The Man Who Laughs

by Victor Hugo

  The plain was unequal. In the declivities into which it sloped, the snow, driven by the wind into the dips of the ground, was so deep, in comparison with a child so small, that it almost engulfed him, and he had to struggle through it, half buried. He walked on, working away the snow with his knees.

  Having cleared the ravine, he reached the high land' swept by the winds, where the snow lay thin. Then he found the surface a sheet of ice. The little girl's lukewarm breath, playing on his face, warmed it for a moment, then lingered, and froze in his hair, stiffening it into icicles.

  He 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, and the weight of the darkness would, as with the dead woman, have held him to the ground, and the ice glued him alive to the earth.

  He had tripped upon the slopes of precipices, and had recovered himself: he had stumbled into holes, and had got out again. Thenceforward 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. Now everything was slippery; everywhere there was rime and frozen snow. The little creature whom he carried made his progress fearfully difficult. She was not only a burden, which his weariness and exhaustion made excessive, but was also an embarrassment. She occupied both his arms: and, to him who walks over ice, both arms are a natural and necessary balancing power.

  He was obliged to do without this balance.

  He did without it and advanced, bending under his burden, not knowing what would become of him.

  This little infant was the drop causing the cup of distress to overflow.

  He advanced, reeling at every step, as if on a springboard, and accomplishing, without spectators, miracles of equilibrium. Let us repeat that he was, perhaps, followed on this path of pain by eyes unsleeping in the distances of the shadows--the eyes of the mother and the eyes of God. He staggered, slipped, recovered himself, took care of the infant, and, gathering the jacket about her, he covered up her head; staggered again, advanced--slipped--then drew himself up. The cowardly wind drove against him. Apparently, he made much more way than was necessary. He was, to all appearance, on the plains where Bincleaves Farm was afterward established, between what are now called Spring Gardens and the Parsonage House. Homesteads and cottages occupy the place of waste lands. Sometimes less than a century separates a steppe from a city.

  Suddenly, a lull having occurred in the icy blast which was blinding him, he perceived, at a short distance in front of him, a cluster of gables and of chimneys shown in relief by the snow. The reverse of a silhouette--a city painted in white on a black horizon, something like what we call nowadays a negative proof. Roofs--dwellings--shelter! He had arrived somewhere at last. He felt the ineffable encouragement of hope. The watch of a ship which has wandered from her course feels some such emotion when he cries, "Land ho!"

  He hurried his steps.

  At length, then, he was near mankind. He would soon be amid living creatures. There was no longer anything to fear. There glowed within him that sudden warmth--security; that out of which he was emerging was over; thenceforward there would no longer be night, nor winter, nor tempest. 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. A dead man might gaze thus on what might appear through the half-open lid of his sepulchre. There were the chimneys of which he had seen the smoke.

  No smoke arose from them now.

  It was not long before he reached the houses. He came to the outskirts of a town--an open street. At that period bars to streets were falling into disuse.

  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--nothing could be more mean. The walls were of mud, the roof was of straw, and there was more thatch than wall. A large nettle, springing from the bottom of the wall, reached the roof. The hovel had but one door, which was like that of a dog-kennel; and a window, which was but a hole. All was shut up. At the side an inhabited pig-sty told that the house was also inhabited.

  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, opposite to that of the pauper.

  The boy did not hesitate. He approached the great mansion. The double folding-door of massive oak, studded with large nails, was of the kind that leads one to expect that behind it there is a stout armoury of bolts and locks. An iron knocker was attached to it. He raised the knocker with some difficulty, for his benumbed hands were stumps rather than hands. 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 too softly to break the glass, but loud enough to be heard.

  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, and penetrating the strait of houses which stretched away in front of him, so dark that it seemed more like a gulf between two cliffs than the entrance to a town.

  * * *

  IV

  ANOTHER FORM OF DESERT

  IT WAS WEYMOUTH which he had just entered. Weymouth then was not the respectable and fine Weymouth of to-day.

  Ancient Weymouth did not present, like the present one, an irreproachable rectangular quay, with an inn and a statue in honour of George III. This resulted from the fact that George III had not yet been born. For the same reason, they had not yet designed on the slope of the green hill toward the east, fashioned flat on the soil by cutting away the turf and leaving the bare chalk to the view, the white horse, an acre long, bearing the king upon his back, and always turning, in honour of George III, his tail to the city. These honours, however, were deserved. George III, having lost in his old age the intellect he had never possessed in his youth, was not responsible for the calamities of his reign. He was an innocent. Why not erect statues to him?

  Weymouth, a hundred and eighty years ago, was about as symmetrical as a game of spillikins in confusion. In legends it is said that Astaroth traveled over the world, carrying on her back a wallet which contained everything, even good women in their houses. A pell-mell of sheds thrown from her devil's bag would give an idea of that irregular Weymouth--the good women in the sheds included. The Music Hall remains as a specimen of those buildings; a confusion of wooden dens, carved, and eaten by worms (which carve in another fashion)--shapeless, overhanging buildings, some with pillars, leaning one against the other for support against the sea wind and leaving between them awkward spaces of narrow and winding channels, lanes, and passages, often flooded by the equinoctial tides. A heap of old grandmother houses, crowded round a grandfather church, such was Weymouth; a sort of old Norman village thrown up on the coast of England.

  The traveler, who entered the tavern, now replaced by the hotel, instead of paying royally his twenty-five francs for a fried sole and a bottle of wine, had to suffer the humiliation of eating a pennyworth of soup made of fish--which soup, by-the-bye, was very good. Wretched fare!

  The deserted child, carrying the foundling, passed through the first street, then the second, then the third. He raised his eyes, seeking in the higher stories and in the roofs a lighted window-pane, but all were closed and dark. At intervals he knocked at the doo
rs. No one answered. Nothing makes the heart so like a stone as being warm between sheets. The noise and the shaking had at length awakened the infant. He knew this because he felt her suck his cheek. She did not cry, believing him her mother.

  He was about to turn and wander long, perhaps, in the intersections of the Scrambridge lanes, where there were then more cultivated plots than dwellings, more thorn hedges than houses; but fortunately he struck into a passage which existed to this day near Trinity schools. This passage led him to a water-brink, where there was a roughly built quay with a parapet, and to the right he made out a bridge. It was the bridge over the Wey, connecting Weymouth with Melcombe Regis, and under the arches of which the Backwater joins the harbour.

  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. Bridges are strange vehicles of suction, which inhale the population, and sometimes swell one river-bank at the expense of its opposite neighbour.

  The boy went to the bridge, which at that period was a covered timber structure. He crossed it.

  Thanks to its roofing, there was no snow on the planks. His bare feet had a moment's comfort as they crossed them.

  Having 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.

  The bridge opened on a rather fine street called St. Thomas's Street. He entered it. Here and there were high carved gables and shop-fronts. He set to knocking at the doors again: he had no strength left to call or shout.

  At Melcombe Regis, as at Weymouth, no one was stirring. The doors were all carefully double-locked. The windows were covered by their shutters, as the eyes by their lids. Every precaution had been taken to avoid being aroused by disagreeable surprises.

  The little wanderer was suffering the indefinable depression made by a sleeping town. Its silence, as of a paralysed ant's nest, makes the head swim. All its lethargies mingle their nightmares, its slumbers are a crowd, and from its human bodies, lying prone, there arises a vapour of dreams. Sleep has gloomy associates beyond this life: the decomposed thoughts of the sleepers float above them in a mist which is both of death and of life, and combine with the Possible, which has also, perhaps, the power of thought, as it floats in space. Hence arise entanglements. Dreams, those clouds, interpose their folds and their transparencies over that star, the mind. Above those closed eyelids, where vision has taken the place of sight, a sepulchral disintegration of outlines and appearances dilates itself into impalpability. Mysterious, diffused existences amalgamate themselves with life on that border of death, which sleep is. Those larvæ and souls mingle in the air. Even he who sleeps not feels a medium press upon him full of sinister life. The surrounding chimera, in which he suspects a reality, impedes him. The waking man, wending his way amid the sleep phantoms of others, unconsciously pushes back passing shadows, has, or imagines that he has, a vague fear of adverse contact with the invisible, and feels at every moment the obscure pressure of a hostile encounter which immediately dissolves. There is something of the effect of a forest in the nocturnal diffusion of dreams.

  This is what is called being afraid without reason.

  What a man feels a child feels still more.

  The uneasiness of nocturnal fear, increased by the spectral houses, increased the weight of the sad burden under which he was struggling.

  He entered Conyear Lane, and perceived at the end of that passage the Backwater, which he took for the ocean. He no longer knew in what direction the sea lay. He retraced his steps, struck to the left by Maiden Street, and returned as far as St. Albans Row.

  There by chance and without selection, he knocked violently at any house that he happened to pass. His blows, on which he was expending his last energies, were jerky and without aim; now ceasing altogether for a time, now renewed as if in irritation. It was the violence of his fever striking against the doors.

  One voice answered.

  That of Time.

  Three o'clock tolled slowly behind him from the old belfry of St. Nicholas'.

  Then all sank into silence again.

  That no inhabitant should have opened the lattice may appear surprising. Nevertheless, that silence is in a great measure to be explained. We must remember that, in January, 1790, they were just over a somewhat severe outbreak of the plague in London, and that the fear of receiving sick vagabonds caused a diminution of hospitality everywhere. People would not even open their windows for fear of inhaling the poison.

  The child felt the coldness of men more terribly than the coldness of night. The coldness of men is intentional. He felt a tightening on his sinking heart which he had not known on the open plains. Now he had entered into the midst of life, and remained alone. This was the summit of misery. The pitiless desert he had understood; the unrelenting town was too much to bear.

  The hour, the strokes of which he had just counted, had been another blow. Nothing is so freezing in certain situations as the voice of the hour. It is a declaration of indifference. It is Eternity saying, "What does it matter to me?"

  He stopped, and it is not certain that, in that miserable minute, he did not ask himself whether it would not be easier to lie down there and die. However, the little infant leaned her head against his shoulder, and fell asleep again.

  This blind confidence set him onward again. He whom all supports were failing felt that he was himself a basis of support. Irresistible summons of duty!

  Neither such ideas nor such a situation belonged to his age. It is probable that he did not understand them. It was a matter of instinct. He did what he chanced to do.

  He set out again in the direction of Johnstone Row. But now he no longer walked; he dragged himself along. He left St. Mary's Street to the left, made zigzags through lanes, and at the end of a winding passage found himself in a rather wide, open space. It was a piece of waste land not built upon; probably the spot where Chesterfield Place now stands. The houses ended there. He perceived the sea to the right, and scarcely anything more of the town to his left.

  What was to become of him? Here was the country again. To the east great inclined plains of snow marked out the wide slopes of Radipole. Should he continue this journey? Should he advance and re-enter the solitudes? Should he return and re-enter the streets? What was he to do between those two silences--the mute plain and the deaf city? Which of the two refusals should he choose?

  There is the anchor of mercy. There is also the look of piteousness. It was that look which the poor little despairing wanderer threw around him.

  All at once he heard a menace.

  * * *

  V

  MISANTHROPY PLAYS ITS PRANKS

  A STRANGE and alarming grinding of teeth reached him through the darkness.

  It was enough to drive one back: he advanced. To those to whom silence has become dreadful, a howl is comforting.

  That fierce growl reassured him--that threat was a promise. There was there a being alive and awake, though it might be a wild beast. He advanced in the direction whence came the snarl.

  He turned the corner of a wall, and, behind in a vast sepulchral light made by the reflection of snow and sea, he saw a thing placed as if for 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, and seemed to imply a good fire in the interior. Behind, projecting hinges indicated a door, and in the centre of the door a square opening showed a light inside the caravan.

  He approached.

  Whatever had growled perceived his approach and became furious. It was no longer a growl which he had to meet, it was a roar. He heard a sharp sound, as of a chain violently pulled to its full length, and suddenly, under the door, between the hind wheels, two rows of sharp white teeth appeared. At the same time as the mouth betwee
n the wheels, a head was put through the window.

  "Peace there!" said the head.

  The mouth was silent.

  The head began again:

  "Is any one there?"

  The child answered:

  "Yes."

  "Who?"

  "I."

  "You? Who are you? whence do you come?"

  "I am weary," said the child.

  "What o'clock is it?"

  "I am cold."

  "What are you doing there?"

  "I am hungry."

  The head replied:

  "Every one can not 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 and was hurrying away.

  However, at the same time that the window closed the door had opened; a step had been let down, 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, at once repulsed and invited, remained motionless.

  The voice continued:

  "You are told to come in, you young rascal."

  He made up his mind, and 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 was impeded by the infant so benumbed, rolled up and enveloped in the jacket that nothing could be distinguished of her, and that she was but a little shapeless mass.