“My letter is brusque, my friend, but you have upset me terribly. Write by return and tell me what the world says of my marriage.” “_31st January 1831._--Although my overpowering anxiety still endures, I can write more calmly to-day. I am still too ill to get up, and the cold is frightful here. “Tell me what you mean by this sentence in your last letter: ‘You wish to make a sacrifice; I fear me sadly that, ere long, you will be forced to make a most painful one.’ For heaven’s sake never use ambiguous words to me, above all in connection with _her_. It tortures me. Tell me frankly what you mean.” XVII ITALY A WILD INTERLUDE The weather was too severe to cross the Alps, I therefore determined to out-flank them and go by sea from Marseilles. It was the first time I had seen the sea and, as some days passed before I could hear of a boat, I spent most of my time wandering over the rocks near Notre Dame de la Garde. After a while I heard of a Sardinian brig bound for Leghorn, and engaged a passage in her in company with some decent young fellows I had met in the Cannebière. The captain would not undertake to feed us, so, reckoning that we should make Leghorn in three or four days, we laid in provisions for a week. In fine weather, few things are more delightful than a Mediterranean voyage--particularly one’s first. Our first few days were glorious; all my companions were Italians, and had many stories to tell--some true, some not, but all interesting. One had fought in Greece with Canaris, another--a Venetian--had commanded Byron’s yacht, and the tales he told accorded well with what one might expect of the author of _Lara_. Time went on, but we got no nearer Leghorn. Each morning, going on deck, my first question was, “What town is that?” and the eternal answer was, “Nizza, signor, still Nizza.” I began to think that the charming town of Nice had some sort of magnetic attraction for our boat. I found out my mistake when a furious Alpine wind burst down upon us. The captain, to make up for lost time, crowded on all sail and the vessel heeled over and drove furiously before the gale. Towards evening we made the Gulf of Spezzia, and the tramontana increased to such a pitch that the sailors themselves trembled at the captain’s foolhardiness. I stood by the Venetian, holding on to a bar and listening to his maledictions on the captain’s madness, when suddenly a fresh gust of wind caught the boat and sent her over on her beam-ends, the captain rolling away into the scuppers. In a flash the Venetian was at the tiller, shouting orders to the sailors, who were by this time calling on the Madonna: “Don’t bother about the Madonna now,” he cried, “get in the sails.” The sails were reefed, the ship righted, and next day we reached Leghorn with only one sail, so strong was the wind.