The Toilers of the Sea

by Victor Hugo

  As they approached the house they held their breath, as if they were approaching a wild beast.

  They had come up the steep path behind the house that starts from a small rocky and inhospitable isthmus on the coast and had reached the top quite near the house. But they could see only the south front of the house, which is completely walled up. They had not dared to turn left, which would have brought them in sight of the other side with its two terrifying windows.

  Then they grew bolder, the apprentice caulker having whispered, "Let's steer to port. That's the best side of the house; we must see the two black windows."

  They "steered to port" and reached the other side of the house.

  There were lights in the windows.

  The boys turned tail.

  When they were at a safe distance the French boy turned around. "Look," he said: "the lights have gone out." And indeed the windows were now dark again. The outlines of the house stood out sharply against the livid sky.

  The boys had not lost their fears, but their curiosity returned. They moved closer to the house.

  Suddenly lights again appeared at both windows.

  The two Torteval boys took to their heels. The little devil of a French boy stopped in his tracks but did not retreat. He remained motionless, facing the house and watching.

  The lights went out, and then came on again. It was terrifying. The reflection made a vague train of fire on the grass, which was moistened by the night dew. For a moment the light outlined on the inside walls of the house tall black moving figures and the shadows of enormous heads.

  Since the house had no ceilings or internal partitions, having nothing left but its four walls and the roof, if there was light at one window there was bound to be light at the other.

  Seeing that the apprentice caulker was standing firm, the other two boys returned slowly, one after the other, trembling but curious. The apprentice caulker whispered: "There are ghosts in the house. I saw the nose of one of them." The two Torteval boys huddled behind the French boy; and, standing on tiptoe, sheltered by him, using him as a shield, confronting the house with him, reassured that he stood between them and the ghostly vision, they looked over his shoulder at the house.

  The house for its part seemed to be looking at them. There it stood in the vast silent darkness, with two glaring eyes--the windows. The light disappeared, reappeared, and then disappeared again, as lights of that kind do. This sinister intermittence is probably the result of the coming and going of Hell: gaping open and then closing again. The window in a sepulcher acts somewhat like a dark lantern.

  Suddenly a dense black shadow in the form of a man appeared at one of the windows as if coming from outside, then disappeared into the interior. It looked as if someone had entered the house. Entering a house through the window is the normal practice of ghosts.

  For a moment the light was brighter, and then it went out and did not reappear. The house became black again. Then sounds were heard--sounds resembling voices. It is always the way. When you see you cannot hear; when you cannot see you hear.

  Night over the sea has a quietness all its own. The silence of darkness is deeper there than anywhere else. When there are neither wind nor waves on this vast moving expanse, where normally you could not hear the beat of an eagle's wings, you could hear the wings of a fly. This sepulchral quiet set off more sharply the sounds coming from the house.

  "Let's have a look," said the French boy. And he took a step toward the house. The other two were in such terror that they made up their minds to follow him. They had not courage enough to escape on their own.

  They had just passed a large pile of sticks, which somehow seemed to reassure them in this solitude, when an owl flew out of a bush, amid a rustling of branches. Owls have a curious swerving flight that is vaguely disturbing. The bird flew close to the boys, staring at them out of its round eyes, which gleamed in the darkness. The two boys to the rear shuddered. The French boy addressed the owl: "Sparrow, you're too late. I'm not going to stop now. I want to see what's going on." And he went on.

  In spite of the crackling sound of his heavy hobnailed shoes on the furze, the sounds from the house could still be heard, rising and falling in the measured tones and the continuity of a conversation.

  A moment later he added: "Anyway, it's only stupid people that believe in ghosts."

  This insolence in the face of danger rallied the laggards and urged them on.

  The two Torteval boys walked on, falling into step behind the apprentice caulker.

  The haunted house seemed to them to grow enormously large. This optical illusion caused by fear had a basis in reality: the house was indeed growing larger because they were drawing nearer to it.

  Meanwhile the voices in the house grew steadily clearer. The boys listened. The ear also has a magnifying power. The sound was more than a murmur, more than a whisper, less than a babel of voices. Now and then a few words could be made out; but the words had a peculiar sound and the boys could not understand them. They stopped, listened, and then moved on.

  "It's ghosts talking," murmured the apprentice caulker; "but I don't believe in ghosts."

  The Torteval boys were tempted to retreat beyond the pile of sticks; but it was a long way back, and their friend was still walking toward the house. They were afraid to stay with him, but they did not dare to leave him.

  Step by step, much troubled, they followed him.

  The apprentice caulker turned to them, saying: "You know it isn't true. There are no such things as ghosts."

  The house was growing increasingly tall. The voices were becoming increasingly distinct.

  They drew nearer.

  As they approached they realized that there was some kind of shaded light in the house. It was a very faint gleam, as if from a dark lantern, like those commonly used in witches' sabbaths.

  When they were quite close they stopped.

  One of the two Torteval boys ventured: "They aren't ghosts; they are ladies in white."

  "What's that hanging from one of the windows?" asked the other.

  "It looks like a rope."

  "It's a snake."

  "It's a hangman's rope," said the French boy, with an air of authority. "They always use one. But I still don't believe in them."

  And in three bounds rather than three steps he was at the foot of the wall. There was something feverish in his boldness.

  The other two, trembling, followed him. They huddled close to him, one on his right, the other on his left. They held their ears close to the wall. The conversation in the house was still continuing.

  This was what the ghosts were saying:130

  "Well, that's agreed, then?"

  "Yes."

  "It's settled?"

  "Yes."

  "A man will be waiting here, and he'll go to England with Blasquito?"

  "He'll pay?"

  "Yes, he'll pay."

  "Blasquito will take him in his boat."

  "Without asking what country he comes from?"

  "That's none of our business."

  "Without asking his name?"

  "We don't ask for names: we weigh the purse."

  "Right. The man will be waiting in this house."

  "He'll need some food."

  "He will get it."

  "Where?"

  "In this bag I've brought with me."

  "Good."

  "Can I leave the bag here?"

  "Smugglers aren't thieves."

  "And the rest of you, when are you sailing?"

  "Tomorrow morning. If your man were ready he could come with us."

  "He isn't ready."

  "That's his lookout."

  "How long will he have to wait here?"

  "Two, three, four days. Perhaps less, perhaps more."

  "Are you sure Blasquito will come?"

  "Absolutely sure."

  "Here? To Pleinmont?"

  "Yes: to Pleinmont."

  "How soon?"

  "Next week."
>
  "Which day?"

  "Friday, Saturday, or Sunday."

  "Without fail?"

  "He is my tocayo."

  "He will come whatever the weather?"

  "Yes: whatever the weather. He's not afraid. I am Blasco; he is Blasquito."

  "So he will not fail to come to Guernsey?"

  "I come one month; he comes the next month."

  "I see."

  "Counting from next Saturday, a week today, Blasquito will arrive within five days."

  "But if the sea were very rough?"

  "Egurraldia gaiztoa?"131

  "Yes."

  "Blasquito would not come so quickly, but he would still come."

  "Where will he be coming from?"

  "Bilbao."

  "Where will he be heading for?"

  "Portland."

  "Good."

  "Or Torbay."

  "Better still."

  "Your man need not worry."

  "Blasquito won't betray him?"

  "Only cowards are traitors. We are brave men. The sea is the church of winter. Treason is the church of hell."

  "No one can hear what we are saying?"

  "No one can hear us or see us. Fear keeps people away from here."

  "I know."

  "Who would dare to come and listen to us here?"

  "True enough."

  "Besides, even if anyone were listening they wouldn't understand. We are speaking a language of our own that nobody here understands. You understand it, and that makes you one of us."

  "I came here to arrange things with you."

  "Right."

  "Now I must go."

  "All right."

  "Tell me: suppose the passenger wanted Blasquito to land him somewhere other than Portland or Torbay, what then?"

  "If he's got the money there will be no difficulty."

  "Will Blasquito do whatever the man wants?"

  "Blasquito will do whatever the money wants."

  "Will it take long to get to Torbay?"

  "That depends on the wind."

  "Eight hours?"

  "Thereabouts."

  "Will Blasquito obey his passenger?"

  "If the sea obeys Blasquito."

  "He will be well paid."

  "Gold is gold. The sea is the sea."

  "That is true."

  "A man with gold can do what he wants. God, with the wind, does what he wants."

  "The man who wants to go with Blasquito will be here on Friday."

  "Right."

  "At what time of day will Blasquito arrive?"

  "At night. We arrive at night. We leave at night. We have a wife who is called the Sea and a sister who is called Night. The wife is sometimes unfaithful; the sister never."

  "Then it's all settled. Good-bye, lads."

  "Good-bye. A drop of brandy?"

  "No, thank you."

  "It's better for you than medicine."

  "I have your word, then?"

  "My name is Pundonor."132

  "Good-bye."

  "You are a gentleman and I am a caballero."

  Clearly only devils could speak in this way. The boys did not stay to hear any more, and this time took to their heels in earnest. The French boy, finally convinced, ran faster than the others.

  On the following Tuesday Sieur Clubin was back in Saint-Malo with the Durande.

  The Tamaulipas was still in the roads.

  Between two puffs on his pipe Sieur Clubin asked the landlord of the Auberge Jean:

  "Well, when is the Tamaulipas sailing?"

  "On Thursday; the day after tomorrow," replied the innkeeper.

  That evening Clubin had his meal at the coastguards' table, and, contrary to his usual habit, went out after supper. As a result he was absent from the Durande's office and lost some of the vessel's freight. This was remarked on as being unlike a man so punctual in business.

  He seems to have had a few minutes' conversation with his friend the money changer.

  He returned two hours after Noguette133 had rung the curfew. This Brazilian bell rings at ten o'clock; so it was midnight.

  VI

  LA JACRESSARDE

  Forty years ago there was an alley in Saint-Malo called the Ruelle Coutanchez. It no longer exists, having been caught up in improvements to the town.

  It consisted of a double row of houses leaning toward each other and leaving just enough room between them for a gutter that was called the street. People walked with their legs apart on either side of the water, knocking their head or their elbow on the houses to right and left. These ancient medieval houses in Normandy have an almost human aspect. A dilapidated old hovel and a witch are not unlike each other. Their slanting upper stories, their overhangs, their circumflexshaped canopies, and their scrub of ironwork are like lips, chins, noses, and eyebrows. The garret window is the eye, half blind. The wall is the cheek, wrinkled and covered with sores. Their foreheads are close together, as if they were plotting some mischief. This architecture summons up the idea of such old words, reflections of ancient villainy, as cutthroat and cutpurse.

  One of the houses in the Ruelle Coutanchez--the largest and the best-known or most ill-famed--was called La Jacressarde. It was a lodging for the kind of people who have no permanent lodging. In all towns, and particularly in seaports, there is always to be found, below the general population, a residue. Lawless characters--so lawless that even the law sometimes cannot get its hands on them--pickers and stealers, tricksters living by their wits, chemists of villainy continually brewing up life in their crucibles; rags of every kind and every way of wearing them; withered fruits of roguery, bankrupt existences, consciences that have declared themselves insolvent; the incompetents of breaking and entering (for the big men of burglary are above all this); journeymen and journeywomen of evil, rascals both male and female; scruples in tatters and out at elbow; scoundrels who have sunk into poverty, evildoers who have had little reward from their work, losers in the social duel, devourers who now go hungry, the low earners of crime, beggars and villains: such are the people who form this residue. Human intelligence is to be found here, but it is bestial. This is the rubbish heap of souls, piled up in a corner and swept from time to time by the broom that is called a police raid. La Jacressarde was a corner of this kind in Saint-Malo.

  In such dens you do not find the big men of crime, bandits and robbers, the major products of ignorance and poverty. If murder is represented here it is the work of some brutal drunkard; the robbers here are mere petty thieves. This is the spittle of society rather than its vomit. Small-time crooks, yes; brigands, no. Yet you can never be sure. On this lowest level of low life there may sometimes be extremes of wickedness. When the police raided the Epi-scie cabaret--which was for Paris what La Jacressarde was for Saint-Malo--they picked up Lacenaire.134

  Lodgings of this kind accept anybody. A fall in the social scale is a leveling experience. Sometimes honesty reduced to rags finds a home there. Virtue and integrity, we know, can suffer misadventure. We should not, out of hand, value a Louvre highly or despise a prison.

  Both public respect and universal reprobation must be bestowed only after careful examination. There can be surprises. An angel in a house of ill fame, a pearl on a dung heap: there may sometimes be such somber and dazzling discoveries.

  La Jacressarde was a courtyard rather than a house, and a well rather than a courtyard. It had no windows looking onto the street. Its facade was a high wall pierced only by a low doorway leading into the courtyard. You lifted the latch, pushed the door, and found yourself in a courtyard.

  In the middle of the courtyard was a round hole, its margin level with the ground. It was a well. The courtyard was small; the well was large. Around the well was broken paving.

  On three sides of the courtyard, which was square, were buildings. On the street side there was nothing; but facing the doorway and to right and left was the house.

  If, rather at your peril, you entered the courtyard after nightfall
, you would hear the sound of mingled breathing, and if there was enough moonlight or starlight to give form to the obscure shapes that confronted you, this is what you would see: The courtyard. The well. Around the courtyard, facing the doorway, a kind of shed in the form of a horseshoe (if a horseshoe can be square), a worm-eaten gallery open to the air, roofed with wooden beams borne on stone pillars set at irregular intervals; in the center, the well; around the well, on a litter of straw, a ring of boots and shoes, worn and down-at-heel; toes sticking through holes, numbers of bare heels; men's feet, women's feet, children's feet. All these feet were asleep.

  Beyond the feet, in the semidarkness of the shed, your eye might distinguish bodies, forms, sleeping heads, figures lying inert, rags of both sexes, the promiscuity of the dunghill, a strange and sinister deposit of humanity. This sleeping chamber was open to anyone and everyone. The occupants paid two sous a week. Their feet touched the well. On stormy nights rain fell on these feet; on winter nights it snowed on these bodies.

  Who were these creatures? Unknowns. They came in the evening and left in the morning.

  The order of society is complicated by such human debris. Some of them slipped in for a single night and made off without paying. Most of them had had nothing to eat all day.

  Every vice, every form of abjection, every infection, every kind of distress; the same sleep of despondency on the same bed of mud. The dreams of all these souls were very similar to one another. It was a ghastly concourse, mingling in the same miasma all their lassitudes, their weaknesses, their bouts of drunkenness, their marches and countermarches in a day without a crust of bread or a kindly thought; livid pallors with eyes tight closed; regrets, lusts; hair mingled with streetsweepings; faces with the look of death on them, perhaps of kisses from the mouths of darkness. All this human putridity fermented in this vat. They had been thrown into this lodging by fatality, by their wanderings, by a ship that had arrived the day before, by their release from prison, by chance, by the night. Each day destiny emptied its pack here. Hither came any who would, here slept any who could, here spoke any who dared; for this was a place of whispers. Those who came here were quick to mingle in the mass; they tried to forget themselves in sleep since they could not lose themselves in the dark. They took as much of death as they could. They closed their eyes in a kind of death agony that recurred every evening. Where did they come from? From society, of which they were the dregs; from the waves, on which they were the foam.

  There was not enough straw to go around. Many a naked body lay on the hard paving. They lay down in the evening exhausted; they got up in the morning stiff and sore. The well, thirty feet deep, without a parapet, without a cover, gaped open day and night. Rain fell into it, filth oozed into it, all the trickles of water in the courtyard drained into it. Beside it was the bucket for drawing water. Anyone who was thirsty drank from it. Anyone who was tired of life drowned himself in it, slipping from his sleep amid the refuse to that other sleep. In 1819 the body of a boy of fourteen was taken out of the well.