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

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.