Ten Years Later (1 of 2)

"A hit?" he said. "No," cried De Wardes, not moving from his place. "I beg your pardon, but observing that your shirt was stained — " said Buckingham. "Well," said De Wardes furiously, "it is now your turn." And with a terrible lunge, he pierced Buckingham's arm, the sword passing between the two bones. Buckingham, feeling his right arm paralyzed, stretched out his left, seized his sword, which was about falling from his nerveless grasp, and before De Wardes could resume his guard, he thrust him through the breast. De Wardes tottered, his knees gave way beneath him, and leaving his sword still fixed in the duke's arm, he fell into the water, which was soon crimsoned with a more genuine reflection than that which it had borrowed from the clouds. De Wardes was not dead; he felt the terrible danger that menaced him, for the sea rose fast. The duke, too, perceived the danger. With an effort and an exclamation of pain he tore out the blade which remained in his arm, and turning towards De Wardes said, "Are you dead, marquis?" "No," replied De Wardes, in a voice choked by the blood which rushed from his lungs to his throat, "but very near it." "Well, what is to be done; can you walk?" said Buckingham, supporting him on his knee. "Impossible," he replied. Then falling down again, said, "Call to your people, or I shall be drowned." "Halloa! boat there! quick, quick!" The boat flew over the waves, but the sea rose faster than the boat could approach. Buckingham saw that De Wardes was on the point of being again covered by a wave; he passed his left arm, safe and unwounded, round his body and raised him up. The wave ascended to his waist but did not move him. The duke immediately began to carry his late antagonist towards the shore. He had hardly gone ten paces, when a second wave, rushing onwards higher, more furious and menacing than the former, struck him at the height of his chest, threw him over and buried him beneath the water. At the reflux, however, the duke and De Wardes were discovered lying on the strand. De Wardes had fainted. At this moment four of the duke's sailors, who comprehended the danger, threw themselves into the sea, and in a moment were close beside him. Their terror was extreme when they observed how their master became covered with blood, in proportion as the water with which it was impregnated, flowed towards his knees and feet; they wished to carry him. "No, no," exclaimed the duke, "take the marquis on shore first." "Death to the Frenchman!" cried the English sullenly. "Wretched knaves!" exclaimed the duke, drawing himself up with a haughty gesture, which sprinkled them with blood, "obey directly! M. de Wardes on shore! M. de Wardes's safety to be looked to first, or I will have you all hanged!" The boat had by this time reached them; the secretary and steward leaped into the sea, and approached the marquis, who no longer showed any sign of life. "I commit him to your care, as you value your lives," said the duke. "Take M. de Wardes on shore." They took him in their arms, and carried him to the dry sand, where the tide never rose so high. A few idlers and five or six fishermen had gathered on the shore, attracted by the strange spectacle of two men fighting with the water up to their knees. The fishermen, observing a group of men approaching carrying a wounded man, entered the sea until the water was up to their waists. The English transferred the wounded man to them, at the very moment the latter began to open his eyes again. The salt water and the fine sand had got into his wounds, and caused him the acutest pain. The duke's secretary drew out a purse filled with gold from his pocket, and handed it to the one among those present who appeared of most importance, saying: "From my master, his Grace the Duke of Buckingham, in order that every possible care may be taken of the Marquis de Wardes." Then, followed by those who had accompanied him, he returned to the boat, which Buckingham had been enabled to reach with the greatest difficulty, but only after he had seen De Wardes out of danger. By this time it was high tide; embroidered coats and silk sashes were lost; many hats, too, had been carried away by the waves. The flow of the tide had borne the duke's and De Wardes's clothes to the shore, and De Wardes was wrapped in the duke's doublet, under the belief that it was his own, when the fishermen carried him in their arms towards the town. END OF VOL. I. End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ten Years Later, by Dumas [Pere]

Оригинальный текст книги: Библиотека Максима Мошкова.

Источник: The Gutenberg Project

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... Даже и сегодня я по-прежнему не считаю себя писателем в принятом значении слова. Я просто человек, рассказывающий историю своей жизни, и чем дальше продвигается этот рассказ, тем более я его чувствую неисчерпаемым. Он бесконечен, как сама эволюция мира. И представляет собой выворачивание всего сокровенного, путешествие в самых немыслимых широтах, -- пока в какой-то точке вдруг не начнешь понимать, что рассказываемое далеко не так важно, как сам рассказ. Это вот свойство, неотделимое от искусства, и сообщает ему метафизический оттенок, -- оттого оно поднято над временем, над пространством, оно вплетается в целокупный ритм космоса, может быть, даже им одним и определяясь. А "целительность" искусства в том одном и состоит: в его значимости, в его бесцельности, в его незавершимости.

Я почти с первых своих шагов хорошо знал, что никакой цели не существует. Менее всего притязаю я объять целое -- стремлюсь только донести мое ощущение целого в каждом фрагменте, в каждой книге, возникающее как память о моих скитаниях, поскольку вспахиваю жизнь все глубже: и прошлое, и будущее. И когда вот так ее вспахиваешь день за днем, появляется убеждение, которое намного существеннее веры или догмы. Я становлюсь все

7

более безразличен к своей участи как писателя, но все увереннее в своем человеческом предназначении.

Поначалу я старательно изучал стилистику и приемы тех, кого почитал, кем восхищался, -- Ницше, Достоевского, Гамсуна, даже Томаса Манна, на которого теперь смотрю просто как на уверенного ремесленника, этакого поднаторевшего в своем деле каменщика, ломовую лошадь, а может, и осла, тянущего повозку с неистовым старанием. Я подражал самым разным манерам в надежде отыскать ключ к изводившей меня тайне -- как писать. И кончилось тем, что я уперся в тупик, пережив надрыв и отчаяние, какое дано испытать не столь многим; а вся суть в том, что не мог я отделить в себе писателя от человека, и провал в творчестве значил для меня провал судьбы. А был провал. Я понял, что представляю собой ничто, хуже того, отрицательную величину. И вот, достигнув этой точки, очутившись как бы среди мертвого Саргассова моря, я начал писать по-настоящему...

Миллер Валентин Генри
«О себе»