CHAPTER XXIX
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.