London, April to September 1822
AFTER we had taken on fresh provisions and replaced the anchor lost at Graciosa, we left Saint-Pierre. Sailing southward, we reached the latitude of 38 degrees. Calms stopped us a short distance from the coasts of Maryland and Virginia. The foggy skies of the boreal regions had given way to the most beautiful sunlight. We could not yet see the land, but the fragrance of the pine forests came to us across the waves. Dawn and daybreak, sunrise and sunset, twilight and night were all magnificent. I could never get my fill of gazing at Venus, whose rays seemed to fall around me like the cool hair of my sylph.
One evening as I sat reading in the captain’s cabin, the bell rang for prayers. I went to mingle my vows with those of my companions. The officers and passengers filled the quarterdeck; the chaplain, book in hand, stood a little ways in front of us, near the helm; the sailors crowded pell-mell everywhere on deck. We stood with our faces toward the prow, and all the sails were furled.
The orb of the sun, about to plunge into the waves, appeared through the interwoven rigging as though in the midst of boundless space. One would have said, by the swaying of the ship, that the radiant star changed its horizon with each passing second. When I came to paint this picture in its entirety in The Genius of Christianity, my religious feelings were in harmony with the scene; but, alas, when I was there in person, the former man was still alive in me. It was not God alone that I contemplated over the waves, in all the splendor of his works. I saw an unknown woman and the miracles of her smile, the beauties of the sky seemed to bloom at her breath, and I would have traded eternity for one of her caresses. I imagined that she was throbbing behind the veil of the universe that hid her from my eyes. Oh, if only it had been in my power to tear back the curtain and press this unreal woman to my heart—to let myself be consumed on her breast by that love which was the source of my inspirations, my despair, and my life! While I was giving myself over to these emotions (so much in keeping with my future career as a furrier), an accident occurred that nearly put an end to all my plans and dreams.
That day the heat oppressed us. The ship, in a dead calm, sails furled and overburdened by its masts, was rolling tumultuously. Sunburned and weary of the swaying of the ship, I longed to bathe, and, although we had no boats down, hurled myself from the bowsprit into the sea. Everything was wonderful at first, and several passengers followed my example. I swam and swam without looking at the ship; but when I came to turn my head, I saw that the current had already dragged her far away. The sailors, alarmed, had tossed a rope to the other swimmers. Sharks were looming in the ship’s wake, and rifles were fired to scare them away. The swell was so high that it slowed my return and sapped my strength. I had a whirlpool churning beneath me, and at any moment the sharks could have made off with an arm or a leg. Aboard the ship, the boatswain was trying to lower a boat into the sea, but first the hoist had to be threaded, and this took considerable time.
By the greatest good luck, an almost impalpable breeze began to blow. The ship answered a bit to the helm and came toward me. I was just able to catch the end of a cord; but my companions in audacity were already hanging onto this cord, so that every time we were hauled up the side of the ship, I found myself at the end of the rope, where they pressed down on me with all their weight. In this way, we were fished out of the water one by one, which took a long time. Meanwhile, the rolling continued, and at every other roll we were plunged six or seven feet underwater, or suspended as many feet in the air, like so many fish on the end of a line. On my final immersion, I felt I was about to lose consciousness. One more roll, and I would have been done for. I was hoisted on deck half dead: if I had drowned, it would have been good riddance to me and to everyone else.
Two days after this accident, we came in sight of land. My heart pounded when the captain pointed it out to me—America! It was faintly delineated by the tops of a few maples emerging from the water: since then, the palms at the mouth of the Nile have indicated the shore of Egypt to me in the same manner. A pilot came aboard and steered us into the Chesapeake Bay. That same evening a boat was sent ashore to look for fresh provisions. I joined the party and soon found myself treading American soil.
I cast my eyes around me and stood motionless for a few moments. This continent, perhaps unknown through the whole duration of ancient times and a great number of modern centuries; the first, wild destiny of this continent and its second destiny, since the arrival of Christopher Columbus; the old monarchical dominion that this new world had shaken off; the old society coming to an end in young America; a republic of a hitherto unimaginable type heralding a change in the human spirit; the part that my country had played in these world-altering events; these seas and these shores that owed their independence partly to French blood and to the French flag; a great man issuing from the depths of discord and wilderness; Washington at home in a flourishing city, in the same place where William Penn had purchased his patch of forest; the United States sending back to France the Revolution that France had supported with her guns; and my own future, the virgin muse that I had come to give over to the passions of a new nature; the discoveries that I wanted to make in the wilds whose huge kingdom still lay spread behind the narrow sway of a foreign civilization: such were the things that coursed through my mind.
We made our way toward a dwelling. Forests of balsam and Virginia cedar alive with mockingbirds and cardinals declared, by their shapes and their shadows, their colors and their songs, that we were entering another climate. The house, where we arrived after half an hour’s walk, was something between an English farmhouse and a Creole hut. Herds of European cattle grazed in a pasture surrounded by a slatted fence, over which striped-tailed squirrels cavorted. Blacks were sawing pieces of wood, and whites were tending to tobacco plants. A negress of thirteen or fourteen, nearly naked and singularly beautiful, opened the gate of the enclosure to us like a young Goddess of the Night. We bought corncakes, chickens, eggs, and milk, and returned to the ship with our demijohns and baskets. I gave my silk handkerchief to the little African. It was a slave who welcomed me to the land of liberty.
The anchor was raised and we headed for the roads and the port of Baltimore. As we approached, the waters narrowed; they became smooth and still, as if we were sailing up a sluggish stream bordered by avenues of trees. Baltimore came into view as though at the far end of a lake. Across from the city stood a wooded hill, at the foot of which they were beginning to build. We moored alongside a quay in the harbor; I slept on board and did not set foot on land until the next morning. Then I went to find a room at the inn with my baggage in tow, while the seminarians withdrew to the establishment that had been prepared for them, whence they would go their separate ways into America.
And what became of Francis Tulloch? The following letter was delivered to me in London, April 12, 1822:
Thirty years have gone by, my dear Vicomte, since the epoch of our voyage to Baltimore, and I suppose it is quite possible that you have forgotten even my name. But if I trust to the feelings of my heart, which have always been true and loyal to you, it cannot be so, and I flatter myself that you would not be displeased at seeing me once again. Although we live opposite one another (as you will see by my address), I am only too well aware how many things separate us. But should you show the least desire to see me, I will hasten to prove to you, as much as shall be possible, that I am and have always been your faithful and devoted friend,
Fran. Tulloch
P.S. The distinguished rank you have attained and which you have earned by so many claims is right here before my eyes, but the memory of the Chevalier de Chateaubriand is so dear to me that I cannot write to you (at least this time around) as Ambassador etc., etc. Please pardon the style for the sake of our old alliance.
Friday, April 12
Portland Place, no. 30
So, Tulloch is in London. He did not become a priest after all. He is married, and his adventures are over, like mine. This letter testifies to the truthfulness of my Memoirs and the fidelity of my memory. Who could have borne witness to an alliance and a friendship formed thirty years ago on the waves, if the other party hadn’t reappeared? But what a mournful and retrograde perspective this letter unfolds before me! In 1822, Tulloch lives in the same city as I do, and on the same street; the door of his house almost faces mine, just as when we met, on the same ship, on the same deck, cabin facing cabin. How many other friends I will never meet again! Every night as he goes to bed, a man can count his losses; it’s only his years that do not leave him, though they pass. When he looks them over and calls them by their names, they respond, “Present!” Not one shirks the call.