A Voyage to the Island of the Articoles. Andre Maurois
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A VOYAGE TO THE ISLAND OF THE ARTICOLES
A VOYAGE TO THE
ISLAND OF THE
ARTICOLES
ANDRÉ MAUROIS
TRANSLATED BY
CHARLOTTE DE KOCH
TURTLE POINT PRESS
NEW YORK
Published by Turtle Point Press
Copyright © 2012 by Turtle Point Press
All rights reserved
ISBN 978-1-933527-63-5
Design and composition by Quemadura Cover art: Marina Adams, Who’s Afraid of Red, White & Blue? (2007)
Contents
TO THE COUNTESS
ANDRÉ DE FELS
A VOYAGE TO THE ISLAND OF THE ARTICOLES
I WISH to speak here only of the Articoles, of their customs and my adventures among them; I am saving the story of what took place before our arrival on their island for my great work, The Pacific, still some two or three years from completion. But if the reader is to understand the partial account that follows, it is necessary for me to indicate, in brief, how the voyage came about.
My father, Jean Chambrelan, was a ship owner of modest means; I spent almost all my childhood with him at Fécamp and Etretat. My greatest pleasure was to go out with the fishermen in those old, pot-bellied boats known locally as caloges. This is how I acquired a sailor’s instincts at a very young age—and by “sailor” I mean someone who can handle a ship and navigate in all weathers. For me, the modern sailor, aboard a torpedo boat or a steam yacht, is but an adventurous mechanic who drives a racing car out at sea.
My friends the fishermen thought highly of “the young gentleman from Fécamp,” and, in their company, I became dangerously accustomed to being treated with too much respect. When my parents sent me to school in Paris, where my Normandy accent was made fun of, I took an immediate dislike to my fellow humans. I was the lonely schoolboy who wanders the playground with his hands in his pockets and no friends. I needed sympathy, but my diffidence wouldn’t allow me to inspire it.
Happily, the war caught me just as I was leaving school, plunging me into a life that suited my odd nature. The danger, the hardship, the filth of the shelters, the cold and the rain didn’t frighten me; what I feared was direct contact with human beings. I was soon an officer, and army discipline built around me the shell I needed. A minor escapade put the finishing touch to my reserve; wounded, I fell in love with a rather pretty nurse during my stay in hospital, and wanted to marry her. She refused. I got into the habit of avoiding women’s company when I was on leave.
The armistice and the coming of peace were sad events for me, as they were for many young men. What was I to do? I hadn’t learned a trade. My father had died during the war and his ships had been sold; my only enthusiasms were for the sea and the soldier’s life. I tried staying in the army, but barrack life is very different from being on campaign. My shyness turned into neurasthenia; everything that pleased my comrades struck me as pointless and boring. In 1922, I gave my resignation. My mother had recently died and left me a little money; I was thinking of leaving for the colonies.
At this time, a young Frenchman, Gerbault, crossed the Atlantic alone in a little 11-meter cutter, and published the journal of his voyage. This came to me as a revelation. A solo voyage! Exactly what I was made for—except that I was more tempted by the Pacific than by the Atlantic. Great reader of Stevenson, Schwob and Conrad that I was, I had always longed to see those islands with exquisite names: Butaritari, Apemama, Nonuti. Even the word “atoll” enchanted me; I imagined a crystal crown encircling a lagoon of darkest blue. Just as I feared European women their coquetry and caprice, so I was attracted by what I imagined a primitive woman to be: faithful and quiet, a sensual little animal.
It took an hour for me to make up my mind.
At the end of his book, Gerbault gave some practical advice to those who might wish to follow in his footsteps. In particular, he described the kind of boat to use, and gave a list of accessories and supplies. I made myself a budget and realized that I ran the risk of running out of money very quickly. I discussed the situation with my solicitor, who suggested I go to see a few of the big newspapers, or a publisher, in hope of obtaining funds by publishing an account of my voyage. It was good advice; I was able to sign two lucrative contracts, obtain advances and commission my little boat. This was a ten-ton vessel, decked throughout and Bermuda-rigged.
The newspaper I had signed a contract with naturally wished to play up the importance of my expedition by announcing it beforehand to its readers, and asked me for an article on my plans. I duly laid out my itinerary, describing some of the places I intended to visit. Throughout the following week, I received the most surprising letters, forwarded to me by the newspaper. Most of my correspondents wanted to accompany me. I realized then that my state of mind—my horror of social life, my desire to escape from it—is far more common today than one might suppose. A fair few officers of the Russian Navy, who had become cab drivers or doormen in Paris, asked to go with me as my crew. Nature lovers, movie theater projectionists and short-order cooks offered their services. But women especially begged me to take them with me: “I have been so unhappy . . . I will be your slave . . . I will mend your sails and cook your meals . . . you will treat me like a servant . . . I must leave France, I must!” said one. “I saw your photo in the papers,” wrote another candidate, “you look unhappy, but kind, and you have nice eyes.” My mailbag amused me, but I had decided to go alone.
Anne’s letter was one of the last to arrive. Even before I opened it I knew it was different from the others. I liked the plain paper, the neat writing, the even firmness of the hand. “I do not know, Monsieur, if you are worthy of this letter; I will know by the tone of your response—if you do reply, which is unlikely. I have just read your article; you are going to do what I can only dream of. I have always loved the sea more than anything; when I am on land I dream of the smell of tar, the harsh wind, the sheets of saltwater lashing those on deck. The Pacific Islands . . . to read what you wrote was to hear my own thoughts given voice. And so here it is: I am a widow, very young, quite well off and completely free; I would like to go with you. Please understand that I am not offering to be your bedmate, but your shipmate only. I think this is possible. I am sure to be of use to you; I know nothing of your qualities as a sailor, but all my friends (some of whom are rough, plainspoken Englishmen)