by Eugène Sue
In these moments I believed thoroughly that I recognised the pirate with whom I had fought. This idea became so fixed in my mind that, in spite of my resolve to say nothing on the subject, I could not help asking Williams if he was perfectly sure of the man.
“As sure as one can be of anything! Our marine council of the port of Malta never gives a pilot’s commission except to reliable and experienced men. This man showed me his patent, it is according to the regulations. Besides, you can see for yourself what a skilful sailor he is, and I begin to believe he was right. Though we are sheltered by the land, you see how the ship is straining under the violence of the wind. Such a storm, with a strong current setting in towards the coast, would have easily wrecked the yacht.”
“You may think I am out of my mind,” said I to Williams, after some hesitation, “but I am sure I know who this pilot is.”
“Who is he, monsieur?”
“The pirate captain that I fought with, and that I thought was at the bottom of the sea.”
“It is so dark that I can’t see your face, monsieur,” said Williams, “but I am sure you are laughing at me.”
“No; I swear I am speaking very seriously.”
“But, monsieur, remember that is quite impossible. I tell you that the position of a pilot is only given to trustworthy men; they cannot leave their posts except to pilot ships that wish to enter the harbour. Remember that the mysterious pirate had already been anchored for more than a month off Porquerolles before my lord’s yacht got to the island of Hyères. Remember that — but,” said Williams, interrupting himself, and leaving me, “there is the moon rising, and the clouds are clearing away; the moonlight will help us to get to the anchorage. Excuse me, monsieur, but I am going to get out the anchors.”
The reasons Williams gave me were not at all convincing, though they seemed sensible. However, seeing that the hour of debarkation was approaching, and that experienced sailors considered that the pilot had managed the ship very skilfully and prudently, I was forced to suspend my judgment, for, so far, no one had a word of reproach for the man I suspected.
The doctor came up on deck, gave me the news of Falmouth, and asked how I was feeling.
“The fresh air has done me good,” said I, “and my wound pains me less.”
“Thanks be to God for that,” said he. “My lord is feeling better also; his contusion was a bad one, but the effect will soon go off. Just now he was able to walk by himself. The pilot was right,” added the doctor, as he pointed to the waves; “see how calm the sea is growing, now that we are getting near the shore of the island.”
In fact, sheltered from the violence of the wind by the circle of high rocky hills that form the southern shore of Malta, the waves were going down more and more. Soon the moon, coming entirely out from the clouds that had hidden her until now, shone brightly on an immense wall of rocks which was stretched out before us, the waves dashing against their base.
The yacht was then a cannon’s shot distant from the shore we were sailing past; the pilot-boat was a little way behind us.
“Are we almost to the harbour of Marsa-Siroco?” said Williams, who knew the different anchorages of the island.
“We will very soon be there; but, as we have to pass between the Black Rocks and the Point de la Wardi, and as the passage is very dangerous on account of the breakers, I will, if you please, monsieur, take the rudder,” said the pilot to Williams. On a sign from the latter, the helmsman left the bar.
I remember all this as though it happened yesterday.
I was seated on the bulwarks.
Before me stood Williams, very near the pilot who bad taken the helm, looking attentively at the compass, the shore, and the sails of the yacht The doctor, leaning over the stem, watched the sea in our wake. At some distance we could see the pilot-boat; she did not appear to be following us any more, but was going in another direction. This was very singular, I thought In front of us, and very close at hand, rose an enormous mass of perpendicular rocks.
Though the sea had become much more calm, it was still raised by a tremendous swell whose waves crashed against the shore with a formidable noise.
The pilot had ordered another sail to be put up, no doubt to augment the speed of the yacht This was scarcely done when a frightful cry was heard from the bow, “Helm aport! We are on the breakers!”
I never knew how the pilot obeyed this order, or how he managed the yacht; for, at the instant the cry of warning was heard, a horrible crash, followed by a loud, cracking sound, stopped the yacht short.
The shock was so violent that I, Williams, and two of the sailors, were thrown on the deck.
“The yacht is ashore!” cried Williams, as he got up. “Damn the pilot!”
My wound prevented me from rising as quickly as Williams. I was still lying on the deck, when some one rushed past me rapidly, a heavy body fell into the sea, and the pilot was no longer to be seen at the helm or on the deck.
Remembering my suspicion of the man, and forgetting the danger we were in, I rose up, and saw, at a gunshot’s distance from us, the pilot-boat; its sailors were rowing hard towards a black spot, surrounded by foam, that I could easily see in the moonlight.
It was the pilot, who was swimming to get back to his “A gun! Give me a gun!” I cried eat. “I knew it was he!”
At this moment the yacht struck for the second time on the rocks, and the mainmast fell, with a terrific crash.
Following the crash, there was a moment of silence and stupefaction, in which I heard these words in French, “Remember the mystic of Porquerolles!”
It was the pirate, — the yacht was a wreck.
The last scene of this drama was so confused, so hurried that I can scarcely recall it. Everything was confusion and chaos, frightful scenes followed one another, as thunder-claps succeed one another in a storm. At the third shock the yacht was raised up by an immense wave, and fell with all its weight on a ledge of sharp rocks. Already split in two, the keel went to pieces. I heard the water rushing into the ship’s hold with a horrible sound.
The ship had filled with water!
In spite of my wound, which kept one of my hands bound to my side, I was about to jump into the sea, when I saw Falmouth come up from below; he was assisted by Williams.
At this moment another great wave took the ship sideways, and completely engulfed it.
I felt myself rolling to the edge of the ship, then I was lifted up and stunned by a crushing weight of water which passed over me roaring like thunder.
From that moment I lost all perception of what was happening to me.
All that I can remember is that I felt a frightful weight. I stifled when I opened my mouth for breath. I swallowed great mouthfuls of warm salt water, my ears were bursting with pain, a great weight prevented me from seeing. I felt that I was drowning. With all this, I continued my desperate efforts to swim. Then I seemed to breathe more freely. I saw the sky, and near me a mass of reddish rocks. I felt a strong hand raise me by my hair, and I heard the voice of Falmouth, who said, “Now we are quits! Good-bye.”
I remembered nothing more, for I very soon fell into a painful numbness, and then became insensible.
DAPHNÉ — NOÊMI — ANATHASIA
CHAPTER V.
THE ISLAND OF KHIOS.
I FIND THIS fragment of memoirs written a year after the wreck of Lord Falmouth’s yacht off the coast of Malta.
If I had the least literary pretension, I would not dare to say that these pages, written on the spur of the moment, depict very accurately the enchanting scenes in the midst of which I had been living for the last year in the sweetest of far-nientes.
In truth, the paradise I had created for myself seems to come again before my eyes, with its luxury of antique beauty, its palace of white marble gilded by the sunshine, its intoxicating perfumes coming from the orange groves that stand off against the blue sky that frames so magnificently the dark waters of the coast of Asiatic Europe.
That y
ear should have been the happiest year of my life; for those few charmed days never caused me the least moral suffering. Not once did I feel any remorse, not once did I feel my heart.
But, alas! why was not the soul killed in such scenes of happiness? Why was not the mind overpowered by the senses? Why did thought survive the struggle?
Thought! that power of man! Man’s true power, in fact; for it is fatal, like all powers.
Thought, that blazing crown, that burns and consumes the forehead that wears it!
According to my custom of classifying pleasant memories, I had entitled this fragment, “Days of Sunshine.”
The light and careless tone that frequently appears in this souvenir offers a singular contrast to the sombre and heart-breaking events of the former chapters in this journal.
Days of Sunshine.
ISLE OF KHIOS, 20 June, 18 — .
I know not what the future has in store for me, but, as I often said in my days of sadness and desolation, “one must distrust one’s self more than one’s destiny.” I hope one day, as I read these pages, to be able to see again the smiling scenes amidst which I am now living so happily.
I write this the 20th of June, 18 — , in the palace of Carina, situated on the eastern coast of the island of Khios, about a year after the loss of the yacht.
In that great peril, poor Henry saved my life. In spite of his wound, he was swimming vigorously towards shore, when, seeing me about to drown, for I could scarcely use my left arm, he seized me with one hand, and, fighting the waves with the other, he landed me on the shore in a dying condition.
My strength was quite exhausted by the excitement of the combat, by my wound, and by my desperate efforts at the time of the wreck; for I was for many long days a prey to burning fever and wild delirium from which I was restored to health by the excellent care of the doctor whom Falmouth had left behind.
I was so dangerously ill that I had to be carried to Marsa-Siroco, a little Maltese suburb, near the coast where the yacht had gone ashore. I remained in that village until my complete recovery, when the fever left me, and I was able to converse; the doctor told me the circumstances I have just recorded, and handed me a letter from Falmouth, which I copy in this journal.
“After all, my dear count, I prefer haring saved you from drowning, to having put a bullet in your head, or perhaps having received from you a similar proof of friendship.
“I hope that the vigorous douche that you have received will have a good effect on you, and save you from another fit of insanity.
“My plans are changed, or rather become what they were at first. I desire more than ever to satisfy my fancy about that incendiary, Canaris; but as that diabolical piratical pilot (May he come to the gallows!) has wrecked my poor yacht, I have chartered a vessel at Malta, and am off for Hydra.
“Good-bye. If we ever meet again we will laugh at all this.
H. FALMOUTH.
“P. S. I leave you the doctor, for the Maltese doctors are said to be detestable. He will hand you a letter of recommendation to the lord governor of the island.
“Send me the doctor when you have no further need of his services.”
I have become so stupid from the life of pleasure I have been leading, that I scarcely remember the effect this sarcastic letter had on me.
When I arrived at Malta I called on Lord P — , who showed me great courtesy. He caused active search to be made for the pretended pilot. That wretch had actually been at one time a member of the Royal Navy, but, for two years past, he had given up his position as pilot in the island of Malta.
A description of him was sent throughout the whole Archipelago, where he was supposed to be engaged in piracy.
At Lord P— ‘s I met a certain Marquis Justiniani, a descendant of that ancient and illustrious family, the Justiniani of Genoa, which had given dukes to Venice and sovereigns to some of the Grecian islands. The marquis owned many country places in the island of Khios, which had just been ravaged by the Turks. He spoke to me about a palace called the Carina Palace, built towards the end of the sixteenth century by the Cardinal Angelo Justiniani. The marquis had for a long time rented the palace to an aga. The description of the palace and the climate seduced me, so I proposed to go to Khios, to visit the palace and the park, and to rent or buy the place if it suited me.
We left together, and disembarked here after a three days’ voyage. The Turks had left bloody traces of their passage everywhere; they were in garrison in the castle of Khios.
As I was a Frenchman, thanks to the firm attitude of our navy and our consuls in the Orient, I would be in perfect security in case of my deciding to dwell in Khios.
I inspected the palace, it suited me, and the business was settled.
The next day my interpreter brought to me a renegade Jew, who proposed that I should purchase a dozen beautiful Grecian slave girls, the spoils of the last Turkish raid in the islands of Samos and Lesbos.
Of these twelve girls, the eldest of whom was only twenty, there were. three who were too refined and delicate to be put to work, and were therefore suitable for companionship.
The nine others, tall, robust, and very beautiful, could work either in the garden or in the house. He only demanded two thousand piastres apiece, about five hundred francs of our money.
In order to induce me to buy them, the renegade told me, confidentially, that a Tunisian officer, purveyor of the Bey’s harem, had made him an offer; but that he liked to see his slaves well treated and so preferred selling them to me, knowing what harsh treatment the poor creatures would receive on board the Barbary chebek that was to take them to Tunis.
I expressed a desire to see the slaves.
The marvellous type of Grecian beauty has been so well preserved in this favoured clime, that, out of these twelve girls of every sort and condition, there was not one who was not really pretty, and three of them were perfectly beautiful women.
The bargain concluded, I sent the twelve women to the Carina Palace with two negro dwarfs, who were so deformed as to be positively picturesque, that the renegade presented me with by way of a contrast. They were all under the surveillance of an old Cypriote, that the Jew recommended as a housekeeper.
This sudden resolution to go to the Isle of Khios, and there to live at leisure, forgetting all things and every one, had been suggested to me a year ago, by the torturing remembrance of the great sorrow that overwhelmed me.
After my quarrel with Falmouth, whom I had so basely provoked, fully aware that I was unworthy of all generous affection, since I was constantly seeking the meanest motives, I believed that a perfectly sensual life would admit of neither these fears nor doubts.
What had made me so unhappy until now? Was it not from a dread of being deceived by my feelings? The dread of being mistaken should I allow myself to love? What, then, should I risk in devoting the remainder of my life to material love?
Nature is so rich, so fecund, so inexhaustible, that I can never weary of admiring her marvels, from henceforth I would doubt of nothing.
The perfume of a beautiful flower is not imaginary, the splendours of a magnificent landscape are real, beautiful forms are not deceptive. What interested motive could I impute to the flower that perfumes the air, the bird that sings, the wind murmuring softly through the leaves, the sea breaking on the beach, to nature, that unfolds so many treasures, colours, melodies, and fragrances?
It is true I will be all alone to enjoy these marvels, but solitude pleases me. I possess a deep sense of material beauty, which will be sufficient to make up for my want of faith in moral beauty.
The sight of luxuriant nature, of a fine horse or dog, a flower or a beautiful woman, or even a lovely sunset, has always given me exquisite pleasure, and though religious faith is unfortunately lacking in me, when I behold the splendours of creation I always feel transports of heartfelt gratitude towards the unknown power that heaps such treasures on us.
Regretting the faculties of which I am deprived, I will at le
ast make the most of those I possess; and since I can not be happy through the mind, let me be so through the senses.
This I said to myself, and I was not mistaken, for never have I enjoyed such perfect happiness.
Falmouth was the best, the noblest of men. I know it. But when I compare my present life of felicity with the life of study and politics that Henry depicted in such glowing colours, the only thing I regret is the friendship that I destroyed by my awful suspicions.
Henry was quite right when he said that idleness was the source of all my miseries; so I have spent my time in the making of living pictures on which I can at all times gaze. It has taken much toil, and even study, to surround myself with all these marvels of creation, to get together all the scattered riches of this Garden of Eden.
Sages may tell ns that these are but childish pleasures, but it is their simplicity that constitutes their pleasantness.
Serious immaterial joys are but perishable, while the thousand little pleasures a youthful nature can always discover in his reveries, though trifling and momentary, are constantly being renewed, for the imagination that produces them is inexhaustible.
Now that I have lived in such adorable independence, the life of society, with its exigencies, appears to me as a sort of order whose rules are as strict as those of the “Trappists.”
I do not know which I would prefer, to be comfortably clothed in a serge gown, or cramped up in a tight coat; to breathe the pure fresh air of the garden I cultivated or the stifling atmosphere of a crowded salon; to kneel through the service of matins, or to stand all evening at some reception. In fact, I think I should as willingly choose the meditative silence of the cloister as the chatter of the salon; and say with about as much interest, “Brother, we must die,” of the religious order, as “Brother, we must amuse ourselves,” of the social order.