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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ