twelve-foot skiff I always used at night, I stopped for a few moments to catch my breath by that headland of reedsâover there, about two hundred yards before the railroad bridge. The weather was wonderful: the moon shining brightly, the river brilliant, the air calm and mild. This serenity was so tempting. What a nice spot, I thought, for a few puffs on my pipe. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than I was grabbing my anchor and tossing it into the river.
âMy boat, borne back downstream on the current, ran out its chain to the end, and stopped. I settled in the stern on my sheepskin as comfortably as I could. There was not a sound to be heard, not a single soundâexcept now and then I thought to discern a gentle, almost imperceptible lapping of water against the shore, and I could make out the taller stands of reeds, which took on surprising shapes and seemed, at times, to move.
âThe river was perfectly serene, but I felt moved by the extraordinary silence around me. Every creatureâfrogs and toads, those carolers of the night marshâwas quiet. Suddenly, to my right, as if to cross me, a frog croaked; I gave a start. It fell silent. I heard nothing now, and decided to keep smoking a bit to take my mind off. Now Iâve cured my share of pipes in my day, but it was no use. By the second puff I felt sick to my stomach, and quit. I started humming, but found the sound of my own voice hard to bear, so I stretched out in the bottom of the boat and gazed at the skies. For a few moments, I was at peace, but soon the slight swaying of the boat began to unsettle me. It seemed to be yawing violently from side to side, touching either riverbank in turn; then I fancied some being or invisible force was tugging it gently to the very depths before lifting it again and letting it fall. I was tossed about as if by a storm; I heard noises all around; I leapt to my feet. The water lay glittering, utterly calm.
âI knew my nerves were a bit shot, and so I decided to move on. I pulled on my chain. The boat began to move, and then I felt some resistance. I pulled harder; the anchor wouldnât give. It had caught on something in the depths and I couldnât lift it; I began tugging again, but to no avail. I took up my oars, turned the boat, and brought it upstream to change the anchorâs position. No good: it still wouldnât budge. I grew furious and wrathfully rattled the chain. Nothing stirred. I sat down, discouraged, and began to think about my predicament. There was no way I could break the chain, nor separate it from the boat, for it was massive and fastened to the bow in a piece of wood bigger than my arm. But since the weather was still quite wonderful, I thought it wouldnât be long before some other fisherman came along to rescue me. My misadventure had settled my nerves; I sat down and found that I could smoke my pipe at last. I had a bottle of rum. After two or three glasses, my situation seemed comic. It was very warm, so warm that if I had to, I could spend the night outside without any harm.
âSuddenly, a little bump sounded against the hull. I leapt up, and a cold sweat chilled me from head to toe. The sound was probably some bit of wood carried on the current, but it was enough: once more, I was overcome by a strange nervous agitation. I seized the chain and pulled on it with all my might in another desperate attempt. The anchor held. I sat down again, exhausted.
âBit by bit, a thick white mist had crept across the river, low over the low water, such that when I stood up I could no longer see the river, or my feet, or even the boat, but only the tips of the reeds and, in the distance, the fields completely pale by the light of the moon, with great black patches rising into the sky, formed by stands of Lombardy poplars. It was as if I were buried to the waist in a woolen layer of singular whiteness, and the wildest fantasias occurred to me. I imagined that
âMy boat, borne back downstream on the current, ran out its chain to the end, and stopped. I settled in the stern on my sheepskin as comfortably as I could. There was not a sound to be heard, not a single soundâexcept now and then I thought to discern a gentle, almost imperceptible lapping of water against the shore, and I could make out the taller stands of reeds, which took on surprising shapes and seemed, at times, to move.
âThe river was perfectly serene, but I felt moved by the extraordinary silence around me. Every creatureâfrogs and toads, those carolers of the night marshâwas quiet. Suddenly, to my right, as if to cross me, a frog croaked; I gave a start. It fell silent. I heard nothing now, and decided to keep smoking a bit to take my mind off. Now Iâve cured my share of pipes in my day, but it was no use. By the second puff I felt sick to my stomach, and quit. I started humming, but found the sound of my own voice hard to bear, so I stretched out in the bottom of the boat and gazed at the skies. For a few moments, I was at peace, but soon the slight swaying of the boat began to unsettle me. It seemed to be yawing violently from side to side, touching either riverbank in turn; then I fancied some being or invisible force was tugging it gently to the very depths before lifting it again and letting it fall. I was tossed about as if by a storm; I heard noises all around; I leapt to my feet. The water lay glittering, utterly calm.
âI knew my nerves were a bit shot, and so I decided to move on. I pulled on my chain. The boat began to move, and then I felt some resistance. I pulled harder; the anchor wouldnât give. It had caught on something in the depths and I couldnât lift it; I began tugging again, but to no avail. I took up my oars, turned the boat, and brought it upstream to change the anchorâs position. No good: it still wouldnât budge. I grew furious and wrathfully rattled the chain. Nothing stirred. I sat down, discouraged, and began to think about my predicament. There was no way I could break the chain, nor separate it from the boat, for it was massive and fastened to the bow in a piece of wood bigger than my arm. But since the weather was still quite wonderful, I thought it wouldnât be long before some other fisherman came along to rescue me. My misadventure had settled my nerves; I sat down and found that I could smoke my pipe at last. I had a bottle of rum. After two or three glasses, my situation seemed comic. It was very warm, so warm that if I had to, I could spend the night outside without any harm.
âSuddenly, a little bump sounded against the hull. I leapt up, and a cold sweat chilled me from head to toe. The sound was probably some bit of wood carried on the current, but it was enough: once more, I was overcome by a strange nervous agitation. I seized the chain and pulled on it with all my might in another desperate attempt. The anchor held. I sat down again, exhausted.
âBit by bit, a thick white mist had crept across the river, low over the low water, such that when I stood up I could no longer see the river, or my feet, or even the boat, but only the tips of the reeds and, in the distance, the fields completely pale by the light of the moon, with great black patches rising into the sky, formed by stands of Lombardy poplars. It was as if I were buried to the waist in a woolen layer of singular whiteness, and the wildest fantasias occurred to me. I imagined that
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