was in the humor we would chat together. These marks of



confidence were the results of four years of neighborhood and my own

sober conduct. From sheer lack of pence, I was bound to live pretty



much as he did. Had he any relations or friends? Was he rich or poor?

Nobody could give an answer to these questions. I myself never saw



money in his room. Doubtless his capital was safely stowed in the

strong rooms of the Bank. He used to collect his bills himself as they



fell due, running all over Paris on a pair of shanks as skinny as a

stag's. On occasion he would be a martyr to prudence. One day, when he



happened to have gold in his pockets, a double napoleon worked its

way, somehow or other, out of his fob and fell, and another lodger



following him up the stairs picked up the coin and returned it to its

owner.



" 'That isn't mine!' said he, with a start of surprise. 'Mine indeed!

If I were rich, should I live as I do!'



"He made his cup of coffee himself every morning on the cast-iron

chafing dish which stood all day in the black angle of the grate; his






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