CHAPTER XII
THE ALEXINA
Such were the impressions left upon me by a year's sojourn in the island of Khios, such the motives of my abrupt departure for France on board the Russian frigate Alexina.
Having introduced in its proper place this fragment of my journal of former days, I resume my narrative.
I find myself in a state of mind eminently suitable to take up this narrative and follow up the incidents, be they gay or sad, pathetic or tragic.
The last and violent emotions that I have felt since my journey to the East, up to this moment when I am writing these lines, have so worn out my heart, I find myself so indifferent to the future and the past, that I can relate this new episode of my life with the most profound detachment, as if it in no way concerned me.
The reading of these pages, dated from the island of Khios, and written in the East three years ago, has still further increased my indifference to all that relates to myself.
When I once again return to calmness and reason, I find myself so unquiet, so restless, so frenzied, so little made for the happiness which fate seemed to bestow on me (perhaps for the very reason that I never would profit by it), that I judge myself with an extreme and perhaps unjust severity.
From the point of view in which I have placed myself, having but little self-esteem, being prejudiced against myself, deficient in pride and self-conceit, I exaggerate still more my defects, and the absence of vanity in my character often prevents my esteeming at their full value some truly generous actions of which I might be justly proud.
Hence, I believe if these pages were ever made known (which never can happen, as I shall take good care to prevent it), they would give a very poor opinion of my character.
And yet, would many have acted as I have?
If formerly I attributed to Hélène the most hateful duplicity, have I not in my despair attempted everything, done everything, to repair my fault? Had she been willing to accept my hand, would I not have given up to her my fortune? And later, when I became aware that Frank was poor, did I not come to his assistance as delicately as I could?
If I have been unjustly cruel towards Marguerite, at least I had for a long time courageously defended her against the calumnies of the world, even before I was known to her.
And that duel,—that fierce duel of which she has ever been ignorant?[5]
If, led astray by an attack of incurable frenzy, I outrageously insulted Falmouth, had I not saved his life at the risk of mine?
The good I have done certainly does not acquit me of the evil imputed to me, but is it not dreadful to think that all that was worthy and noble in my conduct will ever vanish under the flood of bitterness and hate to which my distrust gave birth?
But after all, what matter is the past now to me! These lines are written that I may once more see the events of my life roll by before my eyes; that they may shorten the long and weary hours of solitude in which I live at present at Serval, in the old and gloomy ancestral castle so long abandoned by me.
We therefore left the island of Khios in perfect ignorance as to the fate of Du Pluvier.
Although we entered the equinox, the crossing was fine, though frequently delayed by contrary winds.
The Russian sailors appeared to me quite different from the English. These are submissive to the hardships of the most despotic military discipline; they are, by nature and custom, full of deference for the officers belonging to the highest aristocracy, officers of whom they are above all proud, just as negroes pride themselves in belonging to a white master rather than to a mulatto. Everything in them, however, reveals that unconquerable national pride, that insolent British arrogance, which renders the English sailor one of the best sailors in the world, because he is always driven or sustained by an exaggerated sentiment of his own value, and by his profound faith in the superiority of his own country over all other maritime nations.
Now, however deluded they may be, fanaticism and faith always work prodigies.
The Russian sailors, on the contrary, displayed a passive, almost religious, obedience, a blind resignation, a mechanical submission to the will of their superiors, in whom they almost appeared to acknowledge a nature superior to their own. One felt, indeed, that a word, a sign, from these officers might elevate the resignation and intrepid devotion of the Russian sailors, even to the heroism of personal self-sacrifice.
Strange difference between the character of these two people and that of the French,—of the French, sometimes strictly obedient, but never respectful, gaily obeying superiors, of whom they make fun, or bravely dying for causes which they revile!
I was led to these various reflections by observing the calm customs, almost cloister-like, prevailing on board the Russian frigate, which, after a few days, caused a very strange reaction upon us passengers.
Nothing, in fact, was more singular than the appearance of this vessel; it was silence amidst the solitude of the waters. Except the orders of the officers, not a word was ever heard. Mute and attentive, the crew answered to the orders of the officers only by the noise of the manœuvres, which were executed with mechanical precision.
At sundown, the chaplain read prayers, all the sailors humbly kneeling, after which they descended into the forecastle.
But everywhere and always, an inexorable silence. If they were whipped for some fault, never a cry; if they rested from their labours, never a song.
The captain and his lieutenant, at whose table M. and Madame Fersen, as well as I, sat, were well-bred men, and excellent sailors, but their minds were not remarkably cultivated.
M. de Fersen read almost incessantly from a collection of French dramatic works.
Madame de Fersen and I, therefore, were left almost isolated in the midst of this little colony; neither men, things, nor events could distract us from our individual preoccupations.
In the midst of this profound calm, this seclusion, this silence, the slightest fancies became firmly impressed on the frame of so simple a life; in a word, if one may so express it, never was canvas more evenly prepared to receive the impressions of the painter, however varied, however eccentric, they might be.
At noon we assembled for breakfast, followed by a walk on deck; then M. de Fersen returned to the reading of his beloved plays, and the officers to their nautical observations.
Madame de Fersen usually occupied the saloon of the frigate; thus every day I chatted with her with scarcely any interruption from two o'clock until the approach of the dinner-hour caused her to withdraw and make a fresh, and always charming, toilet.
After dinner, when the weather permitted, coffee was served on deck. Once more we took a walk, and about nine o'clock we again assembled in the saloon.
Madame de Fersen was an excellent musician, and would often seat herself at the piano, to the great delight of the prince, who then begged her to accompany him in some vaudeville airs, which he sang remarkably well. At other times, one of the officers of the frigate, who had a pleasant voice, sang some quaint and very agreeable Russian songs.
With music and conversation, in which M. de Fersen took an active part, and which he enlivened with sparkling and refined gaiety, the evening passed agreeably until eleven o'clock, at which hour tea was served, after which each one retired as he felt disposed.
It may be seen that, apart from the limit of the walks, we led the life of a château, the most intimate and the most secluded.
On the third day after our departure from Khios, an incident occurred, very slight, apparently, but which had, which was bound to have, a very strange influence on my destiny.
Madame de Fersen had a little daughter called Irene, towards whom she displayed a fondness almost approaching idolatry. It was impossible to dream of anything more perfect, more ideal, than this child.
She was of a severe and stately beauty. Many mothers would have preferred for their daughters a more childish and smiling face. I must acknowledge I myself could not avoid, at times, a feeling of sadness, while gazing on this adorable countenance, expressive of an indefinable melancholy, incomprehensible at so tender an age.
Irene's brow was broad, her complexion bore a healthy pallor, and her rounded checks denoted robust health. Her dark brown hair, very abundant, fine, and silky, curled naturally about her neck; her large eyes, of a liquid and velvety black, had a remarkably deep look, more especially when, with that faculty natural to children, she would gaze at you fixedly, without lowering the dark fringes of her eyelids. Her nose was slender and beautiful, her mouth small and coral red, and her lower lip slightly pouting and disdainful, if disdain had not seemed incompatible with her youth. Her form, her hands, and her feet were of a rare perfection.
Irene, by a touching superstition of her mother's, after a long illness, had been dedicated to wear only white; the almost religious simplicity of this garb gave marked individuality to her appearance.
As I have already stated, it was the third day of our departure from Khios.
Irene, who until then had appeared to observe me with a kind of restless mistrust, and who by degrees had become more friendly, came resolutely towards me and said, with childish solemnity:
"Look at me, that I may see whether I am going to love you."
Then after having fixed upon me one of those long, piercing glances of which I have spoken, and which compelled me to lower my eyes, Irene continued:
"Yes, I shall love you very much." And after a renewed silence, she turned to Madame de Fersen, saying:
"Yes, my dear mother, I shall love him very much. I shall love him as I loved Ivan!"
In saying these words, her childish face assumed such a fascinating expression of gravity that I could not avoid smiling.
But my astonishment was great when I saw Madame de Fersen look with amazement, first at Irene, and then at me, as if she attached a great importance to what her little girl had just said to me.
"Although I have nothing now to envy the happy Ivan, this is a declaration, madame, which I much fear will be forgotten ten years hence," said I to the princess.
"Forgotten! Irene forgets nothing. See her tears at the remembrance of Ivan."
In fact two large pearls were rolling down the child's cheeks, while she continued to fix upon me a glance at once sweet, sad, and questioning.
"But who, then, was Ivan?"
Madame de Fersen's features darkened, and she answered me, with a sigh: "Ivan was one of our relatives who died quite young,"—she hesitated a moment,—"died a violent and frightful death two years ago. Irene had become so attached to him that I was almost jealous. I can hardly tell you of the incredible grief of this child when she no longer saw Ivan, for whom she asked incessantly. She was then four years old, and so deep was her sorrow that she fell seriously ill, and came nigh unto death. At this time it was that I dedicated her to the wearing of white, and implored God to spare her to me. But what astonishes me exceedingly, is that, for the past two years, you are the only person to whom Irene has said that she would love him."
Irene, who had listened to her mother with all attention, now took my hand, and, with an almost inspired air, she raised to heaven her eyes still wet with tears, and said:
"Yes, I shall love him like Ivan, for soon he will go up there, like Ivan."
"Irene, my child, what are you saying? Ah, pardon her, monsieur!" cried Madame de Fersen, almost with terror, looking at me with an imploring glance.
"Were I even to purchase it with the same end as poor Ivan," said I, smiling, "allow me, madame, the enjoyment of so touching an affection."
I am neither weak nor superstitious, but I can hardly describe the strange impression produced upon me by this childish speech which I will explain presently. There is no half-way. Such incidents are either of the utmost absurdity, or they act powerfully on certain minds.
By a happy chance, M. de Fersen came in at this moment to beg his wife to accompany him in a vaudeville song, and thus a strange scene came to an end.
I noticed that Madame de Fersen did not mention to her husband the strange declaration that Irene had made me.
That day, after dinner, the princess complained of a bad headache, and retired to her room.
[5]Here some lines were erased in the "Journal of an Unknown." The narrative of this duel not being found in the episode of Madame de Pënâfiel, and Arthur again alluding to it at the time of the pirate's fight against the yacht, it is probable that this omission was the result of an involuntary or premeditated forgetfulness.—Note by the Author, E. S.