Человек, который смеется / The Man Who Laughs. Уровень 4. Виктор Мари Гюго

we are going to die.”

      All knelt down. They knelt. They had but a few minutes more.

      The wreck was going down. As it sank, the old man murmured the prayer. For an instant his shoulders were above water, then his head, then nothing remained but his arm holding up the flask.

      The snow continued falling. One thing floated, and was carried by the waves into the darkness. It was the tarred flask.

      THE CHILD IN THE SHADOW

      The storm was no less severe on land than on sea. The same wild enfranchisement of the elements had taken place around the abandoned child. On the land there was but little wind. There was an inexplicable dumbness in the cold. There was no hail. The thickness of the falling snow was fearful. The child continued to advance into the mist. The child was fighting against unknown dangers. He did not hesitate. He went round the rocks, avoided the crevices, guessed at the pitfalls, obeyed the twistings and turnings caused by such obstacles, yet he went on. Though unable to advance in a straight line, he walked with a firm step. When necessary, he drew back with energy. He was still tormented by hunger.

      He was saved from the isthmus; but he found himself again face to face with the tempest, with the cold, with the night. Before him once more lay the plain, shapeless in the density of impenetrable shadow. He examined the ground, seeking a footpath. Suddenly he bent down. He had discovered, in the snow, something. It was a track – the print of a foot. He examined it. It was a naked foot; too small for that of a man, too large for that of a child.

      It was probably the foot of a woman. Beyond that mark was another, then another, then another. The footprints followed each other at the distance of a step. They were still fresh, and slightly covered with little snow.

      This woman was walking in the direction in which the child had seen the smoke. With his eyes fixed on the footprints, he set himself to follow them.

      He journeyed some time along this course. Unfortunately the footprints were becoming less and less distinct. Dense and fearful was the falling of the snow.

      Suddenly, whether the snow had filled them up or for some other reason, the footsteps ceased. There was now nothing but a white cloth drawn over the earth and a black one over the sky. The child, in despair, bent down and searched; but in vain.

      As he arose he had a sensation of hearing some indistinct sound, but he could not be sure of it. It resembled a voice, a breath, a shadow. It was more human than animal. It was a sound, but the sound of a dream.

      He looked, but saw nothing. He listened. Nothing. He still listened. All was silent. There was illusion in the mist.

      He went on his way again. He walked forward at random[21], with nothing henceforth to guide him.

      As he moved away the noise began again. It was a groan, almost a sob.

      He turned. He searched the darkness of space with his eyes. He saw nothing. The sound arose once more.

      Nothing so penetrating, so piercing, so feeble as the voice – for it was a voice. It was an appeal of suffering. The child fixed his attention everywhere, far, near, on high, below. There was no one. There was nothing. He listened. The voice arose again. He perceived it distinctly. The sound somewhat resembled the bleating of a lamb.

      Then he was frightened. The groan again. This was the fourth time. It was strangely miserable and plaintive. The child approached in the direction from whence the sound came. Still he saw nothing. He advanced again, watchfully.

      The complaint continued. Inarticulate and confused as it was, it had become clear. The child was near the voice; but where was it?

      Suddenly he perceived in the snow at his feet, a few steps before him, a sort of undulation of the dimensions of a human body. At the same time the voice cried out. It was from beneath the undulation. The child bent down, crouching before the undulation, and with both his hands began to clear it away.

      Beneath the snow which he removed a form grew under his hands; and suddenly in the hollow he had made there appeared a pale face. The cry had not proceeded from that face. Its eyes were shut, and the mouth open but full of snow.

      It remained motionless; it stirred not under the hands of the child. The child, whose fingers were numbed with frost, shuddered when he touched its coldness. It was that of a woman. The woman was dead.

      The neck of the dead woman appeared; then her shoulders, clothed in rags. Suddenly he felt something move feebly under his touch. The child swiftly cleared away the snow, discovering a wretched little body. It was a little girl.

      The girl was five or six months old, but perhaps she might be a year. The child took the infant in his arms. The stiffened body of the mother was a fearful sight; a spectral light proceeded from her face.

      The deserted child had heard the cry of the dying child. He took the girl in his arms. When she felt herself in his arms she ceased crying. The faces of the two children touched each other. Her feet, hands, arms, knees, seemed paralyzed by cold. The boy felt the terrible chill. He placed the infant on the breast of the corpse, took off his jacket, wrapped the infant in it, took it up again in his arms, and now, almost naked, carrying the infant, he pursued his journey.

      It was little more than four hours since the boat had sailed from the creek of Portland, leaving the boy on the shore. The boy was exhausted by fatigue and hunger, yet advanced more resolutely than ever, with less strength and an added burden. He was now almost naked. The few rags which remained to him, hardened by the frost, were sharp as glass, and cut his skin. He became colder, but the infant was warmer. He continued to advance.

      The storm had become shapeless from its violence. He travelled under this north wind, still towards the east, over wide surfaces of snow. Two or three times the little infant cried. Then she ended by falling into a sound sleep[22]. Shivering himself, he felt her warm.

      The boy felt the approach of another danger. He could not afford to fall. He knew that if he did so he should never rise again. He was overcome by fatigue. But the slightest fall would be death; a false step opened for him a tomb. He must not slip. He had not strength to rise even to his knees.

      At length[23], he was near mankind. There was no longer anything to fear. It seemed to him that he had left all evil chances behind him. The infant was no longer a burden. He almost ran.

      His eyes were fixed on the roofs. There was life there. He never took his eyes off them. There were the chimneys of which he had seen the smoke.

      No smoke arose from them now. He came to the outskirts of a town. The street began by two houses. In those two houses neither candle nor lamp was to be seen; nor in the whole street; nor in the whole town, so far as eye could reach. The house to the right was a roof rather than a house.

      The house on the left was large, high, built entirely of stone, with a slated roof. It was also closed. It was the rich man’s home. The boy did not hesitate. He approached the great mansion. He raised the knocker with some difficulty. He knocked once. No answer. He struck again, and two knocks. No movement was heard in the house. He knocked a third time. There was no sound. He saw that they were all asleep, and did not care to get up.

      Then he turned to the hovel. He picked up a pebble from the snow, and knocked against the low door. There was no answer. He raised himself on tiptoe, and knocked with his pebble against the pane. No voice was heard; no step moved; no candle was lighted.

      He saw that there, as well, they did not care to awake. The house of stone and the thatched hovel were equally deaf to the wretched. The boy decided on pushing on further.

      It was Weymouth which he had just entered. Weymouth, a hamlet, was then the suburb of Melcombe Regis, a city and port. Now Melcombe Regis is a parish of Weymouth. The village has absorbed the city. It was the bridge which did the work.

      The boy went to the bridge. He crossed it. His bare feet had a moment’s comfort as they crossed them. He passed over the bridge, he was in Melcombe Regis. There were fewer wooden houses than

21

at random – наугад

22

sound sleep – крепкий сон

23

at length – наконец