A Terrible Beauty

by Tasha Alexander

  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 t
emple, 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:

  “Tê kallistê.”

  Philip

  Munich, 1891

  Ashton’s story haunted the Germans who had so graciously transported him from the depths of the African bush to the relative civility of Cairo. When they saw him again, on the streets some weeks later, despondent and on the verge of falling ill, they took him back into their fold. In the early days of their acquaintance, Ashton had formed an instant connection with Fritz Reiner, a young archaeologist who shared his passion for classical studies, and now Reiner invited him to travel with him to his home in Germany. What other option did he have?

  When they arrived in Munich, Reiner’s mother took one look at Ashton and declared him to be under her protection. She would see to it that he regained all of his strength and his place in the world. Regaining strength, apparently, meant regular consumption of strong German beer, sausages, and potatoes, but Ashton found he objected to none of it. Slowly, he lost all pallor of illness. But nothing stopped the nightmares plaguing his sleep. They, Ashton knew, would cease only when he was back home, comfortably settled with his wife. He considered going to Berlin, to meet with the British ambassador, but Reiner convinced him not to bother.

  “You will meet the same resistance you did in Cairo, my friend,” he said. “You need to go where people recognize you. Not the manager of a hotel or some useless civil servant or bank employee—the people who know and love you. The minute your family sees you, this whole dreadful business of needing proof will evaporate.”

  “I realize what you say is both wise and correct,” Ashton said, “but I am full of fear. I have been gone so long. What will they think? I ought never have stayed in Africa for so long.”

  “You were not of sound mind, my friend—first the poison and then the fever addled your brain. But now you are recovered and ready to return to your former life—the life that never should have been taken away from you.”

  Ashton pushed his palm hard against his forehead. “Kallista, my wife. How will she ever be able to find it in her heart to forgive me?”

  “It will be like a dream to her,” Reiner said. “No more dreary widowhood. You will be giving back to her all of the hopes for her future she was forced to abandon the day she learned of your death.”

  “What if she has remarried?”

  “So soon?”

  “It has been nearly three years.”

  The two gentlemen sat silent for a moment.

  “It is possible, I suppose,” Reiner said. “We could make discreet inquiries with someone in London, perhaps?”

  “Hargreaves would be the man for that,” Ashton said.

  “Send him a telegram?” Reiner suggested.

  “Yes,” Ashton said. “I shall do so without delay. His reply will tell me how best to proceed.” He did not wish to reveal his return to Hargreaves quite yet, so signed it from an old mutual acquaintance of theirs from Eton. That done, he steeled himself for his friend’s response.

  3

  Tê kallistê.

  To the fairest.

  The shadowy figure had spoken the same words written on the golden apple dropped by Eris, or Discord, at a wedding to which she had not been invited. Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite all claimed it, each believing herself the most worthy of the sentiment. Zeus stayed out of the argument, and chose a shepherd—Paris—to adjudicate. Paris gave the apple to Aphrodite, in exchange for a promise that he could have the most beautiful woman in the world for his wife. Unfortunately, as Helen was already married to Menelaus, the king of Sparta, Paris and Helen’s subsequent elopement gave rise to the Trojan War.

  To me, the phrase held nearly the power it had for Paris. It formed the basis for the name Philip had bestowed on me: Kallista. He never, in his journal, referred to me by my given name, only by Kallista. When I first read it, the word held no significance to me, but on the day a keeper at the British Museum told me Paris’s story, I realized Philip’s choice of nickname suggested he thought I was beautiful. He had never told me, and this insight into his thoughts affected me profoundly, making me wish I had known him better when he was alive.

  By the time I managed to shake myself from the stupor caused by that simple Greek phrase, I could find no trace of the man who had uttered it, and was still mulling over the words when Jeremy found me sitting, motionless, on the fallen section of a column outside the Er
echtheion. He dropped down next to me and playfully squeezed my shoulder.

  “Now don’t be so glum, Em. I am not deserving of this much censure for one small bit of graffiti.”

  “You are deserving of far more censure than you shall ever get,” I said, “but that is not what is troubling me at present.” I described for him the appearance of the mysterious stranger. “Although I cannot, in faith, call him a stranger.”

  “What are you saying, Em? That Philip has come back to haunt you?”

  “I should feel less unsettled if I thought I had seen a ghost. This was no apparition, Jeremy. It was a living and breathing man.”

  “Then where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Em, I am not in such dire need of distraction that you must sink to this. My broken heart will mend without an apparition of your dead husband.”

  “I wish I were inventing it to distract you, but nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “You are still exhausted from traveling—the train to Athens was a horror I hope never to experience again—and no one sleeps well the first few nights in a hotel.”

  “You believe I am seeing things?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He rose to stand in front of me and held out his hand to help me to my feet. “Greece and Ashton are linked inextricably in your mind. Combine that with fatigue, and voilà—your dead husband reanimated.”