PLANS
I left Paris with Lord Falmouth under the weight of an overwhelming
sorrow. Although indifferent at leaving a worldly life for a
peregrination, of whose mysterious end I was still in ignorance, the
memory of affections so incompletely severed, which I was leaving behind
me, would, I knew, pursue me and overtake me in the midst of the
distractions of this journey.
Hélène, Marguerite! sad names which fate cast at me every day as a
cruel joke, a remorse, or as a challenge,--I could not forget you, and
my conscience avenged you!
Once cracked, let the cup be broken! It matters not. But what folly to
cast it still full at their feet! To feel one's lips parched and dry
when one might still drink from a fresh, pure spring! It was frightful.
In analysing my impressions, I recognised everywhere my instinct of
habitual egotism. Never, never did I dream of the horrible wrong that I
had done to Marguerite or to Hélène. I thought always of the great
happiness, the loss of which I deplored.
I was leaving Paris, but I was still held, so to speak, in spite of
myself, to this centre of bitter regrets, by a thousand invisible ties.
If I sometimes allowed myself to entertain the hope of again seeing, of
one day finding, Marguerite again, suddenly the reality of the past came
to check my heart's throb, by one of those quick, heavy, so to speak,
electric blows, which go straight to the soul and make the whole being
tremble painfully.
I was also overcome when I contemplated with what indifference I thought
of my father; and yet if I thought of him, it was to make a sacrilegious
comparison between the trouble that his death had formerly caused me and
the grief of love which I felt.
Must it be, alas! confessed to my shame? In considering with an
experience so unfortunately hasty these different kinds of griefs, this
last pain seemed to me less intense, but more bitter; less deep, but
more violent; less oppressive, but more poignant than the first.
There are, I believe, two orders of suffering: suffering of the heart,
legitimate and hallowed; suffering of pride, shameful and miserable.
The first, however desolating it may be, has no bitterness; it is
immense, but one is proud of this immensity of grief, as one would be of
the religious accomplishment of some great and sad duty!
Then, also, the tears caused by this suffering flow abundantly, and
without any trouble; the soul is disposed to the most touching emotions
of pity, or is full of commiseration and of love; in a word, all
misfortunes are the cherished and respected sisters of our misfortune.
On the contrary, if you suffer for an unworthy cause, your heart is
drowned in hatred; your concentrated grief resembles dumb fury which
shame bridles with a sharp bit that vanity conceals; envy and hatred
gnaw you, but your eyes are dry, and the unhappiness of others can alone
draw from you a sad and mournful smile.
Such, at least, were the two shades of grief, very defined, which I felt
after the death of my father, and after my rupture with Hélène and
Marguerite.
That was not all. Scarcely had I left Paris with Lord Falmouth, than, by
a miserable caprice, I regretted having undertaken this journey; not
that I feared its results, but I should have preferred to be alone, in
order to have looked my sorrow well in the face, to have struggled with
it hand to hand, and, perhaps, to have triumphed over it.
I have often found when one suffers, nothing is more fatal than to wish
to be distracted from one's grief.
If during some moments you become stupefied by your misfortunes, the
awakening is horrible.
When you find yourself suddenly precipitated into an abyss of moral
suffering, after the terrible shock which stuns, which bruises even the
most delicate fibres of your heart, that which is, above all, most
frightful, is this sudden night, black and profound, of the soul, which
does not permit one to see even the thousand wounds by which it is torn.
Frightfully bruised, you lie annihilated in the midst of a chaos of
nameless pains; then, little by little, thought follows the vertigo. As
sight becomes accustomed to distinguishing the objects in the gloom, you
begin, so to speak, to recognise yourself in your despair.
Then, sinister and fading as spectres, slowly one by one the harrowing
regrets of the past spring up around you, and the charming visions of a
future which will never be; then appear before you the phantoms of the
happiest, the most radiant, the most brilliant hours of former
times,--for your grief forgets nothing,--the most distant echo, the
faintest perfume, the most mysterious murmur, all are mercilessly
reproduced in your thoughts; but this mirage of a lost happiness is
strange and sinister. You believe you see a magnificent landscape,
bathed in azure, of light and sun, across the glassy pupil of a dying
man, and all seems veiled in a gray and sepulchral mist.
The suffering is then in its paroxysm, but it can only diminish; it is
sharp and penetrating, but it can be analysed; your enemies are
numerous, are threatening, are terrible, but you see them, you can fight
them.
You struggle so, or, like a wounded wolf, which, in the depths of its
cave, awaits his recovery only in time, wrapped in your solitary
suffering, you can, near or far, assign a term to your grief, and hope,
at least, in forgetfulness. Forgetfulness,--this only inexorable reality
of life! Forgetfulness,--this fathomless ocean, wherein come unceasingly
to be lost all sorrow, all love, and all curses.
And yet, strange impotency which is called human philosophy! You know
that one day,--that soon, perhaps,--time must efface many griefs, and
this certain conviction can in no way calm or alleviate your torment.
It is for this reason, I repeat, that it has always seemed to me that to
divert oneself from one's sorrow, instead of confronting it resolutely,
is to begin each day this cruel initiation of suffering, instead of
exhausting it by its own excess.
It will therefore be seen that, in the disposition of mind in which I
found myself, this journey, adventurously undertaken, might sometimes
seem to me painful.
We had travelled the whole night. We were about forty leagues from
Paris. Falmouth awakened soon, took me by the hand, and said: "Night
induces counsel. Now that I reflect upon everything, my plan may seem
very stupid to you. I also wish to tell you my secret while we are still
quite near to Paris, in order that you may be able to return there
to-night, if what I have to propose is not agreeable to you."
"Let us see,--tell me this mysterious plan."
"Here it is, then," replied Falmouth. "Do you know the Yacht Club?"
"Yes,--and you are, I believe, one of its members."
"Well, as such I own a charming schooner now moored off the Islands of
Hyères, near Marseilles. This schooner is armed with eight carronades,
and equipped with a crew of forty men."
"It is, then, a veritable cruise which you propose to me?"
"Almost; but you should first know that the crew of my yacht, from the
captain to the last sailor, is entirely devoted to me."
"I can readily believe it."
"You should know further that my yacht, which is named the _Gazelle_, is
worthy of its name; it does not sail, it bounds over the water. It has
three times beaten the brig of Lord Yarboroug, our president, in the
races at the Isle of Wight, and has taken the prize of the Yacht Club;
in a word, there is not a warship of the royal navy of France or of
England, that my yacht cannot distance as easily as a race-horse
outstrips a cart-horse."
"I know that nearly all these pleasure-boats of your aristocracy swim
like fishes; but what more?"
"Life now seems to you weary and monotonous, does it not? Well, would
you like to give it some savour?"
"Without doubt."
"But first," said Falmouth, with an air of grave sarcasm, "I must
declare to you that I am not the least in the world friendly to the
Greeks; on the contrary, I have a leaning, and a very marked inclination
towards the Turks."
"What?" I said to him, in astonishment. "And what connection is there
between our journey and the Turks or friendliness towards the Greeks?"
"A very simple connection: I am going to propose to you to go to
Greece."
"For what?"
"Have you heard of Canaris?" said Falmouth.
"Of that intrepid corsair, who has already burned all the Turkish
vessels with his fireships? Certainly."
"Ah, well, and have you never been tempted to go to see that?"
"But go to see what?"
"Go to see Canaris set fire to a Turkish vessel?" replied Falmouth, with
the most indifferent air in the world, and as if it had been a question
of taking part in a race, or visiting a manufactory.
"I confess," I replied, unable to suppress a smile, "that until the
present moment I have never had such a curiosity."
"It is surprising," replied Falmouth; "for myself, for six months I have
dreamed only of Canaris and his fireships; and I have had my yacht
brought from the Isle of Wight to Marseilles with the only intention of
gratifying this fancy; so that if you consent to it we will set out from
Marseilles for Malta, on board my schooner. Once arrived at Malta, I
shall obtain authority from Lord Ponsonby to serve with my yacht, in aid
of the Greeks, although, I repeat, I am not friendly to the Greeks, and
go to increase the squadron of Lord Cochrane. Now if you wish, for a few
months, we will lead a life on board ship, which will have a little of
the life of wandering knights or of pirates. We shall find there
dangers, combats, tempests,--who knows? Finally, all kinds of things
new, and a little adventurous, which will take us out of this worldly
life which weighs upon us, and we shall perhaps have the pleasure of
seeing my fixed idea realised, that of seeing Canaris burn a Turkish
vessel, for I shall not die satisfied until I shall have seen that. What
do you say to it?"
Although I thought Falmouth's taste a singular one, experimenting with
incendiaries, I saw no serious objection to his proposition. I was
unacquainted with the Orient; my thoughts had often wandered with love
towards its beautiful skies. This idle and sensual life had always
charmed me; and then, although having travelled much already, I had no
idea what a voyage somewhat serious might be, and I felt a sort of
curiosity to know how I might face some great danger.
Aside from the risks which one might run in associating with one of
Canaris's expeditions, I knew that, since the Grecian insurrection, the
Archipelago was infested with pirates, either Turks, renegades, or
Algerians, and that a boat as weak as Falmouth's had every chance of
being attacked. Upon the whole, this proposition did not displease me,
and I replied, after a long silence, the result of which Falmouth
appeared to await with impatience:
"Although, be it said to my great shame, the curiosity to see Canaris
burn a Turkish ship is not positively what decides me, I agree entirely
with your plan, and you may consider me one of the passengers on your
schooner."
"Then we shall be together there for a long time!" said Falmouth to me.
"So much the better, for I have to free you well from prejudices."
I looked at him with surprise, and begged him to explain himself; he
evaded.
The object of our voyage decided, it was expedient that we should set
out from the Hyères Isles for Malta upon our arrival at Marseilles.
Little by little the sight of exterior objects, the experiences of the
journey, calmed or rather benumbed my sufferings; but it was with
uneasiness that I yielded to this sort of transient well-being. I knew
that my griefs would soon return, keener than before. This beneficent
sleep must have a cruel awakening. It must be said, too, that Falmouth
showed the most affectionate cordiality, the most amiable cheerfulness
of a most even character.
His conversation and his wit, moreover, pleased me greatly; I had
sincerely appreciated his delicacy and his gracious kindness at the time
of his relations with Hélène's husband.
In spite of my apparent coldness, and my continual sarcasms against
friendship,--this sentiment to which I pretended to be so
indifferent,--I felt at times drawn towards Falmouth by a lively
sympathy.
Then, I repeat, this voyage appeared to me under a charming aspect;
instead of regarding it as a disagreeable and tiresome distraction, I
had golden dreams in thinking of all that might be agreeable, if I saw,
if I met in Falmouth a tender and devoted friend.
There were the long and intimate conversations of the voyage, hours so
favourable for disclosing one's inmost thoughts, and for confidences;
there were the cruises, fatigues, even perils to share as brothers in an
unknown country,--confidences, cruises, fatigues, perils, that might be
so pleasant to recall later, in saying to each other, "Do you remember?"
Sweet words, sweet echo of the past which makes the heart leap!
"Without doubt," I said to myself, "the satiety of pleasures is bad, but
at least happily surfeited are they who, satiated with all the
delicacies of the most refined existence, have the valiant caprice to go
to temper again their souls at the conflagration of Canaris."
Interpreted in this manner, was not this voyage noble and grand? Was
there not something touching and chivalrous in this community of dangers
so fraternally shared?
When I quietly yielded to these impressions their beneficent influence
softened my heart, so grievously occupied; a precious balm shed itself
upon my wounds, I felt better; I still sorrowfully deplored the past,
but I no longer hated it, and the generous faith that I had in myself
for the future soothed the bitterness of my regrets.
Finally, during the pure and pious aspirations of my heart towards a
consoling friendship, I could not express the happiness which
transported me; as God embraces with a single glance all the ages of
eternity, with the sudden radiance of my young hope it seemed to me to
disclose all at once the horizon of the happiness which I imagined, a
thousand new raptures, a thousand enchanting joys, with these words, "a
friend." I felt awaken within me the noblest instincts, the most
generous enthusiasm. I was then, doubtless, well worthy of inspiring and
of sharing this great and lofty sentiment, for I felt all the sympathy
of it, I understood all the pious duties in it, and I experienced all
the happiness of it.
But, alas! this ecstasy lasted but a short time, and from this radiant
sphere I often fell again into the black abyss of the most detestable
doubt, of the most humiliating scepticism.
My distrust of myself and my fear of being the dupe of the feelings
which I experienced became magnified to the most suspicious monomania.
Instead of believing Falmouth attracted to me by a sympathy equal to
that which I felt for him, I sought to learn what interest he could have
had in inviting me to accompany him. I knew his fortune to be so large
that I could not see in his offer any desire to diminish by half the
expense of the voyage that he wished to make by proposing to me to
undertake it with him. Nevertheless, in thinking of the contradictions
of human nature, so extreme and so inexplicable, and of the more than
modest simplicity which Falmouth assumed at times, I did not regard this
miserable afterthought as absolutely inadmissible.
Without disclaiming this shameful supposition, I still saw in his
proposition the disdainful indifference of a man, blasé, who would take
by chance, indifferently, the arm of the first who came along,--take a
long promenade, provided this first comer followed the same direction as
himself.
Such were the mental reservations which often came in spite of myself to
blemish a future which I sometimes dreamed of as so beautiful!
Oh, my father! my father I how fatal is the terrible gift which you have
made me, in teaching me to doubt! I have put on your armour of war, but
I have not been able to fight with it; it crushes me under its weight.
Driven back, turned back upon myself, I feel my feebleness, my misery,
and I exaggerate it still more.
We arrived at Marseilles and soon at the Hyères Islands without any
remarkable episode.