AFLOAT

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_April 6th._

I was sound asleep when my skipper Bernard awoke me by throwing up sand

at my window. I opened it, and on my face, on my chest, in my very

soul, I felt the cold delicious breath of the night. The sky was a

clear blue gray, and alive with the quivering fire of the stars.

The sailor, standing at the foot of the wall, said:

"Fine weather, sir."

"What wind?"

"Off shore."

"Very well, I'm coming."

Half-an-hour later I was hurrying down to the shore. The horizon was

pale with the first rays of dawn, and I saw in the distance behind the

bay _des Anges_ the lights at Nice, and still further on the revolving

lighthouse at Villefranche.

In front of me Antibes was dimly visible through the lifting darkness,

with its two towers rising above the cone-shaped town, surrounded by

the old walls built by Vauban.

In the streets were a few dogs and a few men, workmen starting off to

their daily labour. In the port, nothing but the gentle swaying of the

boats at the side of the quay, and the soft plashing of the scarcely

moving water could be heard; or at times the sound of the straining of

a cable or of a boat grazing against the hull of a vessel. The boats,

the flagstones, the sea itself seemed asleep under the gold-spangled

firmament, and under the eye of a small lighthouse which, standing out

at the end of the jetty, kept watch over its little harbour.

Beyond, in front of Ardouin's building yard, I saw a glimmer, I felt a

stir, I heard voices. They were expecting me. The _Bel-Ami_ was ready

to start.

I went down into the cabin, lighted up by a couple of candles hanging

and balanced like compasses, at the foot of the sofas which at night

were used as beds, I donned the leathern sailor's jacket, put on a warm

cap, and returned on deck. Already the hawsers had been cast off, and

the two men hauling in the cable, had brought the anchor apeak. Then

they hoisted the big sail, which went up slowly to the monotonous

groan of blocks and rigging. It rose wide and wan in the darkness of

the night, quivering in the breath of the wind, hiding from us both sky

and stars.

The breeze was coming dry and cold from the invisible mountain that one

felt to be still laden with snow. It came very faint, as though hardly

awake, undecided and intermittent.

Then the men shipped the anchor, I seized the helm, and the boat, like

a big ghost, glided through the still waters. In order to get out of

the port, we had to tack between the sleeping tartans and schooners.

We went gently from one quay to another, dragging after us our little

round dingy, which followed us as a cygnet, just hatched from its

shell, follows the parent swan.

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As soon as we reached the channel between the jetty and the square fort

the yacht became livelier, quickened its pace, and seemed more alert,

as though a joyous feeling had taken possession of her. She danced

over the countless short waves,--moving furrows of a boundless plain.

Quitting the dead waters of the harbour, she now felt under her the

living sea.

There was no swell, and I directed our course between the walls of the

town and the buoy called _Cinq-cents francs_ (Twenty pounds sterling)

that marks the deeper channel; then, catching the breeze astern, I made

sail to double the headland.

The day was breaking, the stars were disappearing, for the last time

the Villefranche lighthouse closed its revolving eye, and I saw strange

roseate glimmers in the distant sky, above the still invisible Nice;

the heights of the Alpine glaciers lighted up by the early dawn. I gave

the helm over to Bernard, and watched the rising sun. The freshened

breeze sent us skimming over the quivering violet-tinted waters. A bell

clanged, throwing to the wind the three rapid strokes of the _Angelus._

How is it that the sound of bells seems livelier in the early dawn,

and heavier at nightfall? I like that chill and keen hour of morn,

when man still sleeps, and all Nature is awakening. The air is full of

mysterious thrills unknown to belated risers. I inhale, I drink it; I

see all life returning, the material life of the world; the life that

runs through all the planets, the secret of which is our eternal puzzle.

Raymond said:

"We shall soon have the wind from the east."

Bernard replied:

"More likely from the west."

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The skipper Bernard is lean and lithe, remarkably clean, careful and

prudent. Bearded up to his eyes, he has a frank look and a kindly

voice. He is devoted and trusty. But everything makes him anxious at

sea; a sudden swell that foretells a breeze out at sea, a long cloud

over the Esterel mountains announcing a _mistral_ to westward, even

a rising barometer, for that may indicate a squall from the east.

Moreover, a capital sailor, he exercises a constant supervision and

carries cleanliness to such an extent, as to rub up the brasses the

moment a drop of water has touched them.

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His brother-in-law, Raymond, is a strong fellow, swarthy and

moustached, indefatigable and bold, as loyal and devoted as the

other, but less variable and nervous, more calm, more resigned to the

surprises and treachery of the sea. Bernard, Raymond and the barometer

are sometimes in contradiction with each other, and perform an amusing

comedy with three personages, of which one, the best informed, is dumb.

"Dash it, sir, we're sailing well," said Bernard.

We had, it was true, passed through the gulf of La Salis, cleared La

Garoupe, and were approaching Cape Gros, a flat low rock stretching out

on a level with the water.

Now, the whole Alpine mountain range appeared, a monster wave

threatening the sea, a granite wave capped with snow, where each

pointed tip looks like a dash of spray motionless and frozen. And the

sun rises behind this ice, shedding over it the light of its molten

silver rays.

Then directly after, as we round the Antibes headland, we discover the

Lerins Isles, and further off behind them, the tortuous outline of the

Esterel. The Esterel is the stage scenery of Cannes, a lovely keepsake

kind of mountain of faintest blue, elegantly outlined in a coquettish

and yet artistic style, washed in water-colours on a theatrical sky by

a good-natured Creator for the express purpose of serving as model for

English lady landscape painters, and as a subject of admiration for

consumptive or idle royal highnesses.

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With each hour of the day, the Esterel changes its aspect, and charms

the gaze of the _upper ten._

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In the morning the chain of mountains, correctly and clearly cut out,

is sharply delineated on a blue sky; a tender and pure blue, the

ideal blue of a southern shore. But in the evening, the wooded sides

of the slopes darken and become a black patch on a fiery sky, on a

sky incredibly red and dramatic. Never have I seen elsewhere such

fairy-like sunsets, such conflagrations of the whole horizon, such an

effulgence of clouds, such a clever and superb arrangement, such a

daily renewal of extravagant and magnificent effects which call forth

admiration but would raise a smile were they painted by men.

The Lerins Isles, which to the east close the Gulf of Cannes and

separate it from the Gulf of Juan, look themselves like two operatic

islands placed there for the satisfaction and delight of the invalid

and winter sojourners.

Seen from the open sea, where we now are, they resemble two dark

green gardens growing in the water. Out at sea, at the extreme end

of Saint-Honorat stands a romantic ruin, its walls rising out of the

waves, quite one of Walter Scott's castles, ever beaten by the surf,

and in which, in former days, the monks defended themselves against the

Saracens; for Saint-Honorat always belonged to monks, except during the

Revolution. At that period the island was purchased by an actress of

the _Comédie-Française._

Stronghold, militant monks, now toned down into the fattest of

smilingly begging Trappists, pretty actress come thither no doubt

to conceal her love affairs in the dense thickets and pines of this

rock-belted islet; all, down to the very names; "Lerins, Saint-Honorat,

Sainte-Marguerite," fit for Florian's fables, all is pleasing,

coquettish, romantic, poetic and rather insipid on the delightful

shores of Cannes.

To correspond with the antique manor embattled, slender and erect,

which looks towards the open sea at the extremity of Saint-Honorat,

Sainte-Marguerite is terminated on the land side by the celebrated

fortress in which the Man in the Iron Mask and Bazaine were confined.

A channel about a mile long stretches out between the headland of the

Croizette and the fortress, which has the aspect of an old squat house,

devoid of anything imposing or majestic. It seems to crouch down dull

and sly, a real trap for prisoners.

I can now see the three gulfs. In front, beyond the islands, lies

that of Cannes; nearer, the Gulf Juan, and behind the bay des Anges,

overtopped by the Alps and the snowy heights. Further off, the coasts

can be seen far beyond the Italian frontier, and with my glasses I can

sight at the end of a promontory the white houses of Bordighera.

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And everywhere, all along the endless coast, the towns by the seashore,

the villages perched up on high on the mountain side, the innumerable

villas dotted about in the greenery, all look like white eggs laid on

the sands, laid on the rocks, laid amongst the pine forests by gigantic

birds that have come in the night from the snowlands far above.

Villas again on the Cape of Antibes, a long tongue of land, a wonderful

garden thrown out between the seas, blooming with the most lovely

flowers of Europe, and at the extreme point, Eileen Rock, a charming

and whimsical residence that attracts visitors from Cannes and Nice.

The breeze has dropped, the yacht hardly makes any progress. After the

current of land wind that lasts all night, we are waiting and hoping

for a whiff of sea air, which will be most welcome, wherever it may

blow from.

Bernard still believes in a west wind, Raymond in an east one, and the

barometer remains motionless at a little above 76.

The sun now radiant, overspreads the earth, making the walls of the

houses sparkle from afar like scattered snow, and sheds over the sea a

light varnish of luminous blue.

Little by little, taking advantage of the faintest breath, of those

caresses of the air which one can hardly feel on the skin, but to which

nevertheless lively and well-trimmed yachts glide through the still

waters, we sail beyond the last point of the headland, and the whole

gulf of Juan, with the squadron in the centre of it, lies before us.

From afar, the ironclads look like rocks, islets, and reefs covered

with dead trees. The smoke of a train runs along the shore between

Cannes and Juan-les-Pins, which will perhaps become later on the

prettiest place on the whole coast.

Three tartans with their lateen sails, one red and the other two white,

are detained in the channel between Sainte-Marguerite and the mainland.

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All is still, the soft and warm calm of a morning's springtide in the

south; and already it seems to me as if I had left weeks ago, months

ago, years ago, the talking, busy world; I feel arise within me the

intoxication of solitude, the sweet delights of a rest that nothing

will disturb, neither the white letter, nor the blue telegram, nor the

bell at my door, nor the bark of my dog. I cannot be sent for, invited,

carried off, overwhelmed by sweet smiles, or harassed by civilities. I

am alone, really alone, really free. The smoke of the train runs along

the seaside; while I float in a winged home that is rocked and cradled;

pretty as a bird, tiny as a nest, softer than a hammock, wandering over

the waters at the caprice of the wind, independent and free! To attend

to me and sail my boat, I have two sailors at my call, and books and

provisions for a fortnight.

A whole fortnight without speaking, what joy! Overcome by the heat of

the sun I closed my eyes, enjoying the deep repose of the sea, when

Bernard said in an undertone:

"The brig over there has a good breeze."

Over there it was true, far away in front of Agay, a brig was advancing

towards us; I could distinctly see with my glasses her rounded sails

puffed out by the wind.

"Pooh, it's the breeze from Agay," answered Raymond, "it is calm round

Cape Roux."

"Talk away, we shall have a west wind," replied Bernard.

I leant over to look at the barometer in the saloon. It had fallen

during the last half hour. I told Bernard, who smiled and whispered:

"It feels like a westerly wind, sir."

And now my curiosity awakens; the curiosity special to all those

who wander over the sea, which makes them see everything, notice

everything, and take an interest in the smallest detail. My glasses no

longer leave my eyes; I look at the colour of the water on the horizon.

It remains clear, varnished, unruffled. If there is a breeze, it is

still far off.

What a personage the wind is for the sailors! They speak of it as of

a man, an all-powerful sovereign, sometimes terrible and sometimes

kindly. It is the main topic of conversation all the day through, and

it is the subject of one's incessant thoughts throughout the days and

nights. You land folk, know it not! As for us, we know it better than

our father or our mother, the invisible, the terrible, the capricious,

the sly, the treacherous, the devouring tyrant. We love it and we dread

it; we know its maliciousness and its anger, which the warnings in the

heavens or in the depths, slowly teach us to anticipate. It forces

us to think of it at every minute, at every second, for the struggle

between it and us, is indeed ceaseless. All our being is on the alert

for the battle; our eye to detect undiscernible appearances; our skin

to feel its caress or its blow, our spirit to recognize its mood,

foresee its caprices, judge whether it is calm or wayward. No enemy,

no woman gives us so powerful a sensation of struggle, nor compels

us to so much foresight, for it is the master of the sea, it is that

thing which we may avoid, make use of, or fly from, but which we can

never subdue. And there reigns in the soul of a sailor as in that of a

believer, the idea of an irascible and formidable God, the mysterious,

religious, infinite fear of the wind, and respect for its power.

"Here it comes, sir," Bernard said to me.

Far away, very far away, at the end of the horizon, a blue-black line

lengthens out on the water. It is nothing, a shade, an imperceptible

shadow; it is the wind. Now we await it motionless, under the heat of

the sun.