The Man Who Laughs. Victor Hugo

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      "We have no pilot."

      "Stand to the tiller yourself."

      "We have lost the tiller."

      "Let's rig one out of the first beam we can lay hands on. Nails – a hammer – quick – some tools."

      "The carpenter's box is overboard, we have no tools."

      "We'll steer all the same, no matter where."

      "The rudder is lost."

      "Where is the boat? We'll get in and row."

      "The boat is lost."

      "We'll row the wreck."

      "We have lost the oars."

      "We'll sail."

      "We have lost the sails and the mast."

      "We'll rig one up with a pole and a tarpaulin for sail Let's get clear of this and trust in the wind."

      "There is no wind."

      The wind, indeed, had left them, the storm had fled; and its departure, which they had believed to mean safety, meant, in fact, destruction. Had the sou'-wester continued it might have driven them wildly on some shore – might have beaten the leak in speed – might, perhaps, have carried them to some propitious sandbank, and cast them on it before the hooker foundered. The swiftness of the storm, bearing them away, might have enabled them to reach land; but no more wind, no more hope. They were going to die because the hurricane was over.

      The end was near!

      Wind, hail, the hurricane, the whirlwind – these are wild combatants that may be overcome; the storm can be taken in the weak point of its armour; there are resources against the violence which continually lays itself open, is off its guard, and often hits wide. But nothing is to be done against a calm; it offers nothing to the grasp of which you can lay hold.

      The winds are a charge of Cossacks: stand your ground and they disperse. Calms are the pincers of the executioner.

      The water, deliberate and sure, irrepressible and heavy, rose in the hold, and as it rose the vessel sank – it was happening slowly.

      Those on board the wreck of the Matutina felt that most hopeless of catastrophes – an inert catastrophe undermining them. The still and sinister certainty of their fate petrified them. No stir in the air, no movement on the sea. The motionless is the inexorable. Absorption was sucking them down silently. Through the depths of the dumb waters – without anger, without passion, not willing, not knowing, not caring – the fatal centre of the globe was attracting them downwards. Horror in repose amalgamating them with itself. It was no longer the wide open mouth of the sea, the double jaw of the wind and the wave, vicious in its threat, the grin of the waterspout, the foaming appetite of the breakers – it was as if the wretched beings had under them the black yawn of the infinite.

      They felt themselves sinking into Death's peaceful depths. The height between the vessel and the water was lessening – that was all. They could calculate her disappearance to the moment. It was the exact reverse of submersion by the rising tide. The water was not rising towards them; they were sinking towards it. They were digging their own grave. Their own weight was their sexton.

      They were being executed, not by the law of man, but by the law of things.

      The snow was falling, and as the wreck was now motionless, this white lint made a cloth over the deck and covered the vessel as with a winding-sheet.

      The hold was becoming fuller and deeper – no means of getting at the leak. They struck a light and fixed three or four torches in holes as best they could. Galdeazun brought some old leathern buckets, and they tried to bale the hold out, standing in a row to pass them from hand to hand; but the buckets were past use, the leather of some was unstitched, there were holes in the bottoms of the others, and the buckets emptied themselves on the way. The difference in quantity between the water which was making its way in and that which they returned to the sea was ludicrous – for a ton that entered a glassful was baled out; they did not improve their condition. It was like the expenditure of a miser, trying to exhaust a million, halfpenny by halfpenny.

      The chief said, "Let us lighten the wreck."

      During the storm they had lashed together the few chests which were on deck. These remained tied to the stump of the mast. They undid the lashings and rolled the chests overboard through a breach in the gunwale. One of these trunks belonged to the Basque woman, who could not repress a sigh.

      "Oh, my new cloak lined with scarlet! Oh, my poor stockings of birchen-bark lace! Oh, my silver ear-rings to wear at mass on May Day!"

      The deck cleared, there remained the cabin to be seen to. It was greatly encumbered; in it were, as may be remembered, the luggage belonging to the passengers, and the bales belonging to the sailors. They took the luggage, and threw it over the gunwale. They carried up the bales and cast them into the sea.

      Thus they emptied the cabin. The lantern, the cap, the barrels, the sacks, the bales, and the water-butts, the pot of soup, all went over into the waves.

      They unscrewed the nuts of the iron stove, long since extinguished: they pulled it out, hoisted it on deck, dragged it to the side, and threw it out of the vessel.

      They cast overboard everything they could pull out of the deck – chains, shrouds, and torn rigging.

      From time to time the chief took a torch, and throwing its light on the figures painted on the prow to show the draught of water, looked to see how deep the wreck had settled down.

      CHAPTER XVIII.

      THE HIGHEST RESOURCE

      The wreck being lightened, was sinking more slowly, but none the less surely.

      The hopelessness of their situation was without resource – without mitigation; they had exhausted their last expedient.

      "Is there anything else we can throw overboard?"

      The doctor, whom every one had forgotten, rose from the companion, and said,

      "Yes."

      "What?" asked the chief.

      The doctor answered, "Our Crime."

      They shuddered, and all cried out, —

      "Amen."

      The doctor standing up, pale, raised his hand to heaven, saying, —

      "Kneel down."

      They wavered – to waver is the preface to kneeling down.

      The doctor went on, —

      "Let us throw our crimes into the sea, they weigh us down; it is they that are sinking the ship. Let us think no more of safety – let us think of salvation. Our last crime, above all, the crime which we committed, or rather completed, just now – O wretched beings who are listening to me – it is that which is overwhelming us. For those who leave intended murder behind them, it is an impious insolence to tempt the abyss. He who sins against a child, sins against God. True, we were obliged to put to sea, but it was certain perdition. The storm, warned by the shadow of our crime, came on. It is well. Regret nothing, however. There, not far off in the СКАЧАТЬ