A Voyage to the Island of the Articoles. Andre Maurois
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strength than I alone possess. As far as money goes, we would split the cost of the boat, of our equipment and the voyage, exactly in half. Things to worry about: none. I am alone in the world; no one will ask you to account for me. Why am I writing to you and not to one of my sailor friends? Because such adventures as yours are rare, and because the names of the poets you mention in your article demonstrate that we have much in common. My address: 39 quai Bourbon, Île Saint-Louis. My telephone number: Gobelins 31–35. If you would like to see me, let me know; I will meet you on a day and at a time that suits you, except for Tuesday and Saturday mornings when I attend classes at the Museum.”
Why did I reply? It was against all I had promised myself. The letter pleased me. There was something straightforward and masculine in its style that reassured me. The name, Anne de Sauves, was pretty. “Why not see her?” I asked myself, already finding excuses for changing my plans. If she undertook half the expenses, we would be able to set off without money worries, perhaps even prolong our voyage a little. And the onboard accommodation was spacious given the small size of the vessel; it would be easy to establish two berths and separate them with a partition. When I went to see Mme de Sauves, I was already prepared to give in; the moment I saw her, my mind was made up. While it couldn’t be said that she was completely pretty, her face had the fresh, agreeable neatness of her writing. And her voice was enchanting; even now, four years later, her disposition seems beyond compare. Not only was I never embarrassed in her presence, but the very idea of her making me feel uncomfortable struck me as absurd. She spoke plainly, without digression or hesitation; our conversation was, above all, that of two sailors. Five minutes after meeting, we began to sketch the sails and make lists of supplies.
Anne’s idea was to have only two sails—mainsail and jib—and no bowsprit, but my ship was already in the yard; in any case, with two of us, handling it would be easy enough. She was astonished to learn that I had commissioned my boat to be built in France. The most convenient port of departure for a cruise in the Pacific was San Francisco: Why not have it built there from our plans? She had friends in America who could supervise the work. This seemed sensible and I promised to try to get the contract I had signed in Saint-Nazaire canceled amicably. I was already referring to “our boat.”
I asked her to tell me something of her life. She had been raised in the Vendée by a strict family, who had, without consulting her, married her off to a rich, elderly neighbor at the age of eighteen. She had lost her parents and her husband during the war. She had not been happy, as a child or as a wife, “But I don’t see myself as a tragic case: I was never that unhappy, and I have a sense of humor that allows me to see the funny side, even in my darkest moments.” She clearly liked to do things right; everything in her house gave the impression of meticulous attention to detail. What little furniture she had was “just so.” The walls were bare. There were no knickknacks, but plenty of books; I noticed handbooks on navigation, swimming and medicine.
When our meeting was over, her car was waiting at the door, and she brought me back to the center of Paris herself. She drove well: silently, without effort.
THE FULL STORY of our voyage from San Francisco to Honolulu will, as I have said, appear in another work. It will suffice to note here that the crossing was successful. Our boat, the Allen, sailed well. At first we felt obliged to take watch by turns, but we soon realized that, with the tiller lashed and the helm roped fast, we could sleep through the night and wake to find ourselves still more or less on course. We encountered three storms, including a pretty bad one during which Anne proved her courage.
She was, as I had known since our first meeting, the ideal companion for a voyage. A good organizer, she had bought all our provisions in San Francisco, and, during the crossing, had cooked us simple and wholesome meals. She didn’t know what it was to be bad-tempered. In moments of danger she was levelheaded, her movements precise; I took to calling her “Your Serene Highness.” With much in common we had fallen into an affectionate and familiar relationship. Anne didn’t want to be courted, or protected; it is perhaps something of a letdown to say we lived as brother and sister, but this is the most accurate depiction of our relations. However, I must add, for the record, that my own feelings were more complicated; I often thought I felt tenderness—desire, even—for Anne, but then I hastened to get on with some work or to think about something else.
From the Hawaiian Islands it was my intention to go to Tahiti, making a slight detour to see the Marquesas and the Tuamotu Islands en route. Honolulu had disappointed me—an American Monte Carlo—and it seemed to me that the great rings of white coral glittering above the sea would be some new sights at last. About twenty days out from Honolulu, our instruments showed a longitude of 161.2° west and a latitude of 5.3° north. This meant we were approaching the Line Islands, a group of rocky and barren islands, but on which—according to Findlay’s Almanack—there is an English cable repair station, where I was counting on replenishing our fresh water supply.
Toward evening we ran into an area of dead calm with a rather high sea. Little waves, cresting in foam, snapped at the Allen’s bows in a rapid, irregular rhythm. Then a fresh breeze sprang up and a great bar of cloud, black as ink, formed low on the horizon. The wind soon became strong and the Allen began to list. It was hot as a boiler. We had already seen some nasty squalls, but we quickly realized they had been child’s play compared to this one. The sky was black with clouds, pushed along at great speed by the wind. Huge waves broke on board and the deck was soon under water; we were foundering in the sea. Dousing the sails and lashing the tiller gave us some respite, but still we had to cling to the mast or risk being swept overboard. Standing in the gale, her hair disheveled, but with a calm expression and an almost happy air, Anne was superb—a goddess of the sea. Toward midnight, when it was clear we could do nothing and the waves were even higher, she said, “Let’s go belowdecks and rest.” The hatch covers remained in place, but everything was swimming in water below. Still, we were so exhausted that, after pumping as best we could, we soon fell asleep.
Some hours later a strange noise woke me; it sounded as though something was banging against the Allen’s hull, and with considerable force. Was it day or night? We couldn’t see a thing and our boat was listing like the side of a roof—it was impossible to stand upright. On all fours, I climbed onto the deck. The clouds were so low and so thick that, although it was daylight, we couldn’t see more than thirty meters ahead. The waves were terrifying. Our bowsprit had snapped and was banging against the side of the boat. Why hadn’t I listened when Anne had asked me to do without one! The hatch of the sail locker had been torn off. The Allen was little more than a wreck. I called Anne; the bowsprit was in danger of coming through the hull, and I needed her help to cut it adrift. “I think we’re lost!” I said to her. She took a deep breath of salty air and smiled.
After an hour’s work, during which I was almost thrown overboard all of twenty times, I managed to cut the bowsprit free. That was one less thing to worry about. A hot blinding rain beat down on our faces. We went belowdecks again. Our clothes had been completely torn to pieces in the course of this arduous work, but, when Anne went to change, she found all our cases flooded. More serious was that our instruments were in disarray, my chronometer was nowhere to be found and Anne’s watch was smashed. The Findlay and our nautical charts were a sodden, pulpy mass—if we survived the storm, we would have to navigate by guesswork. But even then, how would we sail our boat? We had lost our bowsprit and our sails were in tatters. It was amid these gloomy thoughts that, mercifully, sleep found us.
When I opened my eyes, I was surprised by a strange impression of silence and calm. The Allen was rocking gently on an even keel; clear grey dawn was visible through the porthole. I climbed on deck in a single bound and was greeted by a most magnificent sight. In front of us, the sun was rising in a saffron-yellow sky. The wind had dropped; little mauve and golden clouds drifted through the warm air in parallel banks. The brilliant yellow of the sky was reflected in the sea, which lapped gently around us.
“Anne!”