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【導读】伊迪丝·华顿（1862—1937）被认为是最了解巴黎的美国作家。她从19世纪90年代开始旅居巴黎，随后生活重心由美国移到法国，直至去世。在旅居巴黎的岁月里，华顿融入了法国的文学艺术界，也见证了欧洲历史上最重大的变迁。
第一次世界大战即将爆发之际，人们纷纷逃离巴黎，华顿却选择成为一个逆行者，写下著名的游记《战斗的法国》（Fighting France）。本文节选自该书第一篇文章“The Look of Paris”，记叙了1914年7月末至8月初作者从普瓦捷回巴黎途中以及回到巴黎后的景、情、见、闻。作者运用超凡的想象力和细腻的笔触极好地捕捉住夏日光影下的法国乡野、沙特尔大教堂和巴黎城，也将战事一触即发之时巴黎人的生活和心理刻画得淋漓尽致。其中，对沙特尔大教堂的描写更是极尽想象与修辞之能事，令人叹为观止;语言之深、之难，于译家而言也是一大乐事！
On the 30th of July， 1914， motoring north from Poitiers， we had lunched somewhere by the roadside under apple-trees on the edge of a field. Other fields stretched away on our right and left to a border of woodland and a village steeple. All around was noonday quiet， and the sober disciplined landscape which the traveller’s memory is apt to evoke as distinctly French. Sometimes， even to accustomed eyes， these ruled-off fields and compact grey villages seem merely flat and tame; at other moments the sensitive imagination sees in every thrifty sod and even furrow the ceaseless vigilant attachment of generations faithful to the soil. The particular bit of landscape before us spoke in all its lines of that attachment. The air seemed full of the long murmur of human effort， the rhythm of oft-repeated tasks; the serenity of the scene smiled away the war rumours which had hung on us since morning.
All day the sky had been banked with thunder-clouds， but by the time we reached Chartres， toward four o’clock， they had rolled away under the horizon， and the town was so saturated with sunlight that to pass into the cathedral was like entering the dense obscurity of a church in Spain. At first all detail was imperceptible： we were in a hollow night. Then， as the shadows gradually thinned and gathered themselves up into pier and vault and ribbing， there burst out of them great sheets and showers of colour. Framed by such depths of darkness， and steeped in a blaze of mid-summer sun， the familiar windows seemed singularly remote and yet overpoweringly vivid. Now they widened into dark-shored pools splashed with sunset， now glittered and menaced like the shields of fighting angels. Some were cataracts of sapphires， others roses dropped from a saint’s tunic， others great carven platters strewn with heavenly regalia， others the sails of galleons bound for the Purple Islands; and in the western wall the scattered fires of the rose-window hung like a constellation in an African night. When one dropped one’s eyes from these ethereal harmonies， the dark masses of masonry below them， all veiled and muffled in a mist pricked by a few altar lights， seemed to symbolize the life on earth， with its shadows， its heavy distances and its little islands of illusion. All that a great cathedral can be， all the meanings it can express， all the tranquillizing power it can breathe upon the soul， all the richness of detail it can fuse into a large utterance of strength and beauty， the cathedral of Chartres gave us in that perfect hour. It was sunset when we reached the gates of Paris. Under the heights of St. Cloud and Suresnes the reaches of the Seine trembled with the blue-pink lustre of an early Monet. The Bois lay about us in the stillness of a holiday evening， and the lawns of Bagatelle were as fresh as June. Below the Arc de Triomphe， the Champs Elysées sloped downward in a sun-powdered haze to the mist of fountains and the ethereal obelisk; and the currents of summer life ebbed and flowed with a normal beat under the trees of the radiating avenues. The great city， so made for peace and art and all humanist graces， seemed to lie by her river-side like a princess guarded by the watchful giant of the Eiffel Tower.
The next day the air was thundery with rumours. Nobody believed them， everybody repeated them. War？ Of course there couldn’t be war！ The Cabinets， like naughty children， were again dangling their feet over the edge; but the whole incalculable weight of things-as-they-were， of the daily necessary business of living， continued calmly and convincingly to assert itself against the bandying of diplomatic words. Paris went on steadily about her midsummer business of feeding， dressing， and amusing the great army of tourists who were the only invaders she had seen for nearly half a century.
All the while， every one knew that other work was going on also. The whole fabric of the country’s seemingly undisturbed routine was threaded with noiseless invisible currents of preparation， the sense of them was in the calm air as the sense of changing weather is in the balminess of a perfect afternoon. Paris counted the minutes till the evening papers came.
They said little or nothing except what every one was already declaring all over the country. “We don’t want war—mais il faut que cela finisse！1” “This kind of thing has got to stop”： that was the only phrase one heard. If diplomacy could still arrest the war， so much the better： no one in France wanted it. All who spent the first days of August in Paris will testify to the agreement of feeling on that point. But if war had to come， then the country， and every heart in it， was ready.
At the dressmaker’s， the next morning， the tired fitters were preparing to leave for their usual holidays. They looked pale and anxious—decidedly， there was a new weight of apprehension in the air. And in the rue Royale， at the corner of the Place de la Concorde， a few people had stopped to look at a little strip of white paper against the wall of the Ministère de la Marine. “General mobilization” they read—and an armed nation knows what that means. But the group about the paper was small and quiet. Passers-by read the notice and went on. There were no cheers， no gesticulations： the dramatic sense of the race had already told them that the event was too great to be dramatized. Like a monstrous landslide it had fallen across the path of an orderly laborious nation， disrupting its routine， annihilating its industries， rending families apart， and burying under a heap of senseless ruin the patiently and painfully wrought machinery of civilization. 1914年7月30日，我们从普瓦捷驱车北上，在路边一块田地旁的苹果树下用午餐。我们的左右两旁也是连片的田野，分别延伸至林地的边缘和一座乡村尖顶教堂。正午时分，周遭一片寂静，淡雅严整的风景，在旅行者记忆中往往会唤起一种特有的法兰西印象。即使惯看这风景的人，有时候也会觉得这些分割整齐的田地和排列紧凑的灰白村落过于单调乏味。而另一些时候，敏锐的想象力又让人从每一块青草茂盛的草皮甚至每一道犁沟中看到忠诚于土地的一代代人生生不息的警醒和眷恋。我们眼前这一小片风景就是这种眷恋的极好诠释。空气中似乎弥漫着人类劳作的漫长回响，那是周而复始的农忙节奏。从早晨开始，开战传言便压在我们心头，而这宁静祥和的风景让人不禁对那传言一笑置之。
一整天，天空堆积着雷雨云，但将近四点我们抵达沙特尔时，阴云已消散在地平线下，整个市镇完全沐浴在阳光中，步入大教堂就像走进一座西班牙的幽暗教堂。一开始，所有细节都看不见：我们仿佛置身于空洞的黑夜之中。然后，阴影渐渐收窄、聚拢并上移至扶垛、拱顶和肋架，那里突然迸洒大片大片或星星点点的色彩。在这深度黑暗的包裹中，在仲夏烈日的浸染下，原本熟悉的高窗变得似乎异常遥远，却又生动到令人震撼。它们忽而变宽，仿若水池岸边一片黯淡，但池中洒满夕阳;忽而金光闪烁，像战斗天使们手中盾牌逼近时那般耀眼。有的是一道道蓝宝石瀑布，有的是从圣徒短袍上掉落的朵朵玫瑰，有的是镶着天国徽纹的雕花大淺盘，还有的是朝着紫色群岛行进的大帆船;西墙上，玫瑰花窗上散落的火焰就像非洲夜空里的璀璨群星。当我们将视线从这些谐美之物移开，其下大量的砖石都笼在一层黑雾之中，圣坛上的几盏灯光将它刺破，似乎象征着世间的生命，有其阴影，有其沉重的距离，有其幻想的座座小岛。一座大教堂能承载的所有一切，能表达的所有意义，能为灵魂注入的所有安宁之力，能为力与美的昭示增添的所有丰富细节，沙特尔大教堂都在那样一个完美时刻为我们呈现。
我们到达巴黎城门时已是日落时分。在圣克卢和叙雷讷高大建筑的映衬下，塞纳河之波闪烁着若蓝若粉的光彩，就像莫奈早期的作品。在我们的周围，布洛涅林苑安卧在假日傍晚的寂静中，巴加泰勒公园的草地像六月一般清新。凯旋门下，香榭丽舍大街斜斜向下，在金粉般的暮霭中伸向水雾笼罩的喷泉和直插云霄的方尖碑。各条大道由中心向外伸展，路边树下，夏日生活的洪流以其正常的节奏起起落落。这座为和平和艺术以及所有人文之美而生的伟大城市，此刻就像一个公主，在埃菲尔铁塔这个警觉巨人的守卫下，静静躺卧在她的河岸上。
第二天，传言四起。没有人相信，但人们口口相传。战争？当然不可能爆发战争！那些内阁阁员就像顽皮的孩子，又在悬崖边吊甩双脚;但是，“一切照旧”的想法、必不可少的日常营生有着不可估量的分量，继续抗拒着外交辞令的喧嚣，平静而让人信服。巴黎有条不紊地继续着仲夏时节的工作——为旅游大军提供衣食和娱乐，这些人是她在近半个世纪里见过的唯一“入侵者”。
与此同时，每个人都知道其他的工作也在继续。这个国家表面风平浪静、诸事如常，其间穿插着悄无声息的备战潜流。平静的气氛中能嗅出这种味道，就像一个风和日丽的完美午后让人隐约觉得就要变天。巴黎数着分秒等待晚报上市。
报纸上没有什么新消息，有的只是全国上下每个人都已发出的宣言。“我们不想打仗——mais il faut que cela finisse！”“这种事该结束了”——人们听到的只有这句话。如果外交还能制止战争，那更好：在法国，没人想要战争。所有八月初在巴黎的人都可以证明这样一种情绪的共鸣。但要是战争非来不可，那这个国家连同每一个国民，也都准备好了。
第二天早晨，裁缝店里疲倦的试衣裁缝们正准备离店，例行休假。他们看上去苍白、不安——空气中明显增添了一份沉沉的忧虑。在皇家路上，协和广场的拐角处，几个人停下来看海军部墙上张贴的一小张白纸。上面写着“总动员”——一个已经武装的国家知道它的意思。但是围观的人不多，而且沉默不语。路过的人读完后继续前行。没有欢呼，没有手势：这个民族的戏剧直觉已经告诉他们，兹事体大，不可儿戏。战争已经降临，就像一场巨大的山崩地陷，阻断了一个勤劳有序的民族前行的道路，扰乱它的日常，摧毁它的工业，造成家庭离散，将历尽艰辛、精心打造的文明制度埋葬在一堆无意义的废墟之下。
（译者单位：北京语言大学）
第一次世界大战即将爆发之际，人们纷纷逃离巴黎，华顿却选择成为一个逆行者，写下著名的游记《战斗的法国》（Fighting France）。本文节选自该书第一篇文章“The Look of Paris”，记叙了1914年7月末至8月初作者从普瓦捷回巴黎途中以及回到巴黎后的景、情、见、闻。作者运用超凡的想象力和细腻的笔触极好地捕捉住夏日光影下的法国乡野、沙特尔大教堂和巴黎城，也将战事一触即发之时巴黎人的生活和心理刻画得淋漓尽致。其中，对沙特尔大教堂的描写更是极尽想象与修辞之能事，令人叹为观止;语言之深、之难，于译家而言也是一大乐事！
On the 30th of July， 1914， motoring north from Poitiers， we had lunched somewhere by the roadside under apple-trees on the edge of a field. Other fields stretched away on our right and left to a border of woodland and a village steeple. All around was noonday quiet， and the sober disciplined landscape which the traveller’s memory is apt to evoke as distinctly French. Sometimes， even to accustomed eyes， these ruled-off fields and compact grey villages seem merely flat and tame; at other moments the sensitive imagination sees in every thrifty sod and even furrow the ceaseless vigilant attachment of generations faithful to the soil. The particular bit of landscape before us spoke in all its lines of that attachment. The air seemed full of the long murmur of human effort， the rhythm of oft-repeated tasks; the serenity of the scene smiled away the war rumours which had hung on us since morning.
All day the sky had been banked with thunder-clouds， but by the time we reached Chartres， toward four o’clock， they had rolled away under the horizon， and the town was so saturated with sunlight that to pass into the cathedral was like entering the dense obscurity of a church in Spain. At first all detail was imperceptible： we were in a hollow night. Then， as the shadows gradually thinned and gathered themselves up into pier and vault and ribbing， there burst out of them great sheets and showers of colour. Framed by such depths of darkness， and steeped in a blaze of mid-summer sun， the familiar windows seemed singularly remote and yet overpoweringly vivid. Now they widened into dark-shored pools splashed with sunset， now glittered and menaced like the shields of fighting angels. Some were cataracts of sapphires， others roses dropped from a saint’s tunic， others great carven platters strewn with heavenly regalia， others the sails of galleons bound for the Purple Islands; and in the western wall the scattered fires of the rose-window hung like a constellation in an African night. When one dropped one’s eyes from these ethereal harmonies， the dark masses of masonry below them， all veiled and muffled in a mist pricked by a few altar lights， seemed to symbolize the life on earth， with its shadows， its heavy distances and its little islands of illusion. All that a great cathedral can be， all the meanings it can express， all the tranquillizing power it can breathe upon the soul， all the richness of detail it can fuse into a large utterance of strength and beauty， the cathedral of Chartres gave us in that perfect hour. It was sunset when we reached the gates of Paris. Under the heights of St. Cloud and Suresnes the reaches of the Seine trembled with the blue-pink lustre of an early Monet. The Bois lay about us in the stillness of a holiday evening， and the lawns of Bagatelle were as fresh as June. Below the Arc de Triomphe， the Champs Elysées sloped downward in a sun-powdered haze to the mist of fountains and the ethereal obelisk; and the currents of summer life ebbed and flowed with a normal beat under the trees of the radiating avenues. The great city， so made for peace and art and all humanist graces， seemed to lie by her river-side like a princess guarded by the watchful giant of the Eiffel Tower.
The next day the air was thundery with rumours. Nobody believed them， everybody repeated them. War？ Of course there couldn’t be war！ The Cabinets， like naughty children， were again dangling their feet over the edge; but the whole incalculable weight of things-as-they-were， of the daily necessary business of living， continued calmly and convincingly to assert itself against the bandying of diplomatic words. Paris went on steadily about her midsummer business of feeding， dressing， and amusing the great army of tourists who were the only invaders she had seen for nearly half a century.
All the while， every one knew that other work was going on also. The whole fabric of the country’s seemingly undisturbed routine was threaded with noiseless invisible currents of preparation， the sense of them was in the calm air as the sense of changing weather is in the balminess of a perfect afternoon. Paris counted the minutes till the evening papers came.
They said little or nothing except what every one was already declaring all over the country. “We don’t want war—mais il faut que cela finisse！1” “This kind of thing has got to stop”： that was the only phrase one heard. If diplomacy could still arrest the war， so much the better： no one in France wanted it. All who spent the first days of August in Paris will testify to the agreement of feeling on that point. But if war had to come， then the country， and every heart in it， was ready.
At the dressmaker’s， the next morning， the tired fitters were preparing to leave for their usual holidays. They looked pale and anxious—decidedly， there was a new weight of apprehension in the air. And in the rue Royale， at the corner of the Place de la Concorde， a few people had stopped to look at a little strip of white paper against the wall of the Ministère de la Marine. “General mobilization” they read—and an armed nation knows what that means. But the group about the paper was small and quiet. Passers-by read the notice and went on. There were no cheers， no gesticulations： the dramatic sense of the race had already told them that the event was too great to be dramatized. Like a monstrous landslide it had fallen across the path of an orderly laborious nation， disrupting its routine， annihilating its industries， rending families apart， and burying under a heap of senseless ruin the patiently and painfully wrought machinery of civilization. 1914年7月30日，我们从普瓦捷驱车北上，在路边一块田地旁的苹果树下用午餐。我们的左右两旁也是连片的田野，分别延伸至林地的边缘和一座乡村尖顶教堂。正午时分，周遭一片寂静，淡雅严整的风景，在旅行者记忆中往往会唤起一种特有的法兰西印象。即使惯看这风景的人，有时候也会觉得这些分割整齐的田地和排列紧凑的灰白村落过于单调乏味。而另一些时候，敏锐的想象力又让人从每一块青草茂盛的草皮甚至每一道犁沟中看到忠诚于土地的一代代人生生不息的警醒和眷恋。我们眼前这一小片风景就是这种眷恋的极好诠释。空气中似乎弥漫着人类劳作的漫长回响，那是周而复始的农忙节奏。从早晨开始，开战传言便压在我们心头，而这宁静祥和的风景让人不禁对那传言一笑置之。
一整天，天空堆积着雷雨云，但将近四点我们抵达沙特尔时，阴云已消散在地平线下，整个市镇完全沐浴在阳光中，步入大教堂就像走进一座西班牙的幽暗教堂。一开始，所有细节都看不见：我们仿佛置身于空洞的黑夜之中。然后，阴影渐渐收窄、聚拢并上移至扶垛、拱顶和肋架，那里突然迸洒大片大片或星星点点的色彩。在这深度黑暗的包裹中，在仲夏烈日的浸染下，原本熟悉的高窗变得似乎异常遥远，却又生动到令人震撼。它们忽而变宽，仿若水池岸边一片黯淡，但池中洒满夕阳;忽而金光闪烁，像战斗天使们手中盾牌逼近时那般耀眼。有的是一道道蓝宝石瀑布，有的是从圣徒短袍上掉落的朵朵玫瑰，有的是镶着天国徽纹的雕花大淺盘，还有的是朝着紫色群岛行进的大帆船;西墙上，玫瑰花窗上散落的火焰就像非洲夜空里的璀璨群星。当我们将视线从这些谐美之物移开，其下大量的砖石都笼在一层黑雾之中，圣坛上的几盏灯光将它刺破，似乎象征着世间的生命，有其阴影，有其沉重的距离，有其幻想的座座小岛。一座大教堂能承载的所有一切，能表达的所有意义，能为灵魂注入的所有安宁之力，能为力与美的昭示增添的所有丰富细节，沙特尔大教堂都在那样一个完美时刻为我们呈现。
我们到达巴黎城门时已是日落时分。在圣克卢和叙雷讷高大建筑的映衬下，塞纳河之波闪烁着若蓝若粉的光彩，就像莫奈早期的作品。在我们的周围，布洛涅林苑安卧在假日傍晚的寂静中，巴加泰勒公园的草地像六月一般清新。凯旋门下，香榭丽舍大街斜斜向下，在金粉般的暮霭中伸向水雾笼罩的喷泉和直插云霄的方尖碑。各条大道由中心向外伸展，路边树下，夏日生活的洪流以其正常的节奏起起落落。这座为和平和艺术以及所有人文之美而生的伟大城市，此刻就像一个公主，在埃菲尔铁塔这个警觉巨人的守卫下，静静躺卧在她的河岸上。
第二天，传言四起。没有人相信，但人们口口相传。战争？当然不可能爆发战争！那些内阁阁员就像顽皮的孩子，又在悬崖边吊甩双脚;但是，“一切照旧”的想法、必不可少的日常营生有着不可估量的分量，继续抗拒着外交辞令的喧嚣，平静而让人信服。巴黎有条不紊地继续着仲夏时节的工作——为旅游大军提供衣食和娱乐，这些人是她在近半个世纪里见过的唯一“入侵者”。
与此同时，每个人都知道其他的工作也在继续。这个国家表面风平浪静、诸事如常，其间穿插着悄无声息的备战潜流。平静的气氛中能嗅出这种味道，就像一个风和日丽的完美午后让人隐约觉得就要变天。巴黎数着分秒等待晚报上市。
报纸上没有什么新消息，有的只是全国上下每个人都已发出的宣言。“我们不想打仗——mais il faut que cela finisse！”“这种事该结束了”——人们听到的只有这句话。如果外交还能制止战争，那更好：在法国，没人想要战争。所有八月初在巴黎的人都可以证明这样一种情绪的共鸣。但要是战争非来不可，那这个国家连同每一个国民，也都准备好了。
第二天早晨，裁缝店里疲倦的试衣裁缝们正准备离店，例行休假。他们看上去苍白、不安——空气中明显增添了一份沉沉的忧虑。在皇家路上，协和广场的拐角处，几个人停下来看海军部墙上张贴的一小张白纸。上面写着“总动员”——一个已经武装的国家知道它的意思。但是围观的人不多，而且沉默不语。路过的人读完后继续前行。没有欢呼，没有手势：这个民族的戏剧直觉已经告诉他们，兹事体大，不可儿戏。战争已经降临，就像一场巨大的山崩地陷，阻断了一个勤劳有序的民族前行的道路，扰乱它的日常，摧毁它的工业，造成家庭离散，将历尽艰辛、精心打造的文明制度埋葬在一堆无意义的废墟之下。
（译者单位：北京语言大学）