Perhaps he somehow somehow thought

When Gaud came to see him in the evening, he found him in the same position, barefoot, hands relaxed, head on a stone wall, twisting his mouth and complaining “hii, hii, hii!” as a little child, he could hardly cry: when the grandmother’s ruins become too old, they no longer have tears in their dry eyes.

– My grandson is dead!

And he threw letters, papers, and honor upon him.

Gaud eyed the paper quickly, so it was true, and he fell on his knees to pray.

They sat together, both women, almost silent, as long as the June twilight lasted – and it’s long in Brittany, Iceland it doesn’t end at all. Behind the furnace there was a circus ringing of Sirkka, who was predicting happiness. And the yellowish light of the evening flooded the window of the Moan’s cottage, where the sea had been stripped of everything that was now extinct…

Finally Gaud said:

– I come, honey, to live with you, I have that bed that they have left with me, I care for you, that you don’t have to be alone.

He died of Sylvestre’s friend, but his grief interfered with his will with another thought: – he thought of what was far from fishing.

Yannkin’s point would know that Sylvestre was dead; the creators just had to leave this time. Did he even kill him?… Probably because he loved him… And in the middle of his own sorrow he thought a lot about this thing; when he angered him because of his hardness, when he was asleep when he thought that they had the same sorrow as they approached each other; – In a word, he thought Yannia.

On the good night of August, a letter that brought Yann’s knowledge of his brother’s death came to “Mary” in the Icelandic Sea; It was after a heavy and very tiring day, just when she was going to eat and lie down. With a sleepy eye, he read the letter in a miserable cabin, in the yellow light of a small lamp, and at the first moment he remained numb, stunned, as he wouldn’t have understood it correctly. , as seamen tend to do, without saying a word.

He only knew he was not courageous enough to sit down with others to eat soup, and without bothering to explain why, he threw himself into his bed and slept in the same.

He saw a dream that Sylvestre was dead, and that his funeral had been spent.

At midnight, – when he was in a strange state of sailors, that he knew the time in his dream and felt the moment he was approaching when he would be awakened to his watch, – he was still present in these immigrants. And he said:

– I see sleep; fortunately they come to wake me up and sleep disappears.

But when the heavy hand touched him and the voice sounded saying, “Gaos! – get up, stop the men!” he heard a paper rumbling with his side – a horrible voice that testified that Sylvestre was indeed dead. – Oh, that’s the letter!. – And now it made an enormous, more cruel impression, and he jumped up suddenly from his sleep and hit his wide forehead in the roof beam.

Then she dressed and opened the door to go to work, to fish.

When Yann came to the deck, he watched his wide, familiar, familiar ocean surface with his sleepy eyes.

That night, the infinite goat dressed in a surprisingly simple look, it was completely colorless, it just seemed deep.

The skyline did not express any particular region on the earth, nor any geological era, probably many times since the beginning of the times when it was now; When you looked at it, you didn’t think you could see anything – nothing more than all the eternity that is and can’t be.

It wasn’t even the night. Particle light waste, light did not come anywhere. The sea sprang like a way, lamenting its eternal appeal. It was a gray, dark gray color that escaped the view. – When resting on his mysterious rest, while sleeping, it was hidden under vague colors that have no name.

There were clouds in the sky here, they were some form, because no object can be without shape; but in the twilight they almost melted into a big veil.

But at one point in the sky, down, near the water, there was a clearer streak, even though it was very far away; it was when the light drawing, the drawing of the distracted hand, created by chance, it was not intended to be viewed, it could disappear at any time. – It alone, in the whole being, seemed to be meaningful, when the sad, incomprehensible idea of ​​this emptiness was written in it; – And inadvertently the eyes were attached to it eventually.

According to Yann’s affectionate eye blades getting used to the prevailing twilight, he was increasingly looking at this solitary intrigue of heaven; it looked like a sinking creature that stretched out its hands. And once it had got its shape in his eyes, it started to look like a ghost of a great man, a great, giant, because it came so far.

In her imagination, in which I was shaking my dark dreams and old front beasts, she became confused by the dark shadow that was visible in the dark sky, the memory of her dead brother, and that was the last expression of her.

He was accustomed to the strange associations of concepts that arise, especially at the beginning of life, in the brain of children… But the words, if they are bleak, are too precise to express such concepts; it requires the vague language that is sometimes spoken of in dreams, and which, when awakened, remembers but clues like mysteries that do not mean anything.

Looking at that cloud, he felt deep sorrow; strange and strange, who was left in his soul: now he just realized that his brother’s park would never return, never again. The grief that had been difficult to penetrate through the hard and coarse shell in his heart now filled it up to the edges. He saw Sylvestre’s gentle face and his childish, tender eyes; and when he thought to embrace him, so suddenly, without his knowledge, he came like a veil to his eyes, and first he did not understand what it was because he had never cried in his hardened life. – But great tears began to drain on his cheeks, and his deep breasts rose into sneezes.

He continued his fishing quickly, without wasting time and saying nothing, and both of them who heard it were not discerning, for they were afraid of annoying him when they knew proud and indifferent.

… According to his understanding, death was the end of everything…

Even so, he also, with respect, shared the prayers that the families read for the dead, but he did not believe in the immortality of the soul.

When they discussed these things with the sailors, they all said the same, briefly and surely no one would suspect it. But it did not prevent them from being afraid of ghosts, creepy burials, great confidence in the saints and the protection of their images, and respecting the blessed land surrounding the churches.

Yann, on the other hand, was afraid of being caught by the sea, as if it would make it more dead than the other death, and the thought that Sylvestre had stayed far beyond the globe made her sorrow more desperate and gloomier.

I would like to bother others, he wept without trying to curb it and shame, as if he were alone.

… Around him, the space gradually became brighter, although the clock was barely two, and at the same time it seemed to expand, go to infinity, deepen horribly. When the day came, the eyes opened more than usual, and the alert mind better understood the infinity of distance; but the boundaries of the horizon seemed to be progressing.

It was a pale light, but it increased; and it seemed to increase by impetus, gradually; it was as if behind the infinity there would have been a fire to come, as the flames of the white lamps would gradually be raised behind the deformed, gray clouds; – Slowly raised, mysteriously cautious, as long as it would have been frightening to disturb the heavy sleep of the sea.

The large white lamp under the skyline was the sun, which in vain spent its time, before it went on a slow, cold walk, above the waters, to start the morning…

That morning there was no dawn, everything remained pale and dark. And “Mary” on the deck cried a man, great Yann …

These rigid brother of natural tears and even more melancholy surrounding were the only mourning, which was celebrated in honor of an unknown hero improvement, and it was held at sea in Iceland, where he lived half of their lives …

When it was a full day, Yann suddenly wiped his eyes with a woolen sleeve and didn’t cry any more. It was over. He seemed perfectly attached to his fishing work, to the real and current affairs of the monotone, and did not seem to think anything else.

Otherwise, the fish were abundant and had full working lines.

There was a new change around the fishermen, in infinite space. The great play of the morning had come to an end, could no longer be seen so far away, on the contrary, the distance seemed to begin to approach them. How recently the sea could have looked so vast! The skyline was now very close, almost feeble. The space was filled with light curtains that were flowing in the air, others were lighter than the steam, others crouched about to see. They descended lightly, silently, like a white muslin that didn’t press; But when it landed at the same time, they seemed to be hanging, heavy when they saw the air they had to breathe.

It was the first August fog that was born. After a few minutes, the diaper was equally dense and impervious; Nothing else could be seen around the “Mary” when the pale humidity that the light shed; not even the ship’s track could be seen.

– There is now again the evil of the mist, the men said.

They knew well from the end of this fishing season of this inexorable partner; but it also announced that the point in Icelandic waters would end, the time approaching when Bretagne would return.

As fine, flickering drops, fog settled on their parrots, making their brown skin shine from moisture. When one looked at the other end of the boat to another, he saw an obscure ghost; In contrast, closer objects were more clearly seen in dimly pale light. They avoided mouth open breathing; because then the cold and damp feel penetrated up to the chest.

At the same time, fishing was getting better and better, they were no longer able to speak, and fish was made; every moment he heard the deck of dropping large fish, they rattled wildly, leaning on his tail with his tail; everywhere there was sea water and small, silver glossy scissors that splashed around. The sailor, who broke their stomachs with a large knife, wounded his fingers in his hurry and his red blood interfered with salt water.

This time, they could be ten days measuring one in a thick fog without seeing anything. The fish catch remained good, and when there was a lot of work, it wasn’t so bad. Even after that, a certain time, some of them blew a bell, giving birth to a sound like a drunken beast. Sometimes one of the distant fog replied another mole to their feeding. Then there were two more alert. If the voice approached, everyone tucked their ears towards an unknown neighbor, which they would probably never see, but whose proximity was dangerous. We tried to guess who it was; it was fun, followed, and willing to see it, they tightened their eyes, feeling their gaze through inconceivable, difficult veils that were still hanging all over the air.

Then it proceeded and the horn of the horn drifted away to the dumb distance; they were alone in silence in the midst of infinite, immobile vapors. Everything was wet, where salty water dripped. The air got colder, the sun stayed longer and deeper under the sky; there were already the right nights that lasted one or two hours, and whose twilight was gloomy and icy.

Every morning, the depth of the water was measured, “Mary” was afraid of the Icelandic island coming too far. But all the ropes of the ship in succession would not have stretched to the bottom of the sea: they were drinking, deep, safe waters.

Life was fresh and hard; The cold cold increased the evening’s sweetness, when it was at a warm dove, at least when it came to mourning, eating or lying down.

During the days, these men who were more separated from the rest of the world when the monks were calling were very few. Each one cared for his fishing line, one hour after another in the same spot without moving, his hands just continuing his fishing effortlessly. They were two, three meters apart and eventually they didn’t see each other.

Quiet fog, white twilight entertained the dream of the mind. In their fishes, they sang something of their son’s song, half-hearted, that the fish would be scared. Thoughts became slower and fewer; they seemed to stretch, last longer, so that they could fill the time, leaving no gaps, empty spots, They no longer thought of women because they were already cold; but they dreamed of scattered, miraculous dreams, like sleeping, and the dreams of these dreams were as confusing as fog…

The misty August usually decided to be in Iceland every year in this quiet and sad way. Otherwise they always lived the same fresh life, the breasts swelled and the runners got harder.

Yann had come back again, as if his great sorrow had already settled: he was brisk and spiked, as accurate in the craft’s care as in fishing, and his behavior could not decide to worry about him: otherwise he spoke to others only when it happened to him and it didn’t happen often; he moved his head upright and looked indifferent and commanding at the same time.

When they were eating in their worn-out dinner at night, under the faience of the fiancée, when they sat in a big knife in front of a plate of hot food, it sometimes happened that he was laughing like a joke.

Perhaps he somehow somehow thought of Gaudiak, which Sylvestre probably had given him as his wife in his last thoughts …

But Yann’s heart was a virgin area, it was difficult to control and it was little known, there were things that didn’t appear on the surface.