Marianne and the Rebels

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  The journey was a long one, over a route that seemed remarkably steep and difficult. Lying on her uncomfortable stretcher of branches, with her head often lower than her feet, and the cloth over her face making breathing difficult, Marianne felt one of her attacks of nausea coming on. Her bearers, however, must have had unusual stamina because they did not once falter in their pace in all that interminable ascent, nor interrupt their singing. All the same, she could not help a sigh of relief when at last they put her down.

  A moment later she was lying on a mattress covered with some rough fur which seemed to her the height of comfort, and the linen cloth was removed from her face. At the same time the heat that beat down out of doors gave way to an agreeable coolness.

  The room in which she found herself was long and low, and a pair of narrow windows opened on to a blue vista that might have been the sky or the sea or both. It seemed to have undergone a good many vicissitudes down the centuries. Two sturdy Doric columns supported a cracked ceiling on which were traces of old gilding, radiating outwards from the central figure, probably representing a saint, with a thin, bearded face, a halo and huge, staring eyes. Fragments of old frescoes still clung to the brick walls, as incongruous as the pictures on the ceiling. On one side the remains of a pair of ephebes pranced, long-legged, towards a row of flaking Byzantine angels, stiff and unbending in their striped robes and all squinting atrociously. On the other side was a whitewashed wall with a simple niche containing a magnificent funerary vase of black and white on which a wistful god in a green cloak with a lance sat brooding on a slate-blue throne. A gilt bronze masque lamp with multicoloured glass hung from the ceiling, just below the beard of the hollow-cheeked saint. Besides the bed covered with goatskins on which Marianne was lying, the furniture consisted of a few stools, and a low table holding a big earthenware bowl heaped with fat grapes.

  Standing in the midst of all this, the worshipper of Aphrodite, in her long white tunic, no longer looked quite such an anachronism.

  Her arms were folded over her splendid bosom and she was considering her find with obvious perplexity. Marianne sat up and saw that the two of them were quite alone. The girls had gone. The woman saw her staring about her and interpreted the look.

  'I sent them away. We have to talk. Who are you?' The tone was hard and far from friendly. The woman was suspicious of her.

  'I told you. A Frenchwoman. I was shipwrecked and—'

  'No. You're lying. Yorgo the fisherman left you on the beach before dawn. He told me he had found you last night, just as you went into the water from a boat. You were half dead from thirst and exposure. What were you doing in that boat?'

  'It's a long story…'

  'I've plenty of time,' the woman said, pulling up a stool and sitting down.

  It was strange, like talking to an antique statue come to life by magic. The woman was herself the epitome of her extraordinary room. To begin with, it would have been hard to tell her age. Her skin was smooth and unwrinkled but her gaze was that of a mature woman. More than anything, she looked like an incarnation of Athena, yet her almond eyes were almost as disproportionately huge as those of the Byzantine face on the ceiling. She had said that she was reputed mad, and yet there emanated from her a quiet strength and assurance that impressed Marianne and certainly did not strike her as in any way alarming.

  'I was in that boat,' she said simply, 'dying of thirst, as you yourself said, and the reason I let myself slip into the water was to make an end the sooner.'

  'You had not seen Yorgo and his boat?'

  'I was past seeing anything. There was something red, but I thought it was only another mirage. Do you know what it means to die of thirst?'

  The woman shook her head but there had been a revealing tremor in Marianne's voice on the last words, and she lay back, white-faced. The stranger frowned and rose quickly.

  'Are you still thirsty?'

  'And hungry…'

  'Wait, then… You shall talk afterwards.'

  A few minutes later, after swallowing a little cold fish, some goat cheese, bread, grapes and a cup of a remarkably heady wine, Marianne felt restored to life and able to satisfy her hostess's curiosity, in so far as that was possible without running into fresh perils.

  The woman was Greek, an inhabitant of a country under Turkish occupation, and she herself was an envoy sent to those same Turks with the object of reviving the ties of friendship between their two nations. Marianne hesitated a moment, not knowing quite how to begin her story. In the end, she asked a perfectly natural question which, besides allowing her more time for thought, would also test the ground a little.

  'Can you tell me, if you please,' she asked softly, 'where I am? I have no idea…'

  But the woman refused to be drawn.

  'Where did you come from, with your boat?'

  'From a ship bound for Constantinople, from which I was set adrift on the open sea a little before dawn. That must have been three days ago.' Marianne sighed. 'We had sailed past Cythera that morning…'

  'Of what nationality was this ship? And what had you done to make them set you adrift like that? And in your nightgown?'

  The woman's tone was deeply suspicious and Marianne thought wretchedly that her story was really rather improbable and it would not be easy to make anyone believe it. However, the truth was always likelier to ring true than any made-up tale, however well-intended.

  'The vessel was American. A brig, out of Charleston, South Carolina. Captain – Captain Jason Beaufort.'

  It was all she could do to utter the name. It came out as a kind of strangled sob, but had at least the unexpected advantage of making the woman's stern face relax a little. The heavy eyebrows, so dark they might have been drawn in Indian ink, rose slightly.

  'Jason? A fine Greek name for an American. But it seems to cause you pain. Are you by any chance the Medea to this Jason? Was it he who abandoned you?'

  'No – not him!'

  The cry of protest sprang straight from Marianne's heart. Her face clouded and she went on in a deadened voice: 'There was a mutiny on board… I think Jason is probably a prisoner – but he may be dead, and my friends with him.'

  Omitting only her own adventures in Venice which could do nothing but add to the unlikelihood of her whole situation, she told the story of the Sea Witch's fatal voyage as best she could. She told how Leighton, to obtain possession of the ship for use in the slave-trade, had done his utmost to set Jason against her, how, in so far as she had been able to reconstruct the course of events, he had succeeded in getting hold of the ship and, finally, how he had set her adrift in an open boat, without food or water, and with no possible hope of rescue. She told of her fears for those she had left on board: for Jolival, Gracchus, Agathe, and for Kaleb who had been flogged for trying to rid the vessel of the devil who coveted it.

  She must have put enough real passion into her account of the experiences of those dreadful days for it to carry conviction, because, as she talked, the look of suspicion faded from the other woman's face and was replaced by curiosity. She sat with her long legs crossed, her elbow on her knee and her chin resting on her hand, listening with the deepest interest but in complete silence.

  At last, unnerved by this lack of speech, Marianne ventured to ask:

  'Does it – does it seem to you very improbable? I know my story must sound like a novel – but it is the truth, I swear it.'

  The woman shrugged.

  'The Turks have a saying that the truth floats and will never be put down. Yours has a strange sound, like all truth, but do not be alarmed. I have heard far stranger stories than this of yours. You have only to tell me now what is your name, and what was your business at Constantinople?'

  The difficult moment had come, when the choice must be made that might have dire consequences. From the beginning of this conversation, Marianne had been reluctant to reveal her proper identity. She had considered giving a false name, explaining her presence on board the American vessel as the flight
of a woman in love, anxious to put the greatest possible distance between her guilty joys and a husband's anger, but she had been studying her hostess's grave face while she talked and found herself increasingly disliking the idea of handing her a fabrication which, love story or not, was more than likely to disgust her. In addition, Marianne knew herself to be a bad liar, and a clumsy one, like any woman not in the habit of lying. She was not even very good at keeping her feelings to herself, as the recent catastrophic end to her love had proved all too clearly.

  She remembered, quite suddenly, something that François Vidocq had said to her as they journeyed back together from the coast of Brittany. 'Life, my dear, is a vast ocean strewn with reefs. We can expect to strike one at any moment. It is best to be prepared. In that way, there is often a chance of escape…'

  The reef was there before her, hidden behind that broad, impenetrable brow, those enigmatic features. Telling herself that she had nothing more to lose, except for a problematical revenge, Marianne decided to drive straight at it. After all, whatever happened, it did not matter very much now, and if the woman believed that she was an enemy and killed her, it would not be so very terrible. She said clearly and steadily:

  'I am called Marianne d'Asselnat de Villeneuve, Princess Sant'Anna, and I am going to Constantinople at the command of my master, the Emperor Napoleon, in order to persuade the Sultana, to whom I am related in some degree, to break off the alliance with England and resume friendly relations with France – and also to pursue the war with Russia. There, now I think you know all about me.'

  The effect of this candid statement was astonishing. The woman sprang to her feet, became very red and then, as the redness faded, was left as pale as ever. She stared at the castaway, open-mouthed, as though about to speak, but then shut it again without a word. After which she turned abruptly on her heel and made for the door, as though she had suddenly been faced with a heavy load of responsibility which was more than she could bring herself to deal with. She stopped dead at the sound of Marianne's voice:

  'May I remind you that, while I have told you everything you wished to know, you, on your side, have not yet answered my perfectly natural question. Where am I? And who are you?'

  The woman swung round and stared at Marianne out of the black eyes which looked larger than ever.

  'This is the island of Santorini, known to the ancients as Thera, the poorest of all Greek islands, where one is never sure of living until tomorrow, or even until nightfall, because it rests on the primeval fire. As for me, you may call me Sappho. I am known by that name.'

  Without adding another word, the strange woman hurried from the room, stopping to lock the door carefully behind her. Marianne shrugged, resigned already to this new kind of prison. Then she picked up the peplos which Sappho – since Sappho she was – had left behind and, wrapping it round herself, lay down again on the goatskins and prepared to recoup her strength properly by a really good sleep. The die was cast now. It was out of her hands.

  The early evening found her still locked in the chapel, sitting by the window, without having set eyes on a living soul. The view before her was a strange one, consisting of an expanse of ruins and ashes, in which each object seemed to partake of a peculiar silvery quality. The stumps of broken columns and fragments of walls rose from a fine dust made up of every shade of grey. All this jutted out from a wide plateau one side of which was under cultivation. The labour of the peasants had carved out great terraces which were planted with low vines, sheltered by fig trees twisted by the wind and silvered over with the ubiquitous dust. On the far side, beyond a dilapidated stone windmill with tattered sails, the plateau seemed to drop straight down into the sea.

  Here and there in the distance was the white cube of a house or the shape of a donkey, so grey and still that it might have been turned to stone like everything else in that depressing landscape which, although scarcely likely to raise the spirits of one who had every reason to regard herself as a prisoner, nevertheless exerted a curious fascination over Marianne: so much so that she jumped when she heard Sappho's calm voice behind her.

  'If you would care to join us,' the voice was saying, 'this is the time for us to salute the sun… Dress yourself.'

  She held out a tunic like the ones Marianne had already seen on the other girls, with a pair of sandals and a fillet for her hair.

  'I should like to wash,' Marianne said. 'I have never felt so dirty.'

  'Of course. Wait, I will bring water for you.'

  She was back in a moment with a full bucket which she set down on the worn flagstones. In her other hand she had a piece of soap and a towel.

  'I cannot let you have any more,' she said, apologetically. 'Water is very scarce here because we must rely on the rain to fill our cisterns, and when summer comes, the level drops very quickly.'

  'The people here must suffer greatly then…'

  Sappho gave her the quick smile which conferred such charm on her rather austere face.

  'Less than you think. They are not over fond of washing and, as for drinking, we have plenty of wine. It would not occur to anyone to drink water. Hurry, now. I will wait outside. By the way, do you speak any tongue besides your own?'

  'Yes. I speak English, German, Italian, Spanish, and I was taught ancient Greek…'

  Sappho grimaced. Evidently, she would have been far better pleased by even the roughest Greek dialect. She thought for a moment and then said:

  'It would still be best for you to say as little as possible, but if you must speak, speak Italian. These islands long belonged to Venice and it is a language which is still understood. And don't forget to use the familiar form to everyone – we are not very formal here.'

  Marianne washed quickly, achieving miracles with the small amount of water allotted to her. She even managed to wash her hair and having dried it as best she could, plaited it, still damp, and wound it round her head. She felt amazingly better. The sunburn on her face and arms was no longer sore, thanks to the fisherman's oil, and by the time she had put on the pleated tunic, she felt almost as fresh as if she had just come out of her own elegant bath in Paris. At last, she pulled open the heavy wooden door of her temporary lodging and found Sappho waiting for her, seated on the coping of a well. She had a lyre in her hand and the girls whom Marianne had seen that morning were grouped about her.

  Seeing Marianne, Sappho rose and pointed to a place between two of the girls, who did not even glance at her. Then the white procession moved off towards the edge of the plateau, the whole extent of which now became visible to Marianne.

  To the east, it fell away in a gentle slope towards the sea, dotted with vines and plantations of tomatoes; to the west it rose to a ridge, on top of which stood a big solidly-constructed white building which, but for the protruding belfry, might have been a fortress. Behind this building, the sun was going down. As for the place where Marianne had spent the day, it was in actual fact a small half-ruined chapel, on whose ochre-coloured dome was a curious thing like a lightning conductor which might once have been a cross. All around it were the crumbling porticoes of an old Byzantine villa, with the well at its heart.

  Singing another of its strange archaic hymns, the procession made its way to a high point overlooking the blue expanse of the sea. Here the grey dust was replaced by a block of lava carved into the semblance of a throne. Sappho stepped up to it majestically, clutching her lyre to her breast with her folded arms, while the girls knelt at her feet. All turned to face the setting sun, endeavouring to imitate the ecstatic look which illumined their mistress's face. Marianne might have found it all rather absurd if she had not realized that all this was nothing but a front and that there was something else, infinitely powerful and respectable, concealed behind this continuous masquerade to which all the women were committed.

  'They think us mad,' Sappho had said, and she was certainly doing her utmost to convey that impression. She had remained for a moment in thought, her head resting on her hands, and then, strikin
g a few chords on her lyre, she began to sing in a strong voice some kind of long hymn to the sun. As music it was not bad, but Marianne very soon came to the conclusion that it was by far too long and boring to be worth the trouble of trying to translate the words.

  In a little while some of her companions got up and began to dance. The dance was a slow, ceremonial one and yet oddly suggestive, as though the strong young bodies revealed by the folds of linen in the movements of the dance were being offered up to the dying sun.

  Before very long this strange concert acquired an even stranger counterpoint. Three black figures in tall headdresses appeared on the steep slope leading up to the white fortress-like building on the ridge, three very angry figures, shouting and waving their fists at the dancers. Marianne gathered that the building must be a monastery and that her companions' choreographic exercises were not to the liking of the holy men who lived there. Remembering the monk in Yorgo's boat and his evident disapproval of herself, she could not be surprised, but felt some alarm when the three protesters started to throw stones. Happily, the distance was considerable and their aim singularly bad.

  At all events, neither Sappho nor her followers seemed to take much notice. Nor did they show any sign when one of the monks ran down the road and accosted two passing Turkish soldiers, a pair of janissaries in felt hats and red boots. He gesticulated furiously towards the women but the Turks scarcely bothered even to look round. After one bored glance at the dancers, they shrugged their shoulders and went on their way northwards.

  By this time, moreover, Sappho had finished her song. The sun had disappeared below the ridge, and it would soon be dark. The women formed up as before, in silence, and retraced their steps towards the old villa, with the poetess and the flute-players in the lead, looking more exalted than ever.

  Marianne, walking in their midst, sought in vain for answers to the questions that filled her mind. She was so deep in her thoughts that she did not see a clump of mastic growing in the path, and tripped over it. She would have fallen if the girl next to her had not put out a strong hand to steady her – a hand so strong, in fact, that Marianne found herself looking at its owner with rather more attention.