Читать книгу Человек, который смеется / The Man Who Laughs. Уровень 4 - Виктор Мари Гюго, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 8

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.