"Honestly, Arcadius, I don't know. It was a surprise, of course, but all in all not such a horrid surprise as I'd feared. Indeed, I confess that I don't really understand his behavior, all this mystery he surrounds himself with—"
"I know. I said so to him. You don't understand because you are a woman, and because, in spite of the color of his skin, or maybe even because of it, he is an exceptionally handsome fellow. His Negro blood has brought a new vitality, I might almost say a new virility, into a line which, if not actually decadent, had undoubtedly reached such a stage of inbreeding as to be verging on it. But you may believe me when I tell you there is not a gentleman in the world, not a man at all, indeed, who could fail to understand him or to understand the terrible way his father reacted on being presented with a black baby. I suggest you try asking our friend Beaufort the same question—"
"Jason comes from a country where they treat black people as slaves and use them as beasts of burden—"
"Not everywhere. You must not generalize. Nor, as far as I know, have the Beauforts ever been known as slave drivers. But I'll agree that his upbringing might prejudice his answer. But ask any man you meet—ask me, even."
"You, Arcadius?"
"Yes, me! I've never liked my wife, but supposing I had taken it into my head to give her a child and she had made me a present of a coal black bundle—for I dare say the prince was a few shades darker on arrival than he is now—why, upon my honor, I do believe I might have throttled Septimanie myself. And taken good care to hide the babe away."
"A man may have a dark skin and still be a person of consequence. Othello was a Moor and he became a great man in Venice."
That made Jolival laugh. He inserted two fingers in the pocket of his brocaded waistcoat and helped himself delicately to a pinch of snuff.
"The trouble with you, Marianne," he said, "is that you read too much Shakespeare and too many novels as a child. Othello, supposing that there ever was such a person, was a warrior of genius, and your truly great men can get away with almost anything. But do you think that if Napoleon had been born with a skin the color of bronze, like that handsome husband of yours, that he would be on the throne of France today? Not a bit of it. And where the prince is concerned, I think that the secluded life he chose, his hermitlike existence, was also a kind of tribute to his mother. It was for her and for her reputation that he imposed that penance on himself and cut himself off from love… I have the greatest respect for the man, Marianne, and for his most moving desire to see the continuation of his family, at the expense of his own justifiable aspirations and even of his own normal emotional and physical needs."
During the course of this speech, the vicomte's voice had taken on a depth of seriousness which went straight to Marianne's heart.
"You think I'm wrong, don't you? You think I ought to have agreed to have this child?"
"It is not for me to think one way or the other, my dear. Nor have I the right to judge you. You are entirely your own mistress, as regards both your future and your person. You have bought that right dearly enough."
She gazed at him intently but was unable to discover the least hint of blame or disappointment in that friendly face, and yet she sensed that had he loved her less her old friend might perhaps have judged her more severely.
"I can admit it to you, Jolival. I am ashamed of myself. He has never been anything but good to me. He risked everything for my sake, to protect me—and his care has even extended to Jason, whom he has no cause to love. I am sure it gives him no pleasure to know that that vile Damiani was the father of this child, and yet he longs for it as the greatest blessing heaven has to offer. That, too, I find hard to understand."
"Hasn't it occurred to you that he could have wiped Damiani out of his mind and be thinking of this child simply as yours, Marianne?"
Marianne gave a tiny shrug.
"That would suggest he feels a great deal more strongly than I can believe possible. No, Jolival, the prince sees this child simply as a Sant'Anna. On the wrong side of the blanket, maybe, but a Sant'Anna for all that."
"What does it matter to you what Prince Corrado's feelings are, seeing that you will not do it. Because your answer is still the same… isn't it, Marianne?"
Marianne did not answer. She moved a few steps away, as though trying to lose herself in the shadows of the darkened garden. She wanted to shut out every influence but those of her own inner voices. The inward struggle was almost won, but she needed time to acknowledge it. She knew already that she was beaten but the thought brought no bitterness. It was almost a relief and mingled with it was a kind of joyful pride, for the thing that she was about to give was something that no one else could. Moreover, the joy it would bring to that self-condemned recluse would be bound up with and somehow magnified by the revulsion she had overcome and by the physical ordeal that she was facing for him. It might even have some power to influence fate and constitute the first step to a happiness which was forever out of reach as long as it was founded on another's pain.
A seabird's cry came from somewhere close by. A gull, surely, like the many that had swooped and dived so often in the Sea Witch's wake. It brought with it the call of the open sea, of the wide open spaces beyond which the sun set on Europe and rose again on other lands unknown. She had to make herself worthy of all that…
Marianne turned suddenly. By the stone seat, Jolival's black figure had not moved but was standing quite still, as though waiting for something. She walked back slowly and, when she was close beside him, she spoke, very softly.
"Jolival? I suppose you know where Prince Sant'Anna lives?"
He nodded and she saw his eyes gleam in the darkness.
"Will you send word to him that I agree? I will give him the child he wants…"
PART II
Sebastiano
Chapter 4
Pitt's Niece
TOWED by four caïques, each with its full complement of rowers whose colorful rags added a cheerful note to the cold, almost wintry morning, the Sea Witch moved out of the graving docks of Kassim Pasha, rounded the towers of the Arsenal and, crossing the Golden Horn, bore down majestically on the moorings reserved for her on the waterfront of Phanar.
The Turkish shipwrights, working under the direction of a dour Scots foreman, had done a good job and the vessel, with her gleaming brasswork and satin-smooth mahogany and her brand-new sails neatly furled, shone like a new toy in the hazy brightness of the sun which floated like a flat white disc behind light, swirling veils of mist. And Marianne, standing on the quay with Jolival beside her, watched with joy and pride the approach of Jason's ship made new.
The oarsmen knew their work and in a few more minutes would have covered the mile or so from Kassim Pasha to Phanar. The American brig, by the Valideh's command, flying not her own colors but the arms of Sant'Anna so as to forestall any possible international complications, would come to rest among the forest of spars along the quayside, slipping in between a pair of squat, round-bellied Greek polaccas whose nearness served to emphasize her slim, rakish lines, to wait there quietly until her rightful master should come discreetly to claim her.
Discretion was necessary since relations between England and the youthful states of America were worsening rapidly. The conflict which was to go down in history as the Second War of Independence was already in the air and Nakshidil, knowing the vigilance and energy of the British ambassador, Mr. Canning, had no wish to see the vessel she had presented to her kinswoman made the subject of an embargo that could not well be denied.
The rather tricky piece of maneuvering needed to bring the brig's side up against the quay was accomplished to a chorus of encouraging shouts. Marianne and her companion were surrounded by a small crowd of people drawn by the unusual spectacle of a western ship among the Greek and Turkish vessels for whom the Stamboul waterfront was generally reserved, European shipping being confined to the moorings of Galata opposite.
It was a noisy, colorful crowd, made up of seamen an
d all the various street traders who daily thronged the waterside in the Greek quarter of the city: sellers of fruit and of little cakes dripping with honey, sellers of fried foods with their black caldrons, sellers of raki and rosolio, the rose liqueur so popular with the natives, open-air sweet vendors and itinerant cooked meat vendors, mingling with the weirdly assorted population which haunted the harbor bars by day and night. A fine smell of roast mutton and caramel floated on the morning air and once again Marianne was conscious that she was hungry.
It was almost two months since she had agreed to perform what she had come to think of as her duty to her husband. And ever since that day, as though heaven had only wanted that sign of goodwill to grant her a respite, the painful sickness which had troubled her from the start of her pregnancy had completely disappeared. Instead, she had begun to eat with an appetite which was causing her some alarm about the size of her waistline once the child was born.
"I can't get into any of my dresses," she would wail practically every morning after she was dressed, and generally added in a tragic tone: "I'm going to look like la Visconti!" For Marshal Berthier's stout mistress was famous for the peculiar collection of corsetry with which she endeavored to contain the ebullience of her person.
Whereupon Jolival would assure her that she had never looked so well, that the cosseted life she led had given her a bloom like a camellia, which was true, and that in any case any man worthy of the name much preferred a cozy armful of plump flesh to the collection of bones which fashion all too often demanded.
"Besides," he added, "if we do set sail for America at last, you'll have several weeks of ship's diet to make you as thin as a starved cat if that's what you want."
So Marianne smiled and sighed and, abandoning Monsieur Leroy's elegant creations, fell back on the local style of dress which was a great deal fuller and more comfortable for a mother-to-be.
At that moment, that cultivated nobleman the vicomte was attentively following through his quizzing glass the evolutions of the ship under the command of Achmet Reis, Agathe's husband, from whom the Valideh had purchased her and who had consented to bring her around from the dockyard to her new moorings.
"The Turks are fine sailors," he remarked. "It's a pity they can't bring themselves out of the Middle Ages and start building modern ships which don't look as though they might have fought at Lepanto. God forgive me if that isn't a galley I see over there!"
"Don't be so critical, Jolival. It's not a hundred years since the French put their last galley out of commission. Besides, it's only a matter of time. The Sultan Mahmoud, if Allah preserves him, is determined to introduce reforms and to open his empire to progress. But he can do nothing until he has succeeded in mastering the janissaries and silencing their wretched kettles once and for all. Both His Highness and his mother are waiting their chance and cultivating the virtue of patience meanwhile, but it is their first care—"
Since becoming a guest of the Princess Morousi, Marianne had paid several visits to her imperial kinswoman and a friendship was developing between the two women, as also with the exuberant and talkative Bulut Hanum, who was still mystified by the events at Rebecca's house but as a devoted subject had bowed to it unquestioningly since her mistress approved. All this meant useful information for Marianne which she passed on generously to the unfortunate Latour-Maubourg, who was losing ground more and more, for naturally, and just as Marianne had expected, no reply had been forthcoming from the emperor on the subject of his attitude to the continuance of the Russo-Turkish war.
The Sea Witch had come alongside and her wooden walls loomed over the quayside, like a sea hawk among chickens beside her dumpy neighbors. She was so clean and bright that Marianne's eyes filled with tears and she forgot her irritation.
It was a morning for hopeful thoughts. When Jason came back he would be so glad to find his beloved ship made new again that the clouds which had gathered between him and Marianne would melt away of their own accord. A few quiet explanations and everything would be all right again, the bad dream would fade away… The prince would have the heir he longed for and she who had briefly been his wife would be free to make her life with the man she still loved as much as ever…
Of course, somewhere in the world there was still someone who was legally Mrs. Beaufort, but Marianne refused to think of her, or even to remember. Pilar had chosen Spain, the country of her ancestors, whose dark violence and stern piety she had inherited, and had probably buried herself and her ruthless passions in a convent somewhere. She was no longer a threat. But when would Jason come?
A few days earlier, when "Turhan Bey" had paid one of his courtesy visits to Princess Morousi, Marianne had summoned up courage to mention his coming, expressing a timid surprise that it should be so long delayed. Her heart had beat a little faster as she did so, for she was afraid of hurting the prince, but he had not seemed unduly troubled by the question. He had looked at her with the inscrutable expression of his dark, invariably calm blue eyes which always made her feel slightly uneasy, and had answered gravely: "It's not so surprising. He was gravely ill, for Leighton had left him for dead in the drifting boat where he was found. Moreover, ever since Corfu he had kept him under the influence of a dangerous drug—we think it was ergot—which did not help. Even so, the personal physician of the Pasha of the Morea, who attended him, has assured me that he will live but hinted at a lengthy convalescence. But you may be sure that he is well cared for."
"The Pasha of the Morea's physician?" Marianne had asked. "Then how is it that he is being cared for by fishermen?"
"Because it is infinitely better for him. Hassani Haji is a man of God and my friend, and as such he has been tending Captain Beaufort secretly. The American would not get out of Vali Pasha's hands without a substantial ransom. Remember that Vali and his father, the Pasha of Janina, and also Mehmet Ali of Egypt, for some time have been asserting their independence of the Porte and behaving like independent rulers. Though the time may well come when they will be sorry for it. But to return to Jason Beaufort, I don't expect his convalescence to be less than six months."
Six months! Marianne had been doing rapid mental calculations. Supposing that Jason had been picked up some time early in August, that meant he would not be in Constantinople before midwinter, or even until the spring, according to how long it took him to reach the Bosporus. That meant a long wait still, because it was not yet the end of October. On the other hand, a small voice whispered to Marianne that that might be all the better since the child was due at the end of February.
That would allow her to meet him looking her normal self, for she had not been looking forward to facing him with her present plump cheeks and unattractive barrel-shaped figure.
"Marianne, you really are taking a shocking risk, you know." Marianne started to hear a voice scolding her. "It's cold and damp here on the waterfront and you have been standing here for three quarters of an hour or more, standing in the middle of a jostling crowd. And I told you to take care of yourself."
She roused herself from her thoughts to find that Jolival had left her side and was talking to Achmet on the deck of the Sea Witch. His place had been taken by a fair-haired man of middle height who sported curling sidewhiskers and an air of elegance that was wholly English. He was regarding her with strong disapproval. She smiled and held out her hand.
"Were you really watching me all that time, Doctor? Then you were very patient to wait for three quarters of an hour before coming to scold me."
"I wasn't watching you, Princess, but Lady Hester and I have been all that time over there in consultation with a host of Greek sea captains, each one a more talkative rogue than the last. I kept hoping that we had done and could go home but these fellows can outtalk a whole tribe of Indians! As for Lady Hester, she's the queen of them all! I lost patience at last, but she is still at it. Look at her, standing on the gangway in that outlandish dress of hers, with that huge devil in the red cap and the unforgivable dirt! Upon my word, I'll swear
that she enjoys these arguments. If her friends in London could see her now…"
Marianne laughed heartily. It was not the least odd part of her situation that the doctor now should be an Englishman, Charles Meryon, and that he should also have become her friend. Within twenty-four hours of her installation in the house of Phanar she had quite naturally become involved in her hostess's social life, which she had discovered to be altogether cosmopolitan.
Princess Morousi had, in fact, no interest at all in politics and it seemed to her quite natural to open her house to guests who in any other place would not even have spoken to one another. She had no more racial prejudices than she had opinions on the justice of this or that war or private quarrel. Her friends were drawn impartially from Greeks, Turks, Albanians, Russians, Walachians, French or English. All she asked was that she should like them and above all never be bored by them. In return for which she dispensed lavish hospitality and a friendship not to be bought at any price but which, if disappointed, never forgave.
And so Marianne, the friend and secret ambassadress of Napoleon, had found herself thanks to the princess thrown into the very arms of the niece of the great Pitt, the mortal enemy of France and of Napoleon in particular, and between her and the Lady Hester Stanhope there had sprung up an immediate and spontaneous affinity which she had not even tried to suppress.
Lady Hester was surely one of the strangest and most remarkable people England had ever produced. After the death of her uncle, whose support, helper and hostess she had been for several years, followed by that of her betrothed, General Sir John Moore, killed fighting at Corunna, she would ordinarily have been relegated to a discreet retirement. But after queening it as a social and political hostess, Lady Hester, at thirty-four, was in no mind to resign herself to the narrow, stifling existence of an old maid in some English country house.
[Marianne 5] - Marianne and the Lords of the East Page 9