The New Tiresias

It happened in Herse, that devil-ridden town, in January of the year 1800.

Winter, in Herse, was a mild enough thing; and though just last week they had been pouring chunks of ice from pitcher to washbowl, this morning the wind off the Adriatic blew in with all friendliness, ruffling the flags and ensigns on the ships in Herse Harbor.

Up beyond the long hill that led to the harbor, beyond the red-roofed stone houses that turned molten under the morning sun, lay a section of the city devoted to the British colony there. In a neat house of gold-gray stone that lay beyond an iron gate and up a flight of gold-gray steps lined with flower pots and sleeping cats, lived the Godfrey family.

Maria Godfrey was fifteen. She was a late riser.

The family was already sitting down to breakfast when she hurried into the dining room. Indeed, her father and mother, Sophia, and Annise were more than half-through, and her father had already procured his cherished cup of Turkish coffee from the urn.

"I wish you could make a greater effort, Maria," said Mrs. Godfrey. "You know we have a great deal to do if I'm to spare you and Sophia this afternoon."

Maria paused in the midst of reaching for a hot roll from the plate warmer beside the fender. "Mama! Do you mean that we can go?"

Her mother smiled. "I'm sure any party of Mrs. Arkadim's will be perfectly proper."

Sophia, typically, seemed unimpressed. Why should she be otherwise? thought Maria, with a touch of resentment at their inequality of engagements. Sophia hadn't spent an evening at home in weeks.

"And as Annise will be with you, and our Mr. Price will be of the party -- "

At that, Sophia looked up. Maria rolled her eyes. As she was turned to the plate-warmer, spooning out eggs, no one saw her.

"I thought that dreadful Captain of Engineers had work for him today." Sophia spoke in the tone of dramatic languidness she had been practicing on the balcony lately.

"Apparently not," said her mother; "it is a great mystery. He claims he's quite at our disposal. He's longing to see the statue -- says he's made a study of the Greek gods."

"He's made a study of everything," muttered Maria under her breath, and then felt guilty, for she liked Lieutenant Price.

"What does that mean?" asked Sophia, frowning.

"Only that he has a strange way about him. He looks at you as though he were about to sit for examinations. One day he knows nothing about a subject, when next you meet, he's become an expert."

"I doubt you've spoken with him sufficiently to form an estimate of his character," said her father. "I find him a pleasant young man." He stood up. "My dear. Girls, enjoy yourselves today; give my regards to Apollo."

After her father had left, to do whatever it was one did in the Turkey carpet trade, Sophia rose. She circled the table and bent to kiss her mother. "We're still going to the Caldecotts tonight?"

Maria looked up from her tea. "The Caldecotts?"

"Not you, little sister," said Sophia. "You're not yet out."

Maria lifted her cup with feigned coolness. "I doubt any of us will be presented at St. James any time soon."

"Maria!" cried her mother.

"But Mother, you've said yourself that being out here is not the same as it is in England. And you said that I might go to the opera tomorrow -- "

"You'll be with the whole family tomorrow. Papa will be there. The Caldecotts is quite another thing; I doubt but that there will be dancing before the night is over."

Maria sighed. She picked up the copy of La Nouvelle Heloise that she had carried into the room and began flipping through it.

"Maria."

She closed the book with a snap. A cool laugh tinkled in the morning air. Annise.

She sat there, pale red hair pinned up neatly, her gray eyes fixed on Maria. No matter how many years she'd lived with the Godfreys, her proper-young-lady face remained irretrievably foreign; some indefinable combination of those cool gray eyes and slender nose spoke of breeding that must be good, but never British. "Our young general seeks to balance the armies," Annise said. "She feels ignored, so she will ignore."

After a moment Mrs. Godfrey tittered nervously. Annise always made her nervous. "You must grant Sophia her time," Maria's mother told her. "She'll be gone to England soon enough, and then you'll miss each other beyond what you can guess."

The girls looked at each other with identical expressions of doubt. Mrs. Godfrey laughed more honestly now, and said, "I assure you, it's true." She reached out and grasped Maria's hand. She shook her head, still smiling. "The great mystery is how you can be so bold at home and so painfully shy in company." She squeezed Maria's fingers.

"Maria is not shy." It was aunt Wallace, latest to the breakfast table, but no one would ever say so. "Maria is a perfect young heroine." Elaine Wallace wore a muslin gown with a stain at the neckline; her dark hair a long, messy tangle down her back. No one would say that, either.

Aunt Wallace was odd. It was why she was in Herse, with her sister's family, rather than in Sussex with her own. She was thirty-three years old and clearly doomed to spinsterhood, but they had given up all hope of her ever keeping her hair neat or wearing a proper lace cap.

"Where is my tea?" she asked, glancing around as though she had just set down the cup and someone had crept in and stolen it.

"I'll get it for you, aunt Wallace," said Maria. She leaped up and retrieved the silver pot from the sideboard.

"Thank you, my dear."

Sophia and Mrs. Godfrey had already begun to murmur about dresses. Aunt Wallace smiled at Maria. "You'll keep me company tonight, then, won't you?"

The two odd shoes would be home, as usual. But Maria smiled as she handed over the cup. "Of course, dear aunt Wallace."

"It is a city on fire," said Annise. "A city of burning hearts, a devil-ridden town."

"The last I would agree with," said Stephen Price. "But then, everyone says so."

They made a strange procession; old, fat Mrs. Arkadim leading the way on her white mule; the three hill-men she had to accompany them, looking strange in livery and servants' white powder; Sophia and her two friends, Louisa and Jane, walking with parasols and shawls; and treading in the rear, Maria and Annise.

The road from town stretched ahead dustily, lined with plane trees and olives. Mr. Price had dropped back, with his usual politeness, to speak with them, commenting on the beauty of the day. His sandy hair was gold in the sunlight; his stiff Engineers uniform blazed gold and crimson.

"How came the devil to bring you here?" inquired Stephen Price of Annise. She smiled in appreciation for his choice of language. Annise did not choose to be a lady.

"My people are from the mountains," she said. "I was orphaned, and needed to make my way in the world. Mrs. Godfrey offered me a place."

"As... ?" said Mr. Price, allowing the word to trail off delicately, as though it were a question that might be ignored.

"What am I?" she asked, smiling. "What indeed? What a piece of work is woman! --I am not quite a governess, though I venture to say that I taught Maria, here, to speak French with a tolerable mountain accent, and Varingine, with what I trust is a pure one. We are only six years apart in age; I suppose I am a companion."

"Have you no resentment for the English?" he asked.

"Why should I?" she said, with mocking innocence.

"Indeed I wonder," he said, "for we are here to protect your country."

"And who will protect us from you, I wonder? Really, Mr. Price, we were in no danger before the King invited you in."

"There are the Turks," said Maria, who could no longer bear to be left out of the conversation.

"The Turks know enough to leave us be; as does everyone but you, it seems."

"You are unfair, Annise," she said. "With British ships in the harbor, and British soldiers quartered in town, Herse is the safest place on earth. None would dare to attack now but the French, I suppose; and since Admiral Nelson has just sunk all their ships, I'm sure they have learnt their lesson."

Price's eyes widened slightly at that, but he said nothing. Maria looked from one to the other; and into the silence, she said, "Why is it a devil-ridden town?"

"Pray do not tell your parents you heard me say so," said Price.

"But why?" She looked to her companion. "Annise?"

At last Price spoke. "Because no one is here of his own free will, Miss Maria."

"That can't be true, sir. There must be many people -- " She stopped, thinking. Her parents, who never ceased speaking of England? Their neighbor, Monsieur Herneau, whose enthusiasm to return home had only been dampened by news of his brother's guillotining? "You yourself, Mr. Price -- " Again she stopped. The Lieutenant had been sent by the Royal Engineers. But how foolish, she only considered the expatriate community. Of course the natives... Annise, the orphan of the mountains? She had made her opinion of Herse clear.

Maria wet her lips. "Mrs. Arkadim," she said finally.

Annise's eyes lit with contempt. "Herse is a city of lies," she proclaimed, and spat freely.

Maria quite admired her for it. "Mrs. Arkadim pretends to be happy here?" she asked.

"Mrs. Arkadim seeks to enhance her prestige with her fashionable Roman temple, her dedication to the gods. She thinks this will make life in Herse bearable."

Maria walked on, thinking. At last she said, "I like the city."

Stephen Price and Annise looked at her, then at each other. They tactfully said nothing.

The temple was less than three miles from town, nestled between two shallow hills in a grove of acacias. Half the roof was missing. The building, or what remained of it, was small and round, encircled by broken pillars, the entire southern wall open to the elements.

The statue was another story.

"My god," said Stephen Price, under his breath. Mrs. Arkadim hung back, forgotten, a sly, pleased look on her face, allowing them to take in the full effect; she watched her guests, not the statue. Sophia stepped forward, letting go of her shawl, which she had been in the midst of unpinning; it slipped to the stone floor, unnoticed. Her blond hair was undone by the wind, but she seemed unaware of that as well. Even Annise, whose hair was never disobedient, stared blankly.

There was reason to stare, Maria thought. The height of a tall man, well over six foot, the statue was as out of place in this tiny ruin as a cannonball at a tea party. The marble glowed, polished by time and loving hands so that the features were very slightly blurred; but the deep cut of the eyes was unmistakable. In one hand, slender stone fingers held a lyre. In the other... it was impossible to tell what had been in the other hand, for that arm was missing below the elbow. The upper arm was outstretched, and the god's balance was poised on his forward foot, as though he were, perhaps, offering or bestowing something. A curse, a blessing, a gift.

He was quite the most beautiful man Maria had ever seen. His short tunic disguised nothing of the muscles of his legs, and the smooth expanse of his chest was exposed and inviting. Maria swallowed.

"Pity the nose is gone," commented Price, finally.

"What?" she bleated. A second later she saw what he meant; the nose was indeed quite broken off, the marble a rough triangle beneath. She hadn't even noticed.

Mrs. Arkadim made a crowing sound. They turned to her. The fringe of her turban quivered with excitement, its ostrich feather bowing as she nodded. "You are as impressed as I was, I perceive! Will it do? For my concert, Mr. Price, Miss Godfrey! Will it do? Will they be pleased?"

"I'm sure everyone will be as delighted as we are," Sophia assured her. She had stepped away from her two friends and made her way, almost unconsciously, to Stephen Price's side, as though staring at a six-foot man of marble had brought the Lieutenant suddenly to her mind.

"I will have violinists sitting over there," said Mrs. Arkadim, pointing. "And a pianoforte carried from town -- "

"Mrs. Arkadim," said the Lieutenant, a strange look on his face, "forgive me. But aren't you worried about the safety of this great treasure you've acquired? It may please you to display it in an old temple, but surely any goatherd could slip in and steal it away from you."

"Dear Mr. Price! Your concern does you credit. But see my three strong friends here?" She gestured to the burly hill-men, who smiled at Mr. Price, though not pleasantly. "One of them will always be on guard, armed with a pistol -- at least, until after my concert, when I shall consider moving the statue back to Herse. I believe I may have the temple itself transported, stone by stone, and -- "

Maria circled the temple, glancing back at the Apollo from time to time, letting Mrs. Arkadim's voice fade. Really, the figure was amazing, like a frozen bolt of lightning.

She was quiet all through the picnic lunch. Sophia's redoubled flirting with Mr. Price had no power to make her cringe. Afterwards, Price suggested a walk about the grove, a suggestion that met with immediate approval.

Not from Sophia, though. "I am sorry," she said, "but suddenly I'm all done in. I think I'll sit and wait for you here, if you don't mind."

"We need not go and leave you here -- " he began, but Mrs. Arkadim interrupted airily.

"My servant will stay, and perhaps one of the other girls will keep her company."

"I will," said Maria, rather surprising herself, for she had had a strong desire to join in the walk.

One of the hill-men stayed behind, sitting on the broken stones beside the open wall, facing out toward the horizon as though guarding them from enemy hordes. The countryside was empty and quiet, but for the sound of birds.

Sophia took out The Mysteries of Udolpho and began reading. After five minutes she sighed. Maria looked up from La Nouvelle Heloise.

"I can't seem to concentrate my mind, either," she admitted.

"Perhaps we should exchange," Sophia suggested.

Maria held up her book so her sister could read the cover.

"Oh dear," said Sophia. "Is it all in French?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, never mind; it can't be any worse than what I'm reading."

The handed each other their books. In another five minutes, Maria looked up and saw Sophia's eyes upon her. Without a word, she offered back the book, and Sophia did the same.

"That did us little good," said Sophia, her voice full of drowsiness.

"It's the fault of the weather, and all that fine food. Look, our escort is already asleep. How will he guard us from the gangs of bandits?"

Sophia giggled. Whatever one might say of Herse, there had been no bandits this close to the city for half a century.

Talking suddenly seemed far too much trouble. Maria laid her head down on her shawl. The last thing she heard was the song of the larks outside in the acacias.

A confusion of images, dark and light; music and silence, like the squares of a chessboard; and a sense that she was wrapped in a heavy, warm blanket, her arms fastened against her sides so that she was unable to move. Abruptly she became alarmed, fighting her way back to consciousness.

She scattered sleep like drops of water, like notes of music. She rushed into the light.

And she heard a voice.

Be well, beloved, and happy.

The word were not made of English or French; they were made of music.

Then came heavy footsteps.

She opened her eyes, frightened, and turned toward her sister.

Sophia was fine, but... it was strange. For a moment, Maria thought she saw someone leaving her sister's side, moving away. No, it was a shadow.

Moving away, having given his blessing. Moving back to his pedestal, back to Olympus...

What an imagination you have, Maria. I'm not sure Monsieur Rousseau would approve of this lack of rationalism.

She curled her fingers around La Nouvelle Heloise, which she had stuffed under her shawl as a pillow, and sat up. "Sophia?" she called.

Sophia slept deeply, her breasts rising and falling as though she floated on the dark ocean. A sigh escaped her lips.

"Sophia!"

Eyelashes fluttered. Chestnut eyes opened, disorientedly.

"Sophia, are you all right?"

"What?" Sophia glanced around, blinking, as though she had forgotten where she was. After a moment she said, "Yes. Yes, of course I'm all right. Why, what's the matter, Maria?"

"Nothing," said Maria, just as confused.

"Well," said a voice, "what a painting this would make. 'Two Fair Sleepers in an Ancient Temple.'" Stephen Price entered, Mrs. Arkadim close behind with Jane and Louisa. He bowed with some melodrama to Sophia, an amused, half-shy smile quirking his face. "We were gone longer than we thought. We should be starting back to town, but perhaps you would like to rest a while?"

Sophia's face was flushed with sleep, and her hair had come completely down. She looked at Mr. Price with the faintest trace of startlement, as though she had forgotten who he was. Then she smiled, a polite smile, with none of the warmth she had poured on him all day. "Oh, no, we would not like to worry our parents, would we, Maria?"

"No," said Maria, uncertainly.

They gathered up their things and stood outside, as Mrs. Arkadim mounted her mule. Sophia stood apart from Price, beside her two friends, although she made no effort to join in their conversation. She seemed deeply thoughtful, and a trifle... embarrassed? Maria could not be sure.

As they began the walk, Maria said, "The larks and the crickets seem to have gone to sleep as well. Remember how loudly they sang when we came in?"

Price looked at her strangely. "Why, they are as loud as ever. Can't you hear them?"

Maria did not know what to make of the matter of the birds. She stood over the japanned cabinet in the drawing room, pulling out thread for her needlework. Her hearing seemed unaffected, for she had understood her mother quite plainly instructing the maid before she and Sophia went out to the Caldecotts, and that had been from another room.

And she could hear, floating into the room with the night air, the sounds of her father, Mr. Price, and Monsieur Herneau, playing cards out on the balcony.

"Are you feeling lonesome, my dear?" Aunt Wallace looked over at her from the sofa, where she was perusing Sophia's abandoned novel.

"No, of course not," said Maria, slightly startled. It was a blow to her pride to be thought of so.

"Your mother is half-hoping to marry your sister to one of the Engineers or Navy men, I think; for then she could stay in Herse a while longer, and need not go off to England after all."

"I know," Maria admitted.

"But still it causes some pain, to be so ignored?"

Maria closed the door of the cabinet with a thud. "Do you wish to borrow some of my threads, dear aunt Wallace?"

"Thank you, my dear, no. You know how poorly I ply the needle."

Maria clasped her bundle of threads tightly. "I am surprised to be so much better than you, considering your years of practice."

Her aunt rose, a crooked smile on her face. "If I did well," she said softly, "then people would expect me to make myself useful continually. I am a spinster aunt, you know."

She took her leave, gliding away toward her bedroom like a ghost, her hair in its usual tangle down her back. Maria stared after her.

She shivered. But she was only fifteen; she did not have to worry about being someone's spinster aunt. Yet.

Her thoughts in a tumble, Maria moved quietly to the balcony, where she could look out through the shutters at her father's guests. There was Stephen Price, his clear features glowing in the candlelight. Monsieur Herneau, whom she had known all her life, with his gray side whiskers and dusty cravat. Drinks were set down beside them on the faded green baize table.

"It quite exceeded your expectations, then, did it?" asked M. Herneau in his hoarse voice. He stopped to cough into a handkerchief. M. Herneau had not been well lately; rumor had it, in fact, that he was worse off than he appeared, and would have welcomed the opportunity to die at home in Paris, if he did not fear a premature separation of head from body.

"The statue is magnificent," said Mr. Price, playing a card. "But I wonder how you came to hear of our excursion so quickly."

Maria's father laughed. "Do you think Mrs. Arkadim would let any opportunity to score a social point pass by?"

Price smiled wryly. M. Herneau said, "She has no fear of robbers, then?"

"Robbers..." said Price, thoughtfully.

"She'll lose that treasure," Herneau went on, "if she's not careful. Mark my words. The statue would be better off away from here entirely. Under the protection of an appreciative government."

"In Paris?" inquired Price, raising an eyebrow.

"It would be well-treated, at least, in Paris. The First Consul approves of the ancient classics, and of scholarship, too. He's left a commission in Egypt to study the ruins, the tombs, the natural fauna..."

Mr. Godfrey stubbed out a cheroot. "We will not speak of Egypt, I think."

There was an awkward silence.

"Quite," said Mr. Price. "Let me tell you instead a story I heard. The new British ambassador to Constantinople, one Lord Elgin, stopped in Athens with his bride on the way to take up his new duties. He fell in love with the art works the ancients left so carelessly lying about, and he bought one."

M. Herneau looked up sharply, his eyes alight.

"A magnificent statue of Apollo," said Price, innocently.

M. Herneau let out a breath. "But you're not --"

"Holding a lyre," Price went on inexorably, "and with his other forearm broken off. The statue was sent back to England as a gesture of thanks to the King for his appointment. But it never arrived. I believe the ship it sailed on was the Hermione." He glanced at his two companions, judging the effect, and then laid down his hand.

"Isn't the captain of the Hermione a friend of Mrs. Arkadim's?" he added, as though it were an afterthought.

This time the silence was an appreciative one. Mr. Godfrey leaned back. "Where do you hear these things, Price?"