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The Elixir of Life-Part1_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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the senses, the gleam of gold and silver, the fumes of wine, and

the exquisite beauty of the women, there may perhaps have been in



the depths of the revelers' hearts some struggling glimmer of

reverence for things divine and human, until it was drowned in



glowing floods of wine! Yet even then the flowers had been

crushed, eyes were growing dull, and drunkenness, in Rabelais'



phrase, had "taken possession of them down to their sandals."

During that brief pause a door opened; and as once the Divine



presence was revealed at Belshazzar's feast, so now it seemed to

be manifest in the apparition of an old white-haired servant, who



tottered in, and looked sadly from under knitted brows at the

revelers. He gave a withering glance at the garlands, the golden



cups, the pyramids of fruit, the dazzling lights of the banquet,

the flushed scared faces, the hues of the cushions pressed by the



white arms of the women.

"My lord, your father is dying!" he said; and at those solemn



words, uttered in hollow tones, a veil of crape [sic] seemed to

be drawn over the wild mirth.



Don Juan rose to his feet with a gesture to his guests that might

be rendered by, "Excuse me; this kind of thing does not happen



every day."

Does it so seldom happen that a father's death surprises youth in



the full-blown splendor of life, in the midst of the mad riot of

an orgy? Death is as unexpected in his caprice as a courtesan in



her disdain; but death is truer--Death has never forsaken any

man.



Don Juan closed the door of the banqueting-hall; and as he went

down the long gallery, through the cold and darkness, he strove



to assume an expression in keeping with the part he had to play;

he had thrown off his mirthful mood, as he had thrown down his



table napkin, at the first thought of this role. The night was

dark. The mute servitor, his guide to the chamber where the dying



man lay, lighted the way so dimly that Death, aided by cold,

silence, and darkness, and it may be by a reaction of



drunkenness, could send some sober thoughts through the

spendthrift's soul. He examined his life, and became thoughtful,



like a man involved in a lawsuit on his way to the Court.

Bartolommeo Belvidero, Don Juan's father, was an old man of



ninety, who had devoted the greatest part of his life to business

pursuits. He had acquired vast wealth in many a journey to



magical Eastern lands, and knowledge, so it was said, more

valuable than the gold and diamonds, which had almost ceased to



have any value for him.

"I would give more to have a tooth in my head than for a ruby,"



he would say at times with a smile. The indulgent father loved to

hear Don Juan's story of this and that wild freak of youth. "So



long as these follies amuse you, dear boy----" he would say

laughingly, as he lavished money on his son. Age never took such



pleasure in the sight of youth; the fond father did not remember

his own decaying powers while he looked on that brilliant young



life.

Bartolommeo Belvidero, at the age of sixty, had fallen in love



with an angel of peace and beauty. Don Juan had been the sole

fruit of this late and short-lived love. For fifteen years the



widower had mourned the loss of his beloved Juana; and to this

sorrow of age, his son and his numerous household had attributed



the strange habits that he had contracted. He had shut himself up

in the least comfortable wing of his palace, and very seldom left



his apartments; even Don Juan himself must first ask permission

before seeing his father. If this hermit, unbound by vows, came



or went in his palace or in the streets of Ferrara, he walked as

if he were in a dream, wholly engrossed, like a man at strife



with a memory, or a wrestler with some thought.

The young Don Juan might give princely" target="_blank" title="a.王候般的；高贵的">princelybanquets, the palace might



echo with clamorous mirth, horses pawed the ground in the

courtyards, pages quarreled and flung dice upon the stairs, but



Bartolommeo ate his seven ounces of bread daily and drank water.

A fowl was occasionally dressed for him, simply that the black






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