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

© Матвеев С.А., 2022

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2022

Victor Hugo
The Man Who Laughs

URSUS

I

Ursus and Homo were friends. Ursus was a man, Homo a wolf. It was the man who had christened the wolf: probably he had also chosen his own name. Man and wolf were partners at fairs, at village holidays, at the corners of streets, where people were ready to listen to idle gossip and to buy quack medicine[1]. The wolf, gentle and courteously subordinate, diverted the crowd. It is a pleasant thing to behold the tameness of animals. Our greatest delight is to see all the varieties of domestication parade before us. This it is which collects so many folks on the road of royal processions.

Ursus and Homo went about from cross-road to cross-road, from country-side to country-side, from shire to shire, from town to town. One market exhausted, they went on to another. Ursus lived in a small van upon wheels, which Homo drew by day and guarded by night. On bad roads, up hills, and where there were too many ruts, or there was too much mud, the man pulled fraternally, side by side with the wolf. They had thus grown old together.

They encamped in the wood, on the waste patch of grass where roads intersect, at the outskirts of villages, at the gates of towns, in market-places, in public walks, on the borders of parks, before the entrances of churches. When the cart drew up on a fair, the curious made a circle round the pair, Ursus harangued and Homo approved. Homo, with a bowl in his mouth, politely made a collection among the audience. They gained their livelihood. The wolf was lettered, likewise the man. The wolf had been trained by the man, or had trained himself, to divers wolfish arts, which swelled the receipts.

“Above all things, do not degenerate into a man,” his friend used to say.

The wolf never bit: the man did now and then[2]. At least, to bite was the intent of Ursus. He was a misanthrope, and to italicize his misanthropy he had made himself a juggler. To live, also; for the stomach demanded something. Moreover, this juggler-misanthrope was a doctor. To be a doctor is little: Ursus was a ventriloquist. You heard him speak without his moving his lips. He counterfeited anyone’s accent or pronunciation. He imitated voices so exactly that you believed you heard the people themselves. All alone he simulated the murmur of a crowd, and this gave him a right to the title of Engastrimythos[3], which he took. He reproduced all sorts of cries of birds, as of the thrush, the wren, the pipit lark, otherwise called the gray cheeper, all travellers like himself. At times, he made you aware either of a public thoroughfare filled with the uproar of men, or of a meadow loud with the voices of beasts – at one time stormy as a multitude, at another fresh and serene as the dawn. Such gifts, although rare, exist. In the last century a man called Touzel, who imitated the mingled utterances of men and animals, and who counterfeited all the cries of beasts, was attached to the person of Buffon[4] – to serve as a menagerie.

Ursus was sagacious, contradictory, odd, and inclined to the fables. He read people’s hands, opened books at random and drew conclusions, told fortunes, taught that it is perilous to meet a black mare, still more perilous, as you start for a journey, to hear yourself accosted by one who knows not whither you are going; and he called himself a dealer in superstitions. He used to say:

“There is one difference between me and the Archbishop of Canterbury: I avow what I am.”

Hence the archbishop was justly indignant. But Ursus cleverly disarmed his grace by reciting a sermon he had composed upon Christmas Day. The archbishop pardoned Ursus.

As a doctor, Ursus wrought cures by some means or other. He used the hazel, the catkin, the white alder, the white bryony, the mealy-tree, the traveller’s joy, the buckthorn. He treated phthisis with the sundew. He cured sore throat by means of the vegetable excrescence called Jew’s ear. He knew the rush which cures the ox and the mint which cures the horse. He was well acquainted with the beauties and virtues of the herb mandragora. He had many recipes. He cured burns with the salamander wool. Ursus possessed a retort and a flask; he effected transmutations; he sold panaceas. He had once been for a short time in Bedlam; they had set him free because he was only a poet. This story was probably not true.

The fact is, Ursus was a savant, a man of taste, and a poet. He could compose Jesuit tragedies. He had peculiar figures of speech, and a whole family of classical metaphors. So much knowledge could only end in starvation. The school of Salerno says, “Eat little and often.” Ursus ate little and seldom.

Ursus used to say: “The wolf is comforted by its howl, the sheep by its wool, the forest by its finch, woman by her love, and the philosopher by his epiphonema.”

Ursus composed comedies, which he all acted; this helped to sell the drugs. Among other works, he composed a pastoral in honour of Sir Hugh Middleton.

Ursus was great in soliloquy. He was unsociable and talkative, desiring to see no one, yet wishing to converse with someone. So he talked to himself. It was, as is well known, a custom of Socrates; he declaimed to himself. Luther did the same. Ursus questioned himself, answered himself, praised himself, blamed himself. You heard him in the street soliloquizing in his van. The passers-by used to say: “He is an idiot.”

Fortunately Ursus had never gone into the Low Countries[5]. There they could certainly weigh him, to ascertain whether he was a sorcerer or not. Nothing was simpler or more ingenious. It was a clear test. They put you in a scale. Too heavy, you were hanged; too light, you were burned. The scales in which sorcerers were weighed are now used for weighing cheeses; how religion has degenerated! In his travels Ursus kept away from Holland, and he did well. Indeed, we believe that he never left the United Kingdom.

However he was very poor and morose. He had taken the wolf into partnership, and with him had gone forth on the highways, living in the open air. He had great skill in everything connected with healing operations, restoring the sick to health. He was considered a clever mountebank and a good doctor. To tell the truth, Ursus was suspicious, because he often went to gather herbs in rough thickets. But Ursus, although eccentric in manner and disposition, was too good to invoke or disperse hail, to kill a man with the torment of excessive dancing, and to cause the birth of cocks with four wings. He was incapable of certain abominations, such as, for instance, speaking German, Hebrew, or Greek. If Ursus spoke Latin, it was because he knew it.

To sum up, Ursus was not one of those persons who live in fear of the police. His van was long enough and wide to lie down in it on a box. He owned a lantern, several wigs, and some utensils, among which were musical instruments. He possessed, besides, a bearskin with which he covered himself on his days of grand performance. He used to say, “I have two skins; this is the real one,” pointing to the bearskin.

The little house on wheels belonged to himself and to the wolf. Besides his house, his retort, and his wolf, he had a flute and a violoncello on which he played prettily. He concocted his own elixirs. In the top of his van was a hole, through which passed the pipe of a stove. The stove had two compartments; in one of them Ursus cooked his chemicals, and in the other his potatoes. At night the wolf slept under the van, amicably secured by a chain. Ursus was fifty, unless, indeed, he was sixty. He accepted his destiny: he ate potatoes, the food of pigs and convicts. He ate them indignant, but resigned. He was not tall – he was long. He was bent and melancholy. Nature had formed him for sadness. He found it difficult to smile, and he had never been able to weep, so that he was deprived of the consolation of tears as well as of the palliative of joy. He had the loquacity of a charlatan, the leanness of a prophet, the irascibility of a charged mine[6]: such was Ursus. In his youth he had been a philosopher in the house of a lord.

This was 180 years ago, when men were more like wolves than they are now.

II

Homo was no ordinary wolf. From his appetite for medlars and potatoes he might be taken for a prairie wolf; from his dark hair, for a lycaon; and from his bark, for a dog of Chili. He was five feet long, which is a fine length for a wolf; he was very strong. He looked at you askance, which was not his fault. He had a soft tongue, with which he occasionally licked Ursus. Before he knew Ursus and had a carriage to draw, he did his fifty miles a night. Ursus met him in a thicket near a stream. Ursus preferred Homo to a donkey. The ass, a four-legged thinker, has a habit of cocking his ears uneasily when philosophers talk nonsense. As a friend, Ursus preferred Homo to a dog, the love of a wolf is more rare.

Hence it was that Homo sufficed for Ursus. Homo was for Ursus more than a companion, he was an analogue. Ursus used to pat the wolf’s empty ribs, saying:

“I have found the second volume of myself!” Again he said, “When I am dead, I shall leave a true copy behind me.”

Ursus had communicated to Homo a portion of his talents: such as to stand upright, to restrain his rage into sulkiness, to growl instead of howling, etc. On his part, the wolf had taught the man what he knew – to live without a roof, without bread and fire, to prefer hunger in the woods to slavery in a palace.

The van traversed many different roads, without, however, leaving Great Britain. The van was strong, although it was built of light boards like a dove-cot. In front there was a glass door with a little balcony used for orations. At the back there was a door with a panel. It had been painted, but of what colour it was difficult to say.

Ursus admired Homo. To be always raging inwardly and grumbling outwardly was the normal condition of Ursus. He was the malcontent of creation. He gave his satisfaction to no one and to nothing. It is probable that in secret Ursus criticized Providence.

He approved of none but princes. He travelled freely from one end of Great Britain to the other, selling his philtres and phials. He passed with ease through the nets which the police at that period had spread all over England in order to sift wandering gangs[7], and especially to stop the progress of the Comprachicos[8].

Ursus belonged to no gang. Ursus lived with Ursus, a tête-à-tête[9], into which the wolf gently thrust his nose. The solitary man is a modified savage, accepted by civilization. The sight of towns increased his taste for brambles, thickets, thorns, and holes in the rock. His home was the forest. What he disliked in his van was its having a door and windows, and thus resembling a house.

He did not smile, but he used to laugh; sometimes, indeed frequently, a bitter laugh. There is consent in a smile, while a laugh is often a refusal.

His great business was to hate the human race. He was implacable in that hate. It was clear for him that human life was a dreadful thing. He observed the superposition of evils, kings on the people, war on kings, the plague on war, famine on the plague, folly on everything. He recognized that death was a deliverance – but when they brought him a sick man he cured him. He put lame cripples on their legs again, and hurled this sarcasm at them,

“There, you are on your paws once more; may you walk long in this valley of tears!”

When he saw a poor man dying of hunger, he gave him all him money, growling out,

“Live on, you wretch! eat! I won’t shorten your penal servitude.”

After that, he would rub his hands and say,

“I do men all the harm I can.”

Through the little window at the back, passers-by could read on the ceiling of the van these words, written within, but visible from without, inscribed with charcoal, in big letters, -

Ursus, Philosopher.

THE COMPRACHICOS

I

Who now knows the word Comprachicos, and who knows its meaning? The Comprachicos, or Comprapequeños, were a hideous and nondescript association of wanderers, famous in the 17th century, forgotten in the 18th, unheard of in the 19th. The Comprachicos are part of old human ugliness. They belong to the colossal fact of slavery. Joseph sold by his brethren is a chapter in their story. The Comprachicos have left their traces in the penal laws[10] of Spain and England. You find here and there in the dark confusion of English laws the impress of this horrible truth, like the foot-print of a savage in a forest.

Comprachicos, the same as Comprapequeños, is a compound Spanish word signifying Child-buyers. The Comprachicos traded in children. They bought and sold them. They did not steal them. The kidnapping of children is another branch of industry. And what did they make of these children? Monsters. Why monsters? To laugh at.

The populace must laugh, and kings too. The mountebank is wanted in the streets, the jester at the Louvre. The one is called a Clown, the other a Fool. The efforts of man to procure himself pleasure are at times worthy of the attention of the philosopher.

A child destined to be a plaything for men – such a thing has existed; such a thing exists even now. In order that a human toy succeeds, he must be taken early. The dwarf must be fashioned when young. We play with childhood. But a well-formed child is not very amusing; a hunchback is better fun.

Hence grew an art. There were trainers who took a man and made him a misshapen creature[11]. They took a face and made a muzzle; they stunted growth; they kneaded the features. Where God had made harmony, they made discord; where God had made the perfect picture, they re-established the sketch; and, in the eyes of connoisseurs, it was the sketch which was perfect. They debased animals as well; they invented piebald horses. Nature is our canvas. Man has always wished to add something to God’s work. Man retouches creation, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

To degrade man tends to deform him. The suppression of his state was completed by disfigurement. Certain vivisectors of that period succeeded marvellously well in effacing from the human face the divine effigy. The inventor of this branch of surgery was a monk named Avonmore – an Irish word signifying Great River.

II

The manufacture of monsters was practised on a large scale. Scarcely human beings, they were useful to voluptuousness and to religion. They knew how to produce things in those days which are not produced now; they had talents which we lack. We no longer know how to sculpture living human flesh. Men were once virtuosi in that respect, but the art has become so simplified that it will soon disappear. The surgeons were cutting the limbs of living men, opening their bellies and dragging out their entrails. The vivisection of former days was not limited to the manufacture of phenomena for the market-place, of buffoons for the palace, and eunuchs for sultans and popes. One of its triumphs was the manufacture of cocks for the king of England.

It was the custom, in the palace of the kings of England, to have a watchman, who crowed like a cock. This watcher, awake while all others slept, ranged the palace, and raised from hour to hour the cry of the farmyard, repeating it as often as was necessary.

The memoirs of Catherine II. inform us that at St. Petersburg, scarcely a hundred years since, whenever the czar or czarina was displeased with a Russian prince, he was forced to squat down in the great antechamber of the palace, and to remain in that posture a certain number of days, mewing like a cat, or clucking like a sitting hen, and pecking his food from the floor. These fashions have passed away; but not so much, perhaps, as one might imagine.

The commerce in children in the 17th century was connected with a trade. The Comprachicos engaged in the commerce, and carried on the trade. They bought children, worked a little on the raw material, and resold them afterwards.

The venders were of all kinds: from the wretched father, getting rid of his family, to the master, utilizing his stud of slaves. The sale of men was a simple matter.

For a long time the Comprachicos only partially concealed themselves. Under the Stuarts, the Comprachicos were welcome at court.

The Comprachicos had a genius for disfiguration. To disfigure is better than to kill. There was, indeed, the iron mask, but that was a mighty measure. Besides, the iron mask is removable; not so the mask of flesh. You are masked for ever by your own flesh – what can be more ingenious? The Comprachicos worked on man as the Chinese work on trees.

Not only did the Comprachicos take away his face from the child, they also took away his memory. This frightful surgery left its traces on his countenance, but not on his mind. The Comprachicos deadened the little patient by means of a stupefying powder, and suppressed all pain. This powder has been known in China, and is still employed there in the present day. This is convenient: by ordering your dwarf betimes you are able to have it of any shape you wish.

III

James II. tolerated the Comprachicos for the reason that he made use of them. We do not always disdain to use what we despise.

The Comprachicos were honest folk. Whatever you may think of them, they were sometimes sincerely scrupulous. They pushed open a door, entered, bargained for a child, paid, and departed.

They were of all countries. Under the name of Comprachicos fraternized English, French, Castilians, Germans, Italians. The Comprachicos were rather a fellowship than a tribe; rather a residuum than a fellowship. To wander was the Comprachicos’ law of existence – to appear and disappear. Even in the kingdoms where their business supplied the courts, they were ill-treated. Kings made use of their art, and sent the artists to the galleys.

It was, as we have said, a fellowship. It had its laws, its oaths, its formulae. The Comprachicos, like the Gipsies, had appointed places for periodical meetings. From time to time their leaders conferred together. In the seventeenth century they had four principal points of rendezvous: one in Spain, one in Germany, one in France, one in England.

The laws against vagabonds have always been very rigorous in England. A tramp was a possible public enemy. “Where do you live? How do you get your living?” And if someone could not answer, harsh penalties awaited him.

But the Comprachicos, we insist, had nothing in common with the gipsies. The gipsies were a nation; the Comprachicos were a compound of all nations. The gipsies were a tribe; the Comprachicos a freemasonry – a masonry having not a noble aim, but a hideous handicraft. Finally, the gipsies were Pagans, the Comprachicos were Christians, and more than that, good Christians. They were more than Christians, they were Catholics; they were more than Catholics, they were Romans.

PORTLAND BILL

An obstinate north wind blew without ceasing over the mainland of Europe, and yet more roughly over England, during all the month of December, 1689, and all the month of January, 1690. One evening, towards the close of one of the most bitter days of the month of January, 1690, something unusual was going on in one of the numerous inhospitable bights of the bay of Portland.

In this creek, the most dangerous of all, a little vessel, almost touching the cliff, was moored to a point of rock. The sun had just set. With no wind from the sea, the water of the creek was calm.

The twisting of the pathway could be distinguished vaguely in the relief of the cliff. The pathway of this creek terminated on the platform where the plank was placed. The passengers for whom the vessel was waiting in the creek must have come by this path.

Excepting the movement of embarkation, a movement visibly scared and uneasy, all around was solitude; no step, no noise, no breath was heard. The people who were going to sail away in the boat formed a busy and confused group, in rapid movement on the shore. To distinguish one from another was difficult; impossible to tell whether they were old or young. The indistinctness of evening intermixed and blurred them; the mask of shadow was over their faces. There were eight of them, and there were among them one or two women, hard to recognize under the rags and tatters in which the group was attired.

A smaller shadow, flitting to and fro among the larger ones, indicated either a dwarf or a child.

It was a child.

LEFT ALONE

All wore long cloaks, torn and patched. They moved with ease under these cloaks. One of the men in the group embarking was a chief. He had sandals on his feet, and was bedizened with gold lace tatters and a tinsel waistcoat.

The crew of the boat was composed of a captain and two sailors. The boat had apparently come from Spain, and was about to return thither. The persons embarking in it whispered among themselves. The whispering was composed – now a word of Spanish, then of German, then of French, then of Gaelic, at times of Basque. They appeared to be of all nations, and yet of the same band. The crew was probably of their brotherhood.

Amid the confusion of departure there were thrown down in disorder, at the foot of the cliff, the goods which the voyagers wanted to take with them. Bags of biscuit, a cask of stock fish, a case of portable soup, three barrels – one of fresh water, one of malt, one of tar – four or five bottles of ale, an old portmanteau buckled up by straps, trunks, boxes, a ball of tow for torches and signals. These ragged people had valises. They were dragging their baggage with them.

No time was lost; there was one continued passing to and fro from the shore to the vessel, and from the vessel to the shore; each one took his share of the work – one carried a bag, another a chest. Also, they overloaded the child.

It was doubtful if the child’s father or mother were in the group. They made him work, nothing more. He appeared not a child in a family, but a slave in a tribe. No one spoke to him.

However, he wanted to embark as quickly as possible. Did he know why? Probably not: he hurried mechanically because he saw the others hurry.

The moment to put off arrived. Nothing was left to embark but the men. The two objects among the group who seemed women were already on board; six, the child among them, were still on the low platform of the cliff. A movement of departure was made in the vessel: the captain seized the helm, a sailor took up an axe to cut the hawser.

The child rushed towards the plank in order to be the first to pass. As he placed his foot on it, two of the men hurried by, got in before him, and passed on. The fourth drove him back with his fist and followed the third. The fifth, who was the chief, bounded into rather than entered the vessel, and, as he jumped in, kicked back the plank, which fell into the sea. The vessel left the shore, and the child remained on land.

ALONE

The child remained motionless on the rock – no calling out, no appeal. He spoke not a word. The same silence reigned in the vessel. No cry from the child to the men – no farewell from the men to the child. The child watched the departing bark. It seemed as if he realized his position. What did he realize? Darkness.

A moment later the boat gained the crook and entered it. Then it was seen no more – all was over – the dark had gained the sea.

The child watched its disappearance – he was astounded. His stupefaction was complicated by a sense of the dark reality of existence. He yielded. There was no complaint – the irreproachable does not reproach.

He forgot the cold. Suddenly the wave wetted his feet – the tide was flowing; a gust passed through his hair – the north wind was rising. He shivered. There came over him, from head to foot, the shudder of awakening. He cast his eyes about him. He was alone. Those men had just gone away. And those men, the only ones he knew, were unknown to him.

He could not say who they were. His childhood passed among them. He was in juxtaposition to them, nothing more. He had just been forgotten by them.

He had no money about him, no shoes to his feet, scarcely a garment to his body, not even a piece of bread in his pocket. It was winter – it was night. It will be necessary to walk. He did not know where he was. He knew nothing. He was ten years old. The child was in a desert, between depths where he saw the night and depths where he heard the waves.

He stretched his little thin arms and yawned. Then suddenly with the agility of a squirrel, or perhaps of an acrobat he turned his back on the creek, and began to climb up the cliff. To climb is the function of a man; to clamber is that of an animal – he did both.

The intensity of cold had, however, frozen the snow into dust very troublesome to the walker. His man’s jacket, which was too big for him, got in his way[12]. Now and then he came upon a little ice. Once he came on a vein of slate, which suddenly gave way under him.

Crumbling slate is treacherous. For some seconds the child slid like a tile on a roof. He rolled to the extreme edge of the decline; a tuft of grass saved him. Finally he jumped on the level ground, or rather landed, for he rose from the precipice.

Scarcely was he on the cliff when he began to shiver. The bitter north-wester[13] was blowing; he tightened his rough sailor’s jacket about his chest.

The child gained the tableland, stopped, placed his feet firmly on the frozen ground, and looked about him. Behind him was the sea; in front the land; above, the sky – but a sky without stars; an opaque mist masked the zenith.

Far away the waters stirred confusedly in the ominous clear-obscure of immensity. The boat was going quick away. It seemed to grow smaller every minute. Nothing appears so rapid as the flight of a vessel melting into the distance of ocean.

A storm threatened in the air. Chaos was about to appear. Suddenly there came a gust of wind. The boat sank into the horizon. The little star which she carried into shadow paled. More and more the boat became amalgamated with the night, then disappeared.

At least the child seemed to understand it: he ceased to look at the sea.

ON THE LAND

It was about seven o’clock in the evening. The wind was now diminishing. The child was on the land at the extreme south point of Portland.

Portland is a peninsula; but the child did not know what a peninsula is, and was ignorant even of the name of Portland. He knew but one thing, which is, that one can walk until one drops down. They had brought him there and left him there. They and there – these two enigmas represented his doom. They were humankind. There was the universe. In the great twilight world, what was there for the child? Nothing. He walked towards this Nothing.

He crossed the first plateau diagonally, then a second, then a third. The slope was sometimes steep, but always short. The high, bare plains of Portland resemble great flagstones. From time to time he stopped, and seemed to hold counsel with himself. The night was becoming very dark. He now only saw a few steps before him.

All of a sudden[14] he stopped, listened for an instant, and with an almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction turned quickly and directed his steps towards an eminence of moderate height. There was on the eminence a shape which in the mist looked like a tree. The child had just heard a noise in this direction, which was the noise neither of the wind nor of the sea, nor was it the cry of animals. He thought that some one was there, and soon he was at the foot of the hillock.

In truth, someone was there. The child was before a corpse, dumb, wondering, and with eyes fixed.

To the child it was an apparition. The child saw a spectre. Besides, he did not understand. The child took a step, then another; he ascended and approached. Bold, yet trembling, he went close up to survey the spectre.

When he got close under the gibbet, he looked up and examined it. The spectre was tarred; here and there it shone. The child distinguished the face. It was coated over with pitch. The child saw the mouth, which was a hole; the nose, which was a hole; the eyes, which were holes. The body was wrapped in coarse canvas. The canvas was mouldy and torn. A knee protruded through it. Partly corpse, partly skeleton. The face was the colour of earth. The canvas, glued to the bones, showed in reliefs like the robe of a statue. The skull, cracked and fractured, gaped like a rotten fruit. The teeth were still human, for they retained a laugh. There were a few hairs of beard on the cheek.

The child ran until he was breathless, at random, desperate, over the plain into the snow, into space. His flight warmed him. He needed it. When his breath failed him he stopped, but he dared not look back. He fancied that the birds pursued him, that the dead man had undone his chain and was perhaps hurrying behind him, and no doubt the gibbet itself was descending the hill, running after the dead man; he feared to see these things if he turned his head.

When he had recovered his breath he resumed his flight. He no longer felt hunger nor cold – he felt fear. One instinct had given place to another. To escape was now his whole thought – to escape from what? From everything. On all sides life seemed to enclose him like a horrible wall. He was running. He ran on for an indefinite time.

All at once he stopped. He was ashamed of running away. He drew himself up, stamped his foot, and, with head erect, looked round. There was no longer hill, nor gibbet, nor flights of crows. The child pursued his way: he now no longer ran but walked.

The child had run quite a quarter of a league, and walked another quarter, when suddenly he felt the craving of hunger. A thought occurred to him forcibly – that he must eat. But what to eat, where to eat, how to eat?

He felt his pockets mechanically, they were empty. Then he quickened his steps, without knowing whither he was going. He hastened towards a possible shelter. However, in that plain of snow there was nothing like a roof. There had never been a human habitation on the tableland. It was at the foot of the cliff.

The child found his way as best he could. He continued to advance, but although the muscles of his thighs seemed to be of steel, he began to tire. Instinctively he inclined eastwards. Sharp stones had wounded his heels.

He recognized nothing. He was crossing the plain of Portland from south to north. It is probable that the band with which he had come, to avoid meeting anyone, had crossed it from east to west. It was impossible for him to recognize the road.

On the plain of Portland there are, here and there, raised strips of land. The wandering child reached one of these points and stopped on it. He tried to see around him. Before him, in place of a horizon, was a vast livid opacity.

He saw some distance off a descent, and at the foot of the descent, among shapeless conformations of rock, blurred by the mist, what seemed to be either a sandbank. It was evident he must pass that way. He had, in fact, arrived at the Isthmus of Portland, a part which is called Chess Hill.

He began to descend the side of the plateau. The descent was difficult and rough. He leapt from one rock to another at the risk of a sprain, at the risk of falling into the vague depths below. Little by little it was drawing nearer the moment when he could land on the Isthmus. The child felt now and then on his brow, on his eyes, on his cheeks, something which was like the palms of cold hands on his face. These were large frozen flakes. The child was covered with them.

TROUBLED MEN ON THE TROUBLED SEA

The snowstorm is one of the mysteries of the ocean. It is the most obscure of meteorological things – obscure in every sense of the word. It is a mixture of fog and storm; and even in our days we cannot well account for the phenomenon. Hence many disasters.

One of the most dangerous components of the sea is the snowstorm. The pole produces it as it produces the aurora borealis[15].

While the boat was in the gulf of Portland; the ocean was almost still, and the sky was yet clear. There were ten on board – three men in crew, and seven passengers, of whom two were women. The women were of no age. Of the five men who were with the two women, one was a Frenchman of Languedoc, one a Frenchman of Provence, one a Genoese; one, an old man, he who wore the sombrero, appeared to be a German. The fifth, the chief, was a Basque of the Landes from Biscarrosse. It was he who, just as the child was going on board the boat, had, with a kick of his heel, cast the plank into the sea.

This chief of the band, the captain and the two men of the crew, all four Basques, spoke sometimes Basque, sometimes Spanish, sometimes French. But generally speaking, excepting the women, all talked something like French, which was the foundation of their slang.

All the time the boat was in the gulf, the sky did not frown enough to cause the fugitives any uneasiness. They were flying, they were escaping, they were brutal. One laughed, another sang; the laugh was dry but free, the song was bad but careless.

From time to time the chief of the band came to the old man and whispered in his ear. The old man answered by a nod.

The captain passed every minute from the binnacle to the standard compass.

“We don’t even see the pointers, nor the star Antares. Nothing is distinct.”

No care troubled the other fugitives.

The skipper gave the helm to a sailor, crossed the gangway, and went on to the forecastle. He approached the old man, but not in front. He stood a little behind, with open eyes and arched eyebrows, and a smile in the corners of his mouth – an attitude of curiosity hesitating between mockery and respect.

The old man said,

“Too few stars, and too much wind. The breeze continually changes its direction and blows inshore; thence it rises perpendicularly. Skipper, have you often crossed the Channel?”

“This is the first time.”

“How is that?”

“My usual cruise is to Ireland. I sail from Fontarabia to Black Harbour or to the Achill Islands. I do not know this sea at all.”

“That’s serious. Woe to him who is inexperienced on the ocean! One ought to be familiar with the Channel – the Channel is the Sphinx. Look out for shoals.”

The wind and the sea were rising.

The dark punishment of the waters, eternally tortured, was commencing. A lamentation arose from the whole main.

The wind had just set due north[16]. Its violence was so favourable and so useful in driving them away from England that the captain had made up his mind to set all sail[17]. The boat slipped through the foam as at a gallop, bounding from wave to wave in a gay frenzy. The fugitives were delighted, and laughed; they clapped their hands, applauded the surf, the sea, the wind, the sails, the swift progress, the flight, all unmindful of the future.

Every vestige of day had faded away. This was the moment when the child, watching from the distant cliff, lost sight of the boat. The child went north and the ship went south. All were plunged in darkness.

SUPERHUMAN HORRORS

England disappeared. The fugitives had now nothing round them but the sea. All at once night grew awful.

The sky became blackness. The snow began to fall slowly; a few flakes appeared. A great muddy cloud, like to the belly of ahydra, hung over ocean.

The boreal storm hurled itself on the boat. A deep rumbling was brewing up in the distance. The roar of the abyss, nothing can be compared to it. It is the great brutish howl of the universe.

No thunderstrokes. The snowstorm is a storm blind and dumb; when it has passed, the ships also are often blind and the sailors dumb. To escape from such an abyss is difficult.

The howling of the wind became more and more frightful. The boat became a wreck, it was irrevocably disabled. The vessel drifted like a cork at the mercy of the waves. It sailed no longer – it merely floated, like a dead fish.

One of the women, the Irishwoman, told her beads[18] wildly. They neared the cliff. They were about to strike. The wave dashed the boat against the rock. Then came the shock. Nothing remained but the abyss.

But suddenly something terrible appeared to them in the darkness. On the port bow arose, standing stark, a tall, opaque mass, vertical a tower of the abyss. They watched it open-mouthed.

The storm was driving them towards it. They knew not what it was. It was the rock.

It was a moment of great anxiety. Meanwhile a thickening mist had descended on the drifting wretches. They were ignorant of their whereabouts.

Suddenly the boat was driven back. The wave reared up under the vessel. It was again on the open sea.

The hurricane had stopped. The fierce clarions of space were mute. None knew what had become of it; flakes replaced the hailstones, the snow began to fall slowly. No more swell: the sea flattened down. In a few minutes the boat was floating in sleeping waters.

All was silence, stillness, blindness. It was clear that they were delivered out of the storm, out of the foam, out of the wind, out of the uproar. In three or four hours it would be sunrise. Some passing ship would see them; they would be rescued. The worst was over. They said to themselves, “It is all over this time.”

Suddenly they found that all was indeed over.

One of the sailors, went down into the hold to look for a rope, then came above again and said, -

“The hold is full[19].”

“Of what?” asked the chief.

“Of water,” answered the sailor.

The chief cried out, -

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” replied the captain, “that in half an hour we shall founder.”

THE LAST RESOURCE

There was a hole in the keel. When it happened no one could have said. It was most probable that they had touched some rock. The other sailor, whose name was Ave Maria, went down into the hold, too, came on deck again, and said, -

“There are two varas of water in the hold.”

About six feet.

Ave Maria added, “In less than forty minutes we shall sink.”

The water, however, was not rising very fast.

The chief called out,

“We must work the pump.”

“We have no pump left.”

“Then,” said the chief, “we must make for land[20].”

“Where is the land?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor I.”

“But it must be somewhere.”

“True enough.”

“Let some one steer for it.”

“We have no pilot.”

“Stand to the tiller yourself.”

“We have lost the tiller.”

“Let’s make one. 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.”

“We’ll row the wreck.”

“We have lost the oars.”

“We’ll sail.”

“We have lost the sails and the mast.”

“We’ll make one.”

“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. The swiftness of the storm might enable 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! The snow was falling, and as the wreck was now motionless.

The chief said,

“Let us lighten the wreck.”

They took the luggage, and threw it over the gunwale. 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.

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

“Is there anything else we can throw overboard?”

“Yes”, said the old man.

“What?” asked the chief.

“Our Crime. Let us throw our crimes into the sea, they weigh us down; it is they that are sinking the ship. Our last crime, above all, the crime which we committed.”

The old man put down the pen and inkhorn on the hood of the companion, unfolded the parchment, and said, -

“Listen.”

The doomed men bowed their heads around him. What he read was written in English. The wreck was sinking more and more. He signed himself. Then, turning towards the others, he said, -

“Come, and sign.”

The Basque woman approached, took the pen, and signed herself. She handed the pen to the Irish woman, who, not knowing how to write, made a cross. Then she handed the pen to the chief of the band. The chief signed. The Genoese signed himself under the chief’s name. The others signed, too.

Then they folded the parchment and put it into the flask. The wreck was sinking. The old man said, -

“Now 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 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.

THE AWAKING

The beginning of day is sinister. A sad pale light penetrated the hut. It was the frozen dawn. The caravan was warm. The light of dawn was slowly taking possession of the horizon. Only a few large stars resisted.

The boy opened his eyes. He lay in a state of semi-stupor, without knowing where he was or what was near him, without making an effort to remember, gazing at the ceiling. He gazed dreamily at the letters of the inscription – “Ursus, Philosopher”. The sound of the key turning in the lock caused him to turn his head.

The boy awoke. The wolf gave him a morning yawn, showing two rows of very white teeth. The boy, seeing the wolf in the caravan, got out of the bear-skin, and placed himself in front of the little infant, who was sleeping more soundly than ever.

Ursus had just hung the lantern up on a nail in the ceiling. His eyes were glassy. He exclaimed, -

“Happy, doubtless! Dead!”

He bent down, -

“I found her. The mischief had buried her under two feet of snow. Homo helped me. How cold she was! I touched her hand – a stone! What silence in her eyes! How can any one be such a fool as to die and leave a child behind? A pretty family I have now! A boy and a girl!”

Whilst Ursus was speaking, Homo sidled up close to the stove. The hand of the sleeping infant was hanging down between the stove and the chest. The wolf licked it so softly that he did not awake the little infant. Ursus turned round.

“Well done, Homo. I shall be father, and you shall be uncle. Adoption! Homo is willing.”

Raising his eyes, they met those of the boy, who was listening. Ursus addressed him abruptly, -

“What are you laughing about?”

The boy answered, -

“I am not laughing.”

Ursus looked at him fixedly for a few minutes, and said, -

“Then you are frightful.”

The interior of the caravan, on the previous night, had been so dark that Ursus had not yet seen the boy’s face. The broad daylight revealed it. He placed the palms of his hands on the two shoulders of the boy, and exclaimed, -

“Do not laugh any more!”

“I am not laughing,” said the child.

Ursus was seized with a shudder from head to foot.

“You do laugh, I tell you.”

Then he asked him: roughly, -

“Who did that to you?”

The child replied, -

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How long have you had that laugh?”

“I have always been thus,” said the child.

Ursus turned towards the chest. Then the sun arose. The red rays gleamed through the glass, and struck against the face of the infant, which was turned towards him. Her eyeballs reflected his purple orbit like two mirrors. The eyeballs were immovable, the eyelids also.

“See!” said Ursus. “She is blind.”

LORD CLANCHARLIE AND LORD DAVID DIRRY-MOIR

There was, in those days, an old tradition. That tradition was Lord Clancharlie. He was one of the peers of England – few in number – who accepted the republic. He had retired into Switzerland, and dwelt in a sort of lofty ruin on the banks of the Lake of Geneva. It was the sketch of a madman. Thinking of Lord Clancharlie, some laughed out aloud, others could not restrain their anger. Lord Clancharlie had never had any brains. Everyone agreed on that point.

Lord Clancharlie. was walking, his hands behind him, along the shores of the Lake of Geneva. In London they sometimes spoke of the exile. He was accused before the tribunal of public opinion. They pleaded for and against him.

But Lord Clancharlie had not always been old and proscribed. He had had his phase of youth and passion. He had a natural child, a son. This son was born in England in the last days of the republic, just as his father was going into exile. Hence he had never seen his father. This bastard of Lord Clancharlie had grown up at the court of Charles II. Then he prospered under James II.

The king is dead. Long live the king! It was on the accession of the Duke of York that he obtained permission to call himself Lord David Dirry-Moir, from an estate which his mother had left him.

Lord David was head of the king’s granary. He had the management of the race-horses. He was a brave lord, handsome, generous, and majestic in look and in manner. His person was like his quality. He was tall in stature as well as high in birth.

The king had no objection to raise Lord David Dirry-Moir to the Upper House. He wanted to transform Lord David Dirry-Moir, lord by courtesy, into a lord by right.

The opportunity occurred.

One day it was announced that several things had happened to the old exile, Lord Clancharlie, the most important of which was that he was dead. People related what they knew, or what they thought they knew, of the last years of Lord Clancharlie. What they said was probably a legend. King James declared, one fine morning, Lord David Dirry-Moir sole and positive heir, and by his royal pleasure, of Lord Clancharlie, his natural father. So the king instituted Lord David Dirry-Moir in the titles, rights, and prerogatives of the late Lord Clancharlie, on the sole condition that Lord David should wed, when she attained a marriageable age, a girl who was, at that time, a mere infant a few months old, and whom the king had, in her cradle, created a duchess. This little infant was called the Duchess Josiana.

It was to this little duchess that the king granted the peerage of Clancharlie. Besides the Clancharlie inheritance, Lady Josiana had her own fortune. She possessed great wealth, much of which was derived from Henrietta of England, Duchess of Orleans, the lady of highest rank in France after the queen.

Lord David prospered under Charles and James, and he prospered under William. A poet, like everyone else; a good servant of the state, a good servant to the prince; assiduous at feasts, at galas, at ladies’ receptions, at ceremonies, and in battle; servile in a gentlemanlike way; very haughty; inclined to integrity; obsequious or arrogant, as occasion required; frank and sincere on first acquaintance; careless before a sword; always ready to risk his life on a sign from his Majesty with heroism and complacency; a man of courtesy and etiquette; a courtier on the surface, a paladin below; quite young at forty-five. Lord David sang French songs, loved eloquence and fine language[25].

DUCHESS JOSIANA

Towards 1705, although Lady Josiana was twenty-three and Lord David forty-four, the wedding had not yet taken place. Did they hate each other? Far from it. Josiana wanted to remain free, David to remain young.

Josiana and David carried on a flirtation. They did not love, they pleased, each other. To be at each other’s side was enough. Why hasten? Josiana, while she knew herself to be a bastard, felt herself a princess. She had a fancy for Lord David. Lord David was handsome, she considered him to be fashionable.

To be fashionable is everything. Lord David bowed down before the fascinations of the Duchess Josiana – a maiden without spot or scruple, haughty, inaccessible, and audacious. He addressed sonnets to her, which Josiana sometimes read. He waited in the antechamber outside Josiana’s heart; and this suited the convenience of both. Lady Josiana said,

“It is a bore that I should be obliged to marry Lord David; I, who would desire nothing better than to be in love with him!”

Josiana was very tall – too tall. Her hair might be called red gold. She was plump, fresh, strong, and rosy, with immense boldness and wit. She had eyes which were too intelligible. She had neither lovers nor chastity. She walled herself round with pride. Men! oh, fie! A god only would be worthy of her, or a monster. Josiana possessed all possible virtue, but without any innocence. She disdained intrigues. She thought little of her reputation, but much of her glory. Josiana felt herself majestic and material. She trod upon hearts. She was earthly.

She would show herself without hesitation to a satyr or a eunuch. She had the self-possession of a goddess. She was a possible Astarte in a real Diana. She was tempting and inaccessible. She dwelt in a halo of glory. She was a little too heavy for her cloud. Josiana was in everything – in birth, in beauty, in irony, in brilliancy – almost a queen. She had felt a moment’s enthusiasm for Louis de Bouffes, who used to break horseshoes between his fingers. She regretted that Hercules was dead. She lived in some undefined expectation of a voluptuous and supreme ideal.

The Duchess knew Latin. Then (another fine thing) she was secretly a Catholic. With all that she was a prude. The advantage of prudes is that they disorganize the human race. They deprive it of the honour of their adherence. Beyond all, keep the human species at a distance. This is a point of the greatest importance.

She must eventually marry Lord David, since such was the royal pleasure. It was a necessity, doubtless; but what a pity! They eluded each other.

Lord David was forty. He did not perceive this, and in truth he looked no more than thirty. He considered it more amusing to desire Josiana than to possess her. He possessed others. He had mistresses. On the other hand, Josiana had dreams.

BARKILPHEDRO

It is useful to know what people do, and a certain surveillance is wise. Josiana had Lord David watched by a man, whose name was Barkilphedro. She was sure of him.

Lord David had Josiana discreetly observed by a man, of whom he was sure, and whose name was Barkilphedro as well.

Queen Anne, on her part, kept herself secretly informed of the actions and conduct of the Duchess Josiana, her bastard sister, and of Lord David, her future brother-in-law, by a man, on whom she counted fully, and whose name was Barkilphedro.

A man between two women. What modulations possible! What amalgamation of souls! Barkilphedro was an old servant of the Duke of York. He had tried to be a churchman but had failed. Josiana liked this man of poverty and wit, an interesting combination. She presented him to Lord Dirry-Moir, gave him a shelter in the servants’ hall among her domestics, retained him in her household, was kind to him, and sometimes even spoke to him.

One day Barkilphedro said to Josiana, -

“Would your Grace like to make my fortune?”

“What do you want?”

“An appointment[26].”

“An appointment? for you!”

“Yes, madam.”

“What an idea! You, who are good for nothing.”

“That’s just the reason.”

Josiana burst out laughing.

“Which appointment do you desire?”

“That of cork drawer of the bottles[27] of the ocean.”

“What do you mean thou? You are fooling.”

“No, madam.”

“To amuse myself, I shall answer you seriously,” said the duchess. “What do you wish to be? Repeat it.”

“Uncorker of the bottles of the ocean.”

“Everything is possible at court. Is there an appointment of that kind?”

“Yes, madam.”

“This is news to me. Go on.”

“There is such an appointment at the Admiralty.”

“Then you wish…? Begin again.”

“To uncork the bottles of the ocean.”

“It is like grooming a bronze horse.”

“Very nearly.”

“Nothing to do. Well you are good for that much.”

“You see I am good for something.”

“Come! you are talking nonsense. Is there such an appointment?”

“Your Grace the sea is boundless: there is always something floating. This appointment is vacant now. The appointment exists. There is for the office a room and lodgings at the Admiralty.”

“And how is one paid?”

“One hundred guineas a year. It is enough to live upon.”

“Like a beggar. It’s a bagatelle.”

“What keeps you for a minute, keeps us for a year. That’s the advantage of the poor.”

“You will have the place.”

A week afterwards, Barkilphedro was installed at the Admiralty.

There is one thing: people are ungrateful. Having received so many benefits from Josiana, Barkilphedro had naturally but one thought – to revenge himself on her. When we add that Josiana was beautiful, great, young, rich, powerful, illustrious, while Barkilphedro was ugly, little, old, poor, dependent, obscure, he must necessarily revenge himself for all this as well.

Barkilphedro was an Irishman who had denied Ireland. This man was full of malice.

What was Barkilphedro’s age? It is difficult to say. The age necessary for his project of the moment. He was old in his wrinkles and gray hairs, young in the activity of his mind. He was active and ponderous; a sort of hippopotamus-monkey. A royalist, certainly; a republican – who knows? A Catholic, perhaps; a Protestant, without doubt. To be For is a power only on the condition of being at the same time Against. Barkilphedro practised this wisdom.

What was Barkilphedro? That meanest and most terrible of men – an envious man. Envy is good stuff to make a spy.

Barkilphedro had other qualities. He was discreet, secret, concrete. He was liked by those whom he amused, and hated by all others. He felt that he was disdained by those who hated him, and despised by those who liked him. He restrained himself. He was indignant. To swallow everything was his talent.

He was kind, prompt, easy, amiable, obliging. Never mind to whom, never mind where, he bowed. Barkilphedro’s body was obese and his face lean. A fat bust and a bony countenance. His nose, long, sharp, and flabby, nearly met his mouth. Patience, temperance, continence, reserve, self-control, amenity, deference, gentleness, politeness, sobriety, chastity, completed and finished Barkilphedro. In a short time Barkilphedro took a foothold at court[28].

Besides the queen, Barkilphedro secretly worked, influenced, and plotted upon Lady Josiana and Lord David. Barkilphedro became a necessity. Many great people honoured him with their confidence.

Josiana reposed such confidence in him that she had entrusted him with one of the keys of her apartments, by means of which he was able to enter them at any hour. This was in fashion in the seventeenth century. It was called “giving the key.” Josiana had given two of these confidential keys – Lord David had one, Barkilphedro the other.

BARKILPHEDRO IN AMBUSCADE

To find the vulnerable spot in Josiana, and to strike her there, was the imperturbable determination of Barkilphedro. But how? That was the question.

With Barkilphedro the ground was Queen Anne. Barkilphedro approached the queen, and so close that sometimes he fancied he heard the monologues of her Majesty. How did the queen feel towards the Duchess Josiana? Did she wish her good or evil?

Here was the problem. Barkilphedro set himself to solve it. Divers chances served Barkilphedro.

Anne was, on her husband’s side, slightly related to the new Queen of Prussia. One day, in the presence of Barkilphedro, Anne asked the ambassador some question about this Drika.

“They say she is rich?”

“Very rich.”

“She has palaces?”

“More magnificent than those of her sister, the queen.”

“Whom will she marry?”

“A great lord, the Count Gormo.”

“Pretty?”

“Charming.”

“Is she young?”

“Very young.”

“As beautiful as the queen?”

The ambassador lowered his voice, and replied, -

“More beautiful.”

“That is insolent,” murmured Barkilphedro.

The queen was silent; then she exclaimed, -

“Those bastards!”

Another time, when the queen was leaving the chapel, Barkilphedro kept pretty close to her Majesty, behind the two grooms. Lord David Dirry-Moir made a sensation by his handsome appearance. As he passed there was an explosion of feminine exclamations.

“How elegant! How gallant! What a noble air! How handsome!”

“How disagreeable!” grumbled the queen.

Barkilphedro overheard this. He could hurt the duchess without displeasing the queen. The first problem was solved; but now the second presented itself.

What could he do to harm the duchess?

One day Lady Josiana asked Lord David, -

“What can drive my spleen away?”

Lord David stopped, looked at Josiana, shut his mouth, and inflated his cheeks, which signified attention, and said to the duchess, -

“For spleen there is but one remedy.”

“What is it?”

“Gwynplaine.”

The duchess asked, -

“And who is Gwynplaine?”

GWYNPLAINE AND DEA

Nature had bestowed on Gwynplaine a mouth opening to his ears, ears folding over to his eyes, a shapeless nose to support the spectacles, and a face that no one could look upon without laughing.

Gwynplaine was a mountebank. He showed himself on the platform. Hypochondriacs were cured by the sight of him alone. He was avoided by folks in mourning, because they were compelled to laugh when they saw him. One day the executioner came, and Gwynplaine made him laugh. He spoke, and the people rolled on the ground.

It was Gwynplaine’s laugh which created the laughter of others, yet he did not laugh himself. His face laughed; his thoughts did not. The extraordinary face which chance or a special and weird industry had fashioned for him, laughed alone. Gwynplaine had nothing to do with it. The outside did not depend on the interior. The laugh which he had not placed, himself, on his brow, on his eyelids, on his mouth, he could not remove.

On seeing Gwynplaine, all laughed. When they had laughed they turned away their heads. Women especially shrank from him with horror. The man was frightful. Gwynplaine was intolerable for a woman to see, and impossible to contemplate. But he was tall, well made, and agile, and no way deformed, excepting in his face.

This led to the presumption that Gwynplaine was rather a creation of art than a work of nature. Gwynplaine, beautiful in figure, had probably been beautiful in face. At his birth he had no doubt resembled other infants.

Behind his laugh there was a soul, dreaming, as all our souls dream. However, his laugh was to Gwynplaine quite a talent. He could do nothing with it. By means of it he gained his living.

Gwynplaine, as you have doubtless already guessed, was the child abandoned one winter evening on the coast of Portland, and received into a poor caravan at Weymouth.

That boy was at this time a man. Fifteen years had elapsed. It was in 1705. Gwynplaine was twenty-five years old.

Ursus had kept the two children with him. They were a group of wanderers. Ursus and Homo had aged. Ursus had become quite bald. The wolf was growing gray.

The little girl found on the dead woman was now a tall creature of sixteen, with brown hair, slight, fragile, admirably beautiful, her eyes full of light, yet blind. That fatal winter had killed the mother and blinded the child. Her eyes, large and clear, had a strange quality: to others they were brilliant. They were mysterious torches lighting only the outside. They gave light.

In her dead look there was a celestial earnestness. She was the night, she was a star. Ursus, with his mania for Latin names, had christened her Dea. He had taken his wolf into consultation. He had said to him,

“You represent man, I represent the beasts. We are of the lower world; this little one will represent the world. Human, animal, and Divine.”

The wolf made no objection. Therefore the girl was called Dea.

As to Gwynplaine, Ursus had not had the trouble of inventing a name for him. He had asked him,

“Boy, what is your name?” and the boy had answered,

“They call me Gwynplaine.”

“Be Gwynplaine, then,” said Ursus.

Dea assisted Gwynplaine in his performances. Mankind was for Gwynplaine, as for Dea, an exterior fact. She was alone, he was alone. The isolation of Dea was funereal, she saw nothing; that of Gwynplaine sinister, he saw all things. Nothing was infinite to her but darkness. For Gwynplaine to live was to have the crowd for ever before him and outside him. They had reached the depth of possible calamity; they had sunk into it, both of them. And they were in a Paradise. They were in love. Gwynplaine adored Dea. Dea idolized Gwynplaine.

“How handsome you are!” she would say to him.

TRUE EYES

Only one woman on earth saw Gwynplaine. It was the blind girl. She had learned what Gwynplaine had done for her, from Ursus, to whom he had related his rough journey from Portland to Weymouth, and the many sufferings which he had endured. He had given her his rags, because she was cold; he had given her food and drink. Dea knew that as a child he had done this, and that now as a man, he was strength to her weakness, riches to her poverty, healing to her sickness, and sight to her blindness. Through the mist of the unknown, she distinguished clearly his devotion, his abnegation, his courage. Dea quivered with certainty and gratitude, her anxiety changed into ecstasy. Kindness is the sun; and Gwynplaine dazzled Dea.

To the crowd, Gwynplaine was a clown, a merry-andrew[29], a mountebank, a creature grotesque, a little more and a little less than a beast. The crowd knew only the face.

For Dea, Gwynplaine was the saviour, who made life tolerable; the liberator, whose hand guided her through that labyrinth called blindness. Gwynplaine was her brother, friend, guide, support; the personification of heavenly power; the husband, winged and resplendent. Where the multitude saw the monster, Dea recognized the archangel. Blind Dea perceived his soul.

Ursus, a philosopher, understood that. He approved of the fascination of Dea. He said,

“The blind see the invisible. Conscience is vision”.

Then, looking at Gwynplaine, he murmured,

“Semi-monster, but demi-god”.

Gwynplaine, on the other hand, was madly in love with Dea.

There is the invisible eye, the spirit, and the visible eye, the pupil. He saw her with the visible eye. Dea was dazzled by the ideal; Gwynplaine, by the real. Gwynplaine was not ugly; he was frightful. Dea was sweet. He was horror; she was grace. Dea was his dream. She was almost an angel, and yet just a woman.

Gwynplaine and Dea were united, and these two suffering hearts adored each other. One nest and two birds – that was their story. They had begun to feel a universal law – to please, to seek, and to find each other.

THE BLUE SKY THROUGH THE BLACK CLOUD

Thus lived these unfortunate creatures together – Dea and Gwynplaine. These orphans were all in all to each other, the feeble and the deformed. An inexpressible thanksgiving arose out of their distress. They were grateful. To whom? To the obscure immensity. Be grateful in your own hearts. That suffices.

Gwynplaine and Dea were grateful. Deformity is expulsion. Blindness is a precipice. Gwynplaine was no longer deformed. He was beloved. The abjection of the disfigured man was exalted and dilated into intoxication, into delight, into belief; and a hand was stretched out towards the melancholy hesitation of the blind girl, to guide her in her darkness.

The rejected found a refuge in each other. They held together by what they lacked: in that in which one was poor, the other was rich. The misfortune of the one made the treasure of the other. Had Dea not been blind, would she have chosen Gwynplaine? Had Gwynplaine not been disfigured, would he have preferred Dea? What happiness for Dea that Gwynplaine was hideous! What good fortune for Gwynplaine that Dea was blind! Gwynplaine saved Dea. Dea saved Gwynplaine.

Gwynplaine had a thought – “What should I be without her?” Dea had a thought – “What should I be without him?” The exile of each made a country for both. They belonged to each other; they knew themselves. They were inexpressibly happy. In their hell they had created heaven. Such was your power, O Love! Dea heard Gwynplaine’s laugh; Gwynplaine saw Dea’s smile. Thus the mysterious problem of happiness was solved; and by whom? By two outcasts.

For Gwynplaine, Dea was splendour. For Dea, Gwynplaine was presence. Gwynplaine was the religion of Dea. Sometimes, lost in her sense of love towards him, she knelt, like a beautiful priestess.

These happy creatures dwelt in the ideal world. They were spouses in it at distances as opposite as the spheres. Their kisses were the kisses of souls.

They had always lived a common life. They knew themselves only in each other’s society. The infancy of Dea had coincided with the youth of Gwynplaine. They had grown up side by side. For a long time they had slept in the same bed, for the hut was not a large bedchamber. They lay on the chest, Ursus on the floor; that was the arrangement. One fine day, whilst Dea was still very little, Gwynplaine felt himself grown up. He said to Ursus,

“I will also sleep on the floor.”

And at night he stretched himself, with the old man, on the bear skin. Then Dea wept. She cried; but Gwynplaine, become restless because he had begun to love, decided to remain where he was. From that time he always slept by the side of Ursus on the planks. In the summer, when the nights were fine, he slept outside with Homo.

Such was the idyll blooming in a tragedy. Ursus said to them, -

“Old brutes, adore each other!”

URSUS AS TUTOR, AND URSUS AS GUARDIAN

Ursus added, -

“Some of these days I will play them a nasty trick. I will marry them.”

Ursus taught Gwynplaine the theory of love. He said to him, -

“Do you know how the Almighty lights the fire called love? He places the woman underneath, the devil between, and the man at the top. A match – that is to say, a look – is enough.”

“A look is unnecessary,” answered Gwynplaine, thinking of Dea.

And Ursus replied, -

“Fool! Do souls require mortal eyes to see each other?”

Ursus was a good fellow at times. Gwynplaine, sometimes madly in love with Dea, became melancholy. Ursus would say to himself, -

“They love each other too much. This may have its disadvantages. Let us avoid a fire. Let us moderate these hearts.”

Then Ursus warned Dea, -

“Dea, you must not be so fond of Gwynplaine. To live in the life of another is perilous. Egoism is a good root of happiness. Men escape from women. Gwynplaine’s success is so great! You have no idea how great his success is!”

And to Gwynplaine, -

“Gwynplaine, disproportions are no good. So much ugliness on one side and so much beauty on another will compel reflection. Temper your ardour, my boy. Do not become too enthusiastic about Dea. Do you seriously consider that you are made for her? Just think of your deformity and her perfection! See the distance between her and yourself. She has everything, this Dea. What a white skin! What hair! Lips like strawberries! And her foot! her hand! Those shoulders, with their exquisite curve! She walks diffusing light; and the tone of her voice is charming. But for all this, to think that she is a woman! She would not be such a fool as to be an angel. She is absolute beauty. Repeat all this to yourself, to calm your ardour.”

These speeches redoubled the love of Gwynplaine and Dea, and Ursus was astonished at this. Did he, then, desire to extinguish their love, or to cool it even?

Certainly not. At the bottom of his heart this love, which was flame for them and warmth for him, was his delight. But it is natural to grate a little against that which charms us; men call it wisdom.

Ursus had been, in his relations with Gwynplaine and Dea, almost a father and a mother. Grumbling all the while, he had brought them up; grumbling all the while, he had nourished them.

We may observe, however, that after the first few years, when Gwynplaine was nearly grown up, and Ursus had grown quite old, Gwynplaine had taken his turn, and drawn Ursus.

This family of an old man and two children, with a wolf, had become, as they wandered, a group more and more intimately united. Ursus had encrusted Gwynplaine as much as possible with all he himself possessed of science and wisdom.

He repeated constantly to Gwynplaine, -

“Be a philosopher. To be wise is to be invulnerable. You see what I am, I have never shed a tear. This is the result of my wisdom.”

Ursus, in one of his monologues in the hearing of the wolf, said, -

“I have taught Gwynplaine everything, Latin included. I have taught Dea nothing, music included.”

He had taught them both to sing. Their concerts attracted the crowd.

“No matter,” said Ursus. “I will marry them.”

Then he grumbled to himself, -

“They are quite tiresome with their love.”

Once Gwynplaine kissed the arm of Dea – ideal kiss of a deformed mouth! Dea felt a deep delight; she blushed like a rose. Dea pulled up her sleeve, and stretching towards Gwynplaine her naked arm, said, -

“Again!”

Gwynplaine fled.

The next day the game was renewed, with variations. It was a heavenly subsidence into that sweet abyss called love. At such things heaven smiles philosophically.

BLINDNESS AND CLAIRVOYANCE

At times Gwynplaine reproached himself. He thought that to allow a woman who could not see him to love him was to deceive her. What would she say if she suddenly obtained her sight? A bitter scruple harassed him. He told himself that such a monster as he had no right to love. He was a hydra idolized by a star. It was his duty to enlighten the blind star.

One day he said to Dea, -

“You know that I am very ugly.”

“I know that you are beautiful,” she answered.

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Примечания

1

quack medicine – шарлатанские снадобья

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2

now and then – порой

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3

Engastrimythos – энгастримит, «говорящий животом» – чревовещатель

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4

Buffon – Жорж-Луи Леклерк де Бюффон (1707–1788), французский натуралист, биолог, математик

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5

Low Countries – Нидерланды

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6

charged mine – заряженная мина

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7

wandering gangs – бродячие шайки

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8

Comprachicos – компрачикосы, скупщики детей, преступное сообщество торговцев детьми

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9

tête-à-tête – наедине (фр.)

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10

penal laws – уголовные кодексы

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11

misshapen creature – уродец

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12

got in his way – стесняла движения

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13

north-wester – северо-западный ветер

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14

all of a sudden – вдруг

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15

aurora borealis – северное сияние

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16

had just set due north – стал дуть прямо с севера

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17

set all sail – поднять все паруса

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18

told her beads – перебирала чётки

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19

The hold is full. – Трюм полон.

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20

make for land – плыть к берегу

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21

at random – наугад

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22

sound sleep – крепкий сон

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23

at length – наконец

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24

To arms! – К оружию!

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25

fine language – высокий слог

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26

appointment – должность

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27

cork drawer of the bottles – откупорщик бутылок

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28

took a foothold at court – прочно обосновался при дворе

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29

merry-andrew – фигляр

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