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

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 stone ones there. He was no longer in the village; he was in the city.

At Melcombe Regis, as at Weymouth, no one was stirring. The doors were all carefully locked. The windows were covered by their shutters, as the eyes by their lids.

There, by chance and without selection, he knocked violently at any house that he happened to pass. Nobody answered.

The child felt the coldness of men more terribly than the coldness of night. The coldness of men is intentional.

He set out again. But now he no longer walked; he dragged himself along. The houses ended there. He perceived the sea to the right. What was to become of him? Here was the country again. Should he continue this journey? Should he return and re-enter the streets? What was he to do between those two silences – the mute plain and the deaf city?

MEETING SOMEONE

All at once he heard a menace. A strange and alarming grinding of teeth reached him through the darkness. He advanced. To those to whom silence has become dreadful a howl is comforting.

He advanced in the direction whence came the snarl. He turned the corner of a wall, and he saw a shelter. It was a cart, unless it was a hovel. It had wheels – it was a carriage. It had a roof – it was a dwelling. From the roof arose a funnel, and out of the funnel smoke. This smoke was red. He approached.

The growl became furious. It was no longer a growl; it was a roar. He heard a sharp sound. At the same time a head was put through the window.

“Peace there!” said the head.

The mouth was silent. The head began again, -

“Is anyone there?”

The child answered, -

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I.”

“You? Who are you? whence do you come?”

“I am weary,” said the child.

“What time is it?”

“I am cold.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I am hungry.”

The head replied, -

“Everyone cannot be as happy as a lord. Go away.”

The head was withdrawn and the window closed.

The child bowed his forehead, drew the sleeping infant closer in his arms, and collected his strength to resume his journey. He had taken a few steps.

However, at the same time that the window closed the door had opened. The voice which had spoken to the child cried out angrily from the inside of the van, -

“Well! why do you not enter?”

The child turned back.

“Come in,” resumed the voice. “Who has sent me a fellow like this, who is hungry and cold, and who does not come in?”

The child remained motionless.

The voice continued, -

“Come in, you young rascal.”

He placed one foot on the lowest step. There was a great growl under the van. He drew back. The gaping jaws appeared.

“Peace!” cried the voice of the man.

The jaws retreated, the growling ceased.

“Come up!” continued the man.

The child with difficulty climbed up the three steps. He passed over the three steps; and having reached the threshold, stopped.

No candle was burning in the caravan. The hut was lighted only by a red tinge, arising from the stove, in which sparkled a peat fire. On the stove were smoking a porringer and a saucepan, containing something to eat. The savoury odour was perceptible. The hut was furnished with a chest, a stool, and an unlighted lantern which hung from the ceiling. On the boards and nails were rows of glasses, coppers, an alembic, a vessel, and a confusion of strange objects of which the child understood nothing, and which were utensils for cooking and chemistry. The caravan was oblong in shape. It was not even a little room; it was scarcely a big box. Everything in the caravan was indistinct and misty. Nevertheless, a reflection of the fire on the ceiling enabled the spectator to read in large letters, – Ursus, Philosopher.

The child, in fact, was entering the house of Homo and Ursus. The one was growling, the other speaking.

“Come in!” said the man, who was Ursus.

The child entered.

“Put down your bundle.”

The child placed his burden carefully on the top of the chest. The man continued, -

“How gently you put it down! Worthless vagabond! In the streets at this hour! Who are you? Answer! But no. I forbid you to answer. There! You are cold. Warm yourself as quick as you can,” and he shoved him by the shoulders in front of the fire.

“How wet you are! You’re frozen through! A nice state to come into a house! Come, take off those rags, you villain! Here are clothes.”

He chose out of a heap a woollen rag, and chafed before the fire the limbs of the exhausted and bewildered child. The man wiped the boy’s feet.

“Come, you rascal. Dress yourself!”

The child put on the shirt, and the man slipped the knitted jacket over it.

“Now…”

The man kicked the stool forward. Then he pointed with his finger to the porringer which was smoking upon the stove. The child saw a potato and a bit of bacon.

“You are hungry; eat!”

The man took from the shelf a crust of hard bread and an iron fork, and handed them to the child.

The boy hesitated.

“Perhaps you expect me to lay the cloth,” said the man, and he placed the porringer on the child’s lap.

Hunger overcame astonishment. The child began to eat. The poor boy devoured rather than ate. The man grumbled, -

“Not so quick, you horrid glutton! Isn’t he a greedy scoundrel? In my time I have seen dukes eat. They don’t eat; that’s noble. They drink, however. Come, you pig!”

The boy did not hear. He was absorbed by food and warmth. Ursus continued his imprecations, muttering to himself, -

“I have seen King James in the Banqueting House. His Majesty touched nothing. This beggar here eats like a horse. Why did I come to this Weymouth? I have sold nothing since morning. I have played the flute to the hurricane. I have not pocketed a farthing; and now, tonight, beggars drop in. Horrid place! Well, today I’ve made nothing. Not an idiot on the highway, not a penny in the till. Eat away, hell-born boy! Fatten at my expense, parasite! This wretched boy is more than hungry; he is mad. It is not appetite, it is ferocity. He is carried away by a rabid virus. Perhaps he has the plague. Have you the plague, you thief? Let the populace die, but not my wolf. But I am hungry myself. I had but one potato, one crust of bread, a mouthful of bacon, and a drop of milk. I said to myself, ‘Good.’ I think I am going to eat, and bang! This crocodile falls upon me at the very moment. He installs himself between my food and myself. Behold, how my larder is devastated! Eat, pike, eat! You shark! How many teeth have you in your jaws? Guzzle, wolf-cub. I respect wolves. Swallow up my food, boa. I have worked all day, and far into the night, on an empty stomach; my throat is sore, my pancreas in distress, my entrails torn; and my reward is to see another eat. We will divide. He shall have the bread, the potato, and the bacon; but I will have the milk.”

Just then a wail, touching and prolonged, arose in the hut. The man listened.

“You cry, sycophant! Why do you cry?”

The boy turned towards him. It was evident that it was not he who cried. He had his mouth full.

The cry continued. The man went to the chest.

“So it is your bundle that wails! What the devil…”

He unrolled the jacket. An infant’s head appeared.

“Well, who is there?” said the man. “Here is another of them. Who is there? To arms!^[24] Corporal, call out the guard! What have you brought me, thief! Don’t you see it is thirsty? Come! The little one must have a drink. So now I shall not have even the milk!”

He took a sponge and a phial, muttering savagely,

“What an infernal place!”

Then he looked at the little infant.

“This is a girl! One can tell that by her scream.”

He swathed her in a rag, which was clean and dry. This rough and sudden dressing made the infant angry.

“She mews relentlessly,” said he.

He bit off a long piece of sponge, tore from the roll a square piece of linen, drew from it a bit of thread, took the saucepan containing the milk from the stove, filled the phial with milk, drove down the sponge halfway into its neck, covered the sponge with linen, tied this cork in with the thread, and seized under his left arm the bewildered bundle which was still crying.

“Come! take your supper, creature!” and he put the neck of the bottle to its mouth.

The little infant drank greedily.

He held the phial, grumbling,

“They are all the same, the cowards! When they have all they want they are silent.”

The little boy lifted towards Ursus his eyes moist with the unspeakable emotion. Ursus addressed him furiously.

“Well, will you eat?”

“And you?” said the child, trembling, and with tears in his eyes. “You will have nothing!”

“Will you be kind enough to eat it all up, you cub? There is not too much for you, since there was not enough for me.”

The child took up his fork, but did not eat.

“Eat!” shouted Ursus. “Who speaks of me? Wretched little barefooted clerk of Penniless Parish, I tell you, eat it all up! You are here to eat, drink, and sleep – eat, or I will kick you out, both of you!”

The boy, under this menace, began to eat again. Ursus was half seated on the chest. The infant in his arms, and at the same time on his lap, was sucking rapturously at the bottle. Ursus grumbled, -

“Drunkenness begins in the infant in swaddling clothes. What an odious draught of wind! And then my stove is old. One has the inconvenience of cold, and the inconvenience of fire. One cannot see clearly. That rascal abuses my hospitality, indeed. Well, I have not distinguished the animal’s face yet. I have missed my vocation. I was born to be a sensualist. The greatest of stoics was Philoxenus, who wished to possess the neck of a crane, so as to enjoy the pleasures of the table longer. Nothing sold all day. Inhabitants, servants, and tradesmen, here is the doctor, here are the drugs. You are losing your time, old friend. Pack up your medicines. Everyone is well down here. It’s a cursed town, where everyone is well! The skies alone have diarrhoea – what snow! Anaxagoras taught that the snow was black; and he was right, cold being blackness. Ice is night. What a hurricane! The hurricane is the passage of demons. In the meantime, you have eaten my supper, you thief!”

In the meantime the infant whom he was holding all the time in his arms very tenderly whilst he was vituperating, shut its eyes languidly. Ursus examined the phial, and grumbled, -

“She has drunk it all up, the impudent creature!”

He arose, and sustaining the infant with his left arm, with his right he raised the lid of the chest and drew from beneath it a bear-skin. Whilst he was doing this he heard the other child eating, and looked at him sideways.

“I have to feed that growing glutton.”

He spread out the bear-skin on the chest. Then he laid the baby down on the fur, on the side next the fire. He placed the phial on the stove, and exclaimed, -

“I’m thirsty!”

He looked into the pot. There were a few good mouthfuls of milk left in it. His eye fell on the little girl. He replaced the pot on the stove, took the phial, uncorked it, poured into it all the milk that remained, which was just sufficient to fill it, replaced the sponge and the linen rag over it, and tied it round the neck of the bottle.

“All the same, I’m hungry and thirsty,” he observed. “When one cannot eat bread, one must drink water.”

Behind the stove there was a jug. He took it and handed it to the boy.

“Will you drink?”

The child drank, and then went on eating. Ursus seized the pitcher again. He swallowed some mouthfuls and made a grimace.

“Water! You are warm at the top and cold at bottom.”

In the meantime the boy had finished his supper. The porringer was more than empty; it was cleaned out. Ursus turned towards the boy.

“That is not all. The mouth is not made only for eating; it is made for speaking. Now you are going to answer my questions. Whence do you come?”

The child replied, -

“I do not know.”

“How do you mean? you don’t know?”

“I was abandoned this evening on the sea-shore.”

“You little scamp! What’s your name? He is so good for nothing that his relations desert him.”

“I have no relations.”

“I do not like those who tell lies. You must have relatives since you have a sister.”

“It is not my sister.”

“It is not your sister?”

“No.”

“Who is it then?”

“It is a baby that I found.”

“Found?”

“Yes.”

“What! did you pick her up?”

“Yes.”

“Where? If you lie I will exterminate you.”

“On the breast of a woman who was dead in the snow.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“Where?”

“A league from here.”

“Dead! Lucky for her! We must leave her in the snow. She is well off there. In which direction?”

“In the direction of the sea.”

“Did you cross the bridge?”

“Yes.”

Ursus opened the window at the back and examined the view. The weather had not improved. The snow was falling thickly and mournfully. He shut the window.

Ursus took a large book which he had in a corner, placed it under the skin for a pillow, and laid the head of the sleeping infant on it. Then he turned to the boy.

“Lie down there.”

The boy obeyed, and stretched himself at full length by the side of the infant. Ursus rolled the bear-skin over the two children, and tucked it under their feet.

Then he took the lantern and lighted it. Ursus half opened the door, and said, -

“I am going out; do not be afraid. I shall return. Go to sleep.”

Then he called Homo. Homo answered by a loving growl. Ursus, holding the lantern in his hand, descended. The door was closed. The children remained alone. From without, a voice, the voice of Ursus, said, -

“You, boy, who have just eaten up my supper, are you already asleep?”

“No,” replied the child.

“Well, if she cries, give her the rest of the milk.”

A few minutes after, both children slept profoundly.