LESSON 93

SURRENDER OF GRANADA

格兰纳达的投降

Sir Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, 1806-1873, was born in Norfolk County, England. His father died when he was young; his mother was a woman of strong literary tastes, and did much to form her son’s mind. In 1844, by royal license, he took the surname of Lytton from his mother’s family. Bulwer graduated at Cambridge. He began to publish in 1826, and his novels and plays followed rapidly. “Pelham,” “The Caxtons,” “My Novel,” “What will he do with it?” and “Kenelm Chillingly” are among the best known of his numerous novels; and “The Lady of Lyons” and “Richelieu” are his most successful plays. His novels are extensively read on the continent, and have been translated into most of the languages spoken there. “Leila, or the Siege of Granada,” from which this selection is adapted, was published in 1840.

Day dawned upon Granada, and the beams of the winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played cheerily on the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro. Alone, upon a balcony commanding a view of the beautiful landscape, stood Boabdil, the last of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had cultivated.

“What are we,” thought the musing prince, “that we should fill the world with ourselves—we kings? Earth resounds with the crash of my falling throne; on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged. But what have I lost? Nothing that was necessary to my happiness, my repose: nothing save the source of all my wretchedness, the Marah of my life! Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth, or thought or action, or man’s more material luxuries of food or sleep—the common and the cheap desires of all? Arouse thee, then, O heart within me! Many and deep emotions of sorrow or of joy are yet left to break the monotony of existence. . . . But it is time to depart.” So saying, he descended to the court, flung himself on his barb, and, with a small and saddened train, passed through the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines and ivy; thence, amidst gardens now appertaining to the convent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and unwitnessed way.

When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens, the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him, as the detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence. At the head of this vanguard, rode, upon a snow-white palfrey, the Bishop of Avila, followed by a long train of barefooted monks. They halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel and inferior. With the quick sense of dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt, but resented not, the pride of the ecclesiastic. “Go, Christian,” said he, mildly, “the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king; may his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil!” So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on without looking to the right or the left. The Spaniards also pursued their way.

The sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole armament of Spain; and at the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse or the clash of arms, was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deum, which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself still silent, heard the groans and exclamations of his train; he turned to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watchtower, with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe; while beside that badge of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of St. Iago, the canonized Mars of the chivalry of Spain. At that sight the King’s voice died within him; he gave the rein to his barb, impatient to close the fatal ceremonial, and did not slacken his speed till almost within bowshot of the first ranks of the army.

Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and imposing aspect. Far as the eye could reach, extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power, bristling with sunlit spears and blazoned banners; while beside, murmured, and glowed, and danced, the silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower of the army. Surrounded by the archpriests of that mighty hierarchy, the peers and princes of a court that rivaled the Rolands of Charlemagne, was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand himself, with Isabel at his right hand, and the highborn dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colors and sparkling gems, the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and polished mail. Within sight of the royal group, Boabdil halted, composed his aspect so as best to conceal his soul, and, a little in advance of his scanty train, but never in mien and majesty more a king, the son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror.

At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and commanding beauty, made more touching by youth, a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair. Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival,—their new subject; and, as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Brother and prince,” said he, “forget thy sorrows; and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses, against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king—resisting man, but resigned at length to God.”

Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment, He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent; then motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city. “O king!” then said Boabdil, “accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain! The empire of the Moslem is no more. Thine are the city and the people of Granada; yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy.” “They do well,” said the king; “our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Granada be surrendered.”

Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the Moor was the first to break.

“Fair queen,” said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, “thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues; this is thy last, nor least glorious conquest. But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell.” “Farewell, my brother,” replied Ferdinand, “and may fair fortune go with you! Forget the past!” Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.

Boabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife, Amine—sent on before—awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path. They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and the towers of Granada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye.

Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel, and rolled along the sunlit valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from the exiles; it smote,—it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles; and that place where the king wept is still called The Last Sigh of the Moor.

【中文阅读】

黎明光临格拉纳达，冬日阳光露出笑脸，驱散了昨晚的乌云，在塞尼尔和达罗低沉的波浪上欢快地倾泻着。摩尔人末代国王倚着一览美丽风景的阳台，他绞尽脑汁想从自己培养的所有哲学经验中寻求帮助。

“难道，”陷于沉思的王子想道，“我们应该用自我来充实这个世界——我们国王？大地传来我的宝座倾覆的回声；在未诞生的庶民耳畔，这种回声会延长。可是，我失去什么了吗？对我的幸福和我的安宁而言，没有什么是必不可少的。没有什么能避免导致我陷于悲惨境地的所有因素，我生命的苦井啊！天与地，思想和行动，或者人对口福之享和安然入睡更多的欲求，这些普遍和廉价的欲望都不会给我欢乐吗？你醒醒吧，我的心与我同在！许多悲哀或欢乐的深沉情感听任打破生存的单调……可是，是时候离开了。”说话间，他信步来到庭院，冲向自己的非洲马，赶着一辆很小颜色深暗的车，穿过我们凭一座黑魆魆的残破高塔眺望到的大门，那里长着齐人高的葡萄树和常青藤；在那些花园中间，女修道院就标志着胜利者的信念，他悲伤地悄然离去。

当他来到耸立于这些花园之上的山丘中央时，随着派去占领王宫的分遣队行至山丘顶端，悄无声息地严阵以待，西班牙钢盔反射出的光芒映在他脸上。在这支先头部队的前头，在雪白的小马上扬鞭的是阿维拉主教，后面跟着一长列赤足的僧侣。在鲍勃迪尔走近时，他们停下脚步，神情严肃的主教用一种对异教徒和下级训话的口吻同他打招呼。很快意识到对大人物来说很普遍的庄严，鲍勃迪尔觉得对阵亡者来说这种尊严更为重要，因此没有对这位神职人员的傲慢显示出愤怒之色。“走开，基督徒，”他口气温和地说，“摩尔人豪华宫殿的大门正敞开着呢，安拉已经将宫殿和这座城市赐给你们国王；但愿他的美德能弥补鲍勃迪尔的过错！”说了这话后，未及回答就直愣愣地策马飞奔。西班牙人也追击而去。

鲍勃迪尔和他的队伍举目观望，群山之上太阳已经升得很高。从他们所在的山丘看去，全都是西班牙的武器装备。与此同时，比战马脚步声和武器的叮当声更响亮的，却是感恩赞美诗的庄严歌声，前面是高高的火焰。鲍勃迪尔听到他的队伍发出呻吟和欢呼声后，仍旧保持沉默。稍后，他开始冲他们大叫或叱骂，从他自己的瞭望塔透过阳光在它纯净和炫目的表面的反光，看到西班牙的银十字架。他的摩尔人豪华宫殿已经落入敌人手中；除了圣战的标记，高高飘扬的圣伊阿古欢快和炫耀的旗帜外，就是被册封为圣徒的西班牙骑士战神。见此情景，国王的声音渐渐隐去；他将缰绳放到倒钩上，对中止这场灾难性的仪式表示不耐烦，为此没有放慢速度，直到几乎走进军队第一排的箭程之内。

绝对没有人猜测到基督徒的战争有更光辉、更庄严的一面。在目力所及的远方，象征强大势力的闪闪发光和非常漂亮的队列线条蜿蜒前伸，在阳光照耀下令人目炫的矛和镶嵌着纹章的旗帜直立着。一身银白色装束的科塞尼尔低语着，脸上红了起来，开始手舞足蹈，全然不顾君主应有的威严，嘲笑被无休止行军湮没的河堤。一个小小的清真寺挡住了大军的精锐。被居于领导地位的主牧师围拢着的，是堪与查理曼大帝的将士匹敌的宫廷贵族和王子们，从费迪南德右手的伊莎贝尔可见他国王高贵的身份，还有西班牙出身名门的夫人们，这从她们欢快的样子和佩戴的闪闪发光的宝石，有顶饰的头盔和精致的铠甲能看出她们的身份。一见这些王室人员，鲍勃迪尔马上喝停战马，镇定心神以便掩饰自己的思绪。他站在自己人数不多的队伍前面一点，不过在仪态和庄严上绝对不会盖过一位国王，阿卜达拉赫的儿子面见他傲慢的征服者。

一见他国君般的仪表和金色头发，他那朴实无华和威严的美，使得他更为年轻人所感动，一股发自内心的钦佩传遍那个由勇敢和公正组成的集体。费迪南德和伊莎贝尔缓步上前来见他们后来的对手——他们的新臣民。鲍勃迪尔刚一下马，西班牙国王便将手搭在他肩膀上。“我的兄弟和王子，”他说，“忘掉那些悲伤吧；但愿我们的友谊从此以后能抚平你像英雄和国王那样抗争所带来的创伤——奋力抵抗的勇士，终究会在上帝面前放弃的。”

鲍勃迪尔没有假装对这种难以接受和言不由衷的恭维表示还礼。他低下头，沉默片刻；稍后，他示意自己的队伍，四名属下走上近前，在费迪南德旁边跪倒，向他奉上一个银圆盾——这座城市的钥匙。“国王万岁！”鲍勃迪尔说，“请笑纳抵抗西班牙军队的最后一座要塞的钥匙！从此，伊斯兰帝国不复存在了。您是这座城市和格拉纳达人民的主人；他们慑服于您的勇敢无畏，吐露了您的仁慈。”“他们做得很对，”国王说。“我们的诺言不会背弃。但是，因为我们晓得摩尔人骑士的勇敢不是冲我们，向我们伸出的是有更礼貌的双手，所以格拉纳达的钥匙才会交到我的手上。”

说话间，费迪南德将钥匙递给伊莎贝尔，伊莎贝尔本想对鲍勃迪尔说几句令其宽心的奉承话，不过对富有怜悯之心的她而言激情和兴奋都太过了，尽管她是女英雄和王后。当她的目光落在倒下的君主那平静和苍白的脸上时，眼泪难以抑制地夺眶而出，喃喃低语着。见此情景，鲍勃迪尔一阵面红耳赤，短暂的尴尬过后，还是摩尔人率先打破沉默。

“公正的王后，”他开口道，语气中透着悲痛和凄惨的庄重，“您能读懂你慷慨的同情所触及并使之缓和下来的那颗心灵。这是您最后但不是最少的辉煌的征服。但是，我耽搁了您。希望我的冒昧不会使您的胜利显得暗淡。请宽恕我对您说声再见。”“再见，我的兄弟，”费迪南德答道。“但愿幸运女神保佑你！忘掉过去吧！”闻听此言，鲍勃迪尔苦涩地一笑，向国王表示深切和无声的敬意，缓缓上马，与军队作别，踏上了阿尔普哈拉斯通往新公国的大道。从国王的视野看去，树木遮住了摩尔人的骑兵队，费迪南德下令军队重新开始前进；此时，穆斯林教徒耳畔传来喇叭和钹的乐声。

鲍勃迪尔策马疾奔，直到气喘吁吁的战马在小村庄停下，他的母亲、他的奴隶和他忠实的妻子阿米妮在这里等他。与他们见面后，他没有耽搁便踏上令他悲伤的路程。他们登上那座山丘，从这里可以进入阿尔普哈拉斯。从山丘顶端望去，山谷、河流、教堂的尖顶和格拉纳达的钟楼一览无余。他们突然盲目地停下来。大家的目光一齐被眼前这迷人的景象吸引住了。为难的勇士们那羞愧难当的神色，每个人心里潜藏许久的对家人、孩子、故土的思念之情，一股脑地从每个人的眼神中流露出来。

突然，从远处城堡传来大炮的轰鸣声，漫过阳光明媚的山谷和晶莹剔透的河水。这些背井离乡的人爆出一片哀鸣。这一景象抽打着这位不幸的国王那颗心，令其不堪忍受，他徒劳地企图使自己沉浸在东方式的荣誉或斯多葛哲学信条之中。泪水夺眶而出，他禁不住用手捂住双颊。这伙人慢慢迂回着穿过僻静的峡谷。这个地方被还在哭泣的国王称为“荒野最后一道风景”。