François de Chateaubriand Record of a Journey from Paris to Jerusalem and Back (Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem et de Jérusalem à Paris) Translated by A. S. Kline 2011 All Rights Reserved. This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. Contents Translator’s Note Part One: Greece Part Two: The Archipelago, Anatolia and Constantinople Part Three: Rhodes, Jaffa, Bethlehem and the Dead Sea Part Four: Jerusalem Part Five: Jerusalem - Continued Part Six: Egypt Part Seven: Tunis and Return to France Translator’s Note Notes in brackets in normal font, by Chateaubriand, are taken from the published text, the edition used for this translation being a French publication of 1884; notes in brackets in italics are notes by the translator providing additional information or explanation of items in the text. Where names or places are expanded to give additional details, further information will be found by using those details when searching the Internet. Part One: Greece I had ceased work on Les Martyrs (The Martyrs): though the majority of the chapters of the work had been drafted, I thought I ought not to put the finishing touches to them before seeing the country in which they were set; others find their resources in themselves; I find I need to supply what I lack through every kind of effort. Thus, if you fail to find in this Itinerary the description of such and such a famous place, you must seek it in Les Martyrs. To this principal reason that made me, after so many travels, depart France once more, were joined other considerations: a trip to the Orient would complete the round of studies I had always promised myself to undertake. In the deserts of America I had contemplated the monuments of nature: among the monuments of men, I still only knew two of the realms of antiquity, namely Celtic antiquity and that of the Romans; it remained for me to traverse the ruins of Athens, Carthage and Memphis. I also wanted to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem: .......................................Qui devoto Il gran Sepolcro adora, e scioglie il voto. Here, devoutly, He worships at the Holy Sepulchre, and fulfils his vow. Tasso: Gerusalemme Liberata (XX:144) It may seem strange today to speak of vows and pilgrimages, but on this point I am without shame, and have long been ranked among the weak-minded and superstitious. I may be the last Frenchman to leave my country to travel to the Holy Land with the ideas, aim and sentiments of the pilgrims of old, but if I have not the virtues that once illuminated the Lords of Coucy, de Nesles, de Chatillon, and de Montfort, at least their faith remains to me: in that respect I could still liken myself to an ancient crusader. ‘And when I was ready to leave and set out on my journey,’ says the Sire de Joinville, ‘I sent for the abbot of Cheminon, to reconcile myself to him. And I bowed, and girded on my pilgrim’s knapsack, and took my staff in hand. And I speedily left Joinville, intending not to re-enter that castle till I returned from my voyage overseas (outre-mer), leaving as the first saints did, and almost as they went ... walking barefoot, and in a loincloth. And thus I went from Bleicourt to Saint-Urban, and it was necessary to pass the castle of Joinville, and I dare not turn my face ever towards Joinville for fear of feeling too great a regret, and my heart being moved.’ On leaving my homeland again, on the 13th of July, 1806, I, like that Seneschal of Champagne, dared not turn my head: almost a stranger in my country, I left behind me neither castle nor cottage. From Paris to Milan, I knew the route. At Milan, I took the road to Venice: I saw, everywhere, much as among the Milanese, a fertile and monotonous marshland. I paused for a few moments to view the monuments of Verona, Vicenza and Padua. I arrived in Venice on the 23rd of July; I spent five days examining the remains of its past grandeur: I was shown some fine paintings by Tintoretto; by Paolo Veronese and his brother; by Bassano; and by Titian. In an abandoned church I sought the tomb of the latter painter, and had some trouble finding it: the same thing had happened to me in Rome regarding Tasso’s tomb. After all, the remains of a religious poet, a victim of misfortune, are not too misplaced in being sited in a monastery: the poet of the Gerusalemme seems to have taken refuge in that forgotten tomb, as if to escape the persecution of men; he filled the world with his fame, and himself reposes unknown, beneath the orange-tree of Sant’Onofrio. I left Venice on the 28th of July, embarking at ten o’clock at night for terra firma. The southeast wind was blowing hard enough to fill the sails, yet not enough to disturb the sea. As the boat moved away, I saw the lights of Venice sink beneath the horizon, and I could see, like shadows on the waves, the various outlines of the islands, with which the coast is strewn. These islands, instead of being covered with forts and bastions, are occupied by churches and monasteries. The bells of the hospices and infirmaries could be heard, and alone brought to mind ideas of peace and security, in the midst of an empire of tempests and dangers. We approached near enough to one of these retreats to glimpse the monks who were watching our gondola pass, they had the air of old mariners who have returned to port after a long voyage: perhaps they blessed the traveller, because they remembered having been, like him, strangers in the land of Egypt: Fuistis enim et vos advenae in terra Aegypti (Vulgate:Leviticus 19:34) ’ I arrived on the mainland before sunrise, and took a post-carriage to carry me to Trieste. I did not delay on the way to see Aquileia; I was not tempted to visit the breach through which the Goths and Huns entered the homeland of Horace and Virgil, or to search for traces of those armies that executed the vengeance of God. I entered Trieste at midday on the 29th of July. That city, of uniform construction, is situated, beneath beautiful skies, at the foot of a chain of barren mountains: it possesses no monuments. The last breath of Italy expires here on this shore where barbarism begins. Monsieur Séguier, the French Consul in Trieste, was kind enough to search out a boat for me; one was found ready to set sail for Smyrna. Its captain took me on board with my servant. It was agreed that he would deposit me in passing on the shores of the Morea, that I would cross the Peloponnese by land; that the ship would wait for me for a few days at the tip of Attica, after which, if I did not appear, he would continue his journey. We set sail on the 1st of August, at one o’clock in the morning. We experienced contrary winds on leaving harbour. Istria presented its low-lying shores to the sea, backed in the interior by a chain of mountains. The Mediterranean, set in the centre of civilized countries, strewn with fortunate isles, bathing shores planted with myrtles, palms and olive trees, rendered an immediate impression of the sea where Apollo, Venus and the Nereids were born, while the ocean, delivered to the tempests, surrounded by unknown shores, was inevitably fated to be the cradle of the phantoms of Scandinavia, and the domain of those Christian peoples who formed so imposing an idea of the grandeur and omnipotence of God. On the 2nd of August, at noon, the wind blew favourably, but the clouds that gathered at sunset announced a storm. We heard the first rumble of thunder from the coast of Croatia. At three o’clock we shortened sail, and hung a small light in the captain’s cabin, in front of an image of the Blessed Virgin. I have remarked elsewhere on the affecting nature of this cult that yields empire over the seas to a weak woman. Sailors on shore may be firm-hearted like other men, but what unsettles human wisdom is the proximity of danger; at that moment mankind becomes religious, and the torch of philosophy reassures less in the midst of the tempest than the lamp lit before the Madonna. At seven o’clock the storm was in full force. Our Austrian captain led a prayer amongst the torrents of rain and claps of thunder. We prayed for the Emperor Francis II, for ourselves, and for the sailors in questo sacro sepolti mare: drowned in those sacred waters. The sailors, some standing and exposed to the elements, others lying prostrate on the cannons, responded to the captain. The storm continued for a large part of the night. All the sails being furled, and the crew below decks, I remained alone but for the sailor who grasped the tiller. I have sometimes spent all night thus on stormier seas; but I was young then, and the sound of the waves, the solitude of the ocean, the winds, the reefs, the perils, were so much enjoyment for me. I found, on this last trip, that the face of things has altered. I know now what those dreams of early youth are worth; and yet such is human inconsistency that I still traversed the waves, I still gave myself up to hope, I still gathered images, searched for colours to adorn descriptions that would perhaps bring me disappointment and persecution.