A Terrible Beauty (4 page)

He met the same resistance at the bank. Unable to access his funds, Ashton stormed into the office of the British consul, where he was treated with politeness and a great deal of pity before they ushered him out with the address of a physician they hoped might be able to treat his disorder.

How foolish to have believed his appearance alone would make the world recognize he was still alive! He had nothing that proved his story. He had almost no possessions: just the clothing given to him by the Germans. He had no books, no letters, no objects of sentimental value, not even the photograph taken of his lovely wife on their wedding day.

That, he had left in France.

 

2

The benefit of hindsight suggests I perhaps ought to have given the journal more consideration than I did. As things stood, however, I decided Margaret must have left it as a joke. She had gone up to Oxford that morning to see her husband in what we both knew would be a vain attempt to convince him to join our trip to Greece. Very little could induce Mr. Michaels (Margaret steadfastly refused to call him by his Christian name, Horatio, as she insisted—rightly—that it did not suit him) to leave his life at the university. Sometimes, she claimed, he would go days speaking nothing but Latin, much to the dismay of his students.

The previous evening, she and I had sat up late in the library with a very fine bottle of port. The conversation naturally veered to our trip, and as a result, to the villa, and as a result of that, to the man who had built it. Margaret, whom I had not met until two years after Philip died, knew only slightly less about him than I did. I had always welcomed her American bluntness when we discussed him, even, on this occasion, when she had declared that if he were anything but a fool he would have constructed in Italy a perfect reproduction of a Pompeian villa instead of burdening me with a house she called a Cycladic nightmare. She loved the villa, but loved more making overly dramatic statements that offered support for whatever agenda suited her in the moment.

Leaving the journal open was just the sort of thing Margaret would find harmless and amusing. I remembered that she alone knew where I kept it—she had watched me wrap it in tissue and store it away—and teased me occasionally about it. I closed the volume without so much as reading a word, returned it to my dressing room, and gave it no further thought until weeks later, when I was standing on the deck of the steamer taking us from Brindisi to Corfu.

The bright sky, a deep, crystalline blue prevalent in the Mediterranean, pulsed with beauty. The calm sea had let us slip into an easy rhythm on board, and the sun warmed us pleasantly against the occasional stiff breeze. Colin, who had deliberately left in London the smoke-colored spectacles I had purchased for him, leaned over the railing squinting, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his straw boater firmly in his hands rather than on his head. Jeremy and Margaret, leaning together conspiratorially, were sitting on a nearby bench evaluating the perceived merits of our fellow passengers.

When a strong gust of wind caught my parasol, I turned around so that its delicate ribs would not be broken. As I moved, I saw a gentleman on the deck above the one on which we were standing. He was tall and slim, with an elegant slouch worthy of Jeremy's best. His hat covered most of his hair, but I could see it was sandy-colored, and everything about him reminded me so violently of Philip that I gasped.

“What is it?” Colin asked, turning away from the water to look at me. “You appear most unwell. Are you seasick?”

“Do you see him? That gentleman there?” I pointed, but it was too late. “Never mind, he's gone.”

“Was it someone with whom we are acquainted or merely an individual with a taste in hats that you find shocking?” he joked.

“Neither,” I said. “He … he could have been Philip's twin. It took me by surprise is all.”

Colin studied the passengers on both decks as best he could from where we stood, but saw no one who fit the description. “You are bound to think of him when we are on the way to his house in Greece. Do not let it make you sullen.”

Two days later—after another boat and a long and dusty train ride—we settled happily into rooms at my favorite hotel in Athens, the Grand Bretagne in the Place de la Constitution, just across from the king's palace. The square brimmed with orange trees and oleander, forming a pretty little park in the center of the city. For every European tourist one saw, there were a handful of Greeks, some in ordinary dress, but many in traditional garb, the colors and styles lending an exotic flair to the scene and reminding one how removed the place was from the rest of the Continent.

Very little of Athens resembled the other capitals of Europe, first because of the scale of the city. It did not sprawl like the arrondissements of Paris or encompass the wide variety of neighborhoods to be found in London. The population of the British capital had totaled more than three million by the middle of our century, whereas the Athenians now, in 1899, numbered little more than a hundred thousand. More important, ancient monuments dominated Athens in a way not duplicated anywhere else in the world. Margaret might argue that Rome had more than its share of ruins, but I give those only a small measure of credit, as I find them inferior to what the Greeks had constructed centuries before.

As anyone with even the barest knowledge of ancient history would guess, Athens is anchored by the Acropolis, standing proud atop a limestone promontory, surrounded below by the streets of the Plaka, a jumble of houses, shops, and cafés. Beyond this, one found the more familiar type of European streets built during the period when the architects Stamatis Kleanthis and Eduard Schaubert, both neoclassicists, had sought to improve the layout of the quickly growing town. Their attempts and those of Leo von Klenze established a certain sense of order, but the contemporary parts of the city interested me very little. I wanted ruins.

And ruins were to be had nearly everywhere one looked in Athens. Aside from the Acropolis, one could visit the Agora, the old marketplace of the ancient city, where Socrates had met with his students, and where still stands the Temple of Hephaestus, the best remaining example of what is to my mind the loveliest style of buildings, the Doric peripteral temple. The nearby Roman Agora is worth a visit as well, but no one can claim surprise to learn I prefer the other, older market. Whenever in Athens, I also required a quick visit to the Olympieion, called
staes Kolónnaes
, or
at the columns
, by the Greeks and
a work of despotic grandeur
by Aristotle. I loved to stand in the midst of what had once been a magnificent temple to the Olympian Zeus, a structure that had taken more than five centuries to be completed: the perils of political unrest in the ancient world. Of the hundred and four original columns, only fifteen remain, yet the site retains an impressive power.

“That's quite enough, Em,” Jeremy said. “If I hear you wax rhapsodic about one more column I shall pack up at once and make my way to Paris or Baden-Baden or someplace no one will try to educate me.” Our carriage clattered over cobbled streets en route to the Acropolis. My preferred means of attacking Athens always included a moonlight trip to the monument, and the first thing I had done after arriving in the city was to contact the Ministry of Religion and Education to get the required
permesso
. Jeremy pulled a face. “I refuse to be educated. Do not try to succeed where Oxford failed.”

After we reached the base of the Acropolis, we hiked to the top of the plateau, Colin and Jeremy carrying lanterns for illumination. When we reached the final turn, just below the charming Temple of Athena Nike, and mounted the steep stone stairs leading to the Propylaea, following the path of the ancients who had made the identical trek during the Panathenaic processions of centuries past, Margaret blew out a loud breath.

“Whenever I catch my first glimpse of the Parthenon, I know the Greeks were superior to the Romans, but I will never admit this in any other circumstance.” The moon hung heavy in the sky above, its silvery light bathing the marble buildings in a mystical glow. We continued along a narrow ramp, through the columns of the Propylaea, all of us awestruck the moment the Parthenon filled the space before us.

“This is what man can accomplish at his best,” Colin said.

“Even I can't think of anything cynical to say.” Jeremy tilted his head and studied the noble edifice. Mesmerized, we stood, conscious of nothing but a beauty so perfect as to be at once incomprehensible and utterly engaging. The powerful elegance of the Parthenon and, in the distant moonlight, the Caryatids on the porch of the Erechtheion reached deep into the soul, satisfying some primal need for hope and harmony and meaning.

The spell was broken by a rowdy group of young men who started cheering on one of their party as he tried to shimmy up a column on the front of the Parthenon. I scowled and stepped forward, ready to intervene, but was spared having to do so when the would-be climber fell to the ground, laughing.

“Tallyho!” Margaret cried, and made her way along the wide pavement that opened up on the far side of the Propylaea. Colin followed, but as they walked toward the Parthenon, I took Jeremy by the arm and pulled him past it, in the direction of the Erechtheion.

“Keeping me from the best part, are you, Em?”

“Hardly,” I said. “The Erechtheion was the most sacred building on the Acropolis. It is where Athena and Poseidon battled for the right to be patron of the city. It is my favorite spot on earth.” We skirted past the Parthenon, along a rock-strewn pavement with broken pieces of columns and statues on both sides.

“They are lovely ladies,” Jeremy said, tipping his hat as we approached the Caryatids.

“Stunning, aren't they?” I pointed to the second from the end on the left. “She is a copy. Elgin took the original.”

“And thank goodness for that,” Jeremy said. “If he hadn't, would any of us care that the rest are here?”

“Of course we would. She should be with her sisters.”

“Would you like me to have her removed from the British Museum and returned to the Greeks?”

“Yes, please.” I smiled as we made our way into the temple, through the Ionic columns supporting the east portico, and entered Athena's sanctuary. Most of the ceiling was gone, as were most of the floors, but one could still get a sense of how the building had once appeared. “I recall there being a den for snakes somewhere in here, but I do not know the precise location. I can tell you with confidence a statue of the goddess, not as large or imposing as the one in the Parthenon, stood in this spot, fashioned from olive wood—appropriately, as it was the olive tree that won Athena the city. She was the patron, you know, after defeating Poseidon for the honor. If you look here”—I led him down a wide staircase to a narrow chasm in the ground—“you will see the mark left by Poseidon's failed attempt to impress the citizens. He struck his trident on the ground and a spring burst out, but the water was salty, like the sea, and the Athenians found it not nearly so useful as the olive tree Athena had given them. You can see it on the outside of the building.”

“Surely not the same magical tree?” Jeremy teased, the flickering light of his lantern making his eyes seem to dance.

“No, this would be a descendent of a second magical tree. The Persians destroyed the first when they razed the Acropolis ten years after their defeat at the Battle of Marathon in the fifth century B.C. Two days later, a new shoot had already grown.”

“Had it, now?”

“I thought you weren't being cynical,” I said.

“I am not being cynical. I am merely expressing what I view as a healthy inquiry into the ancient methods of planting trees. Magic, it would appear, proves more effective than most gardening techniques.” He pulled a small penknife from his pocket and started scratching at the wall.

“You are not going to leave graffiti.”

“Of course I am. It is a time-honored tradition that goes back, well, probably to your dear friend Pericles. I won't stand for that Byron chap having left his name more places than I have mine.”

“This I cannot watch,” I said. “It is a despicable thing to do! I shall meet you outside by the olive tree.” I climbed the staircase—a modern addition no doubt added for the safety of visitors and archaeologists alike—and made my way to the North Portico, on the opposite side of the building from the famous Caryatids. Much though I adored the ancient maidens, this less showy porch had long resonated with me. I stepped onto it and looked down at the lights of the city beneath me, framed by the temple's fluted columns. Under the cover of night, with none of the trappings of modern conveniences, it was almost as if I were gazing down on the ancient world, sharing the view with Pericles.

I sighed. In fact, nothing looked as it had to Pericles. Even the Acropolis, with its gleaming marble, had been altered irrevocably. Long gone were the bright colors of ancient paint that coated the buildings, the monumental sculptures—some destroyed during wars, some taken home by Lord Elgin—and even Poseidon's spring. Yet this did not disappoint me. Would the Acropolis stun us with its beauty were it still in its pristine, original form? Or did the very fact that it survived in ruins instill it with a sort of romanticism, a painful nostalgia, awakening in our souls a longing for all that we cannot have?

I returned to the path and continued to circle the building, a marvelous feeling engulfing me. Truly, there was something about this place, something that—

A tall figure moved toward me from the darkness behind Athena's olive tree, navigating the rocky debris with a nimbleness suggesting familiarity with the site. His linen suit nearly matched the hue of the Erechtheion's marble, and his sandy hair was bleached by the moonlight almost to white. His gaze made me tremble, and he spoke only two words before turning and disappearing into a shadow: