LIGHEA

From the story by Guiseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

From Plagiarisms

The senator’s apartment was surprisingly well kept;

Heaped books extended from the entrance hall

Through several rooms, and reached at last the senator himself

In dressing gown of camel-hair — or rather, llama wool —

A gift, I learned, of Lima Academic Senate.

He pointedly did not get up, yet greeted me cordially.

He poured some resinated Cypriot wine — a gift, once more,

This time from the Italian School in Athens —

And, offering me Torinese cakes, he almost smiled

And, in a way, apologised for previous attacks

On what he thought my dissolute affairs.

“I know, my friend, I have been quite excessive in my terms,

But, please believe me, moderate in my concepts.” As he spoke,

He fed a large black dog. “This creature, Corbera,

Is more like the Immortals than your sullen mistresses and whores.”

I did not see his library. “To one like you,” he said,

“Failed morally in Greek, such classics could

Have no great interest.” But his study where we sat disclosed

Few books — the plays of Molina, Lamotte Fouqué’s L’Undine,

And, based on it, Ondine by Giraudoux,

Then, strangely, much of H.G. Wells (for which he voiced contempt).

But all the walls were hung with splendid, life-size photographs

Of Greek archaic statuary:

The “Rider” in the Louvre, the “Seated Goddess” from Berlin,

The “Phoebus” at Olympia, the famous “Charioteer”,

The “Korè” of the Acropolis,

The Delphi “Warrior”. The room seemed flooded by their smiles,

Ecstatic yet ironic, glowing with their arrogance.

“You see, dear Corbera,” said the senator,

“These gods shout ‘Yes!’ Your seedy mistresses and whores bleat ‘No’.

And on the mantelshelf were ancient amphorae and urns:

Odysseus tied to the mast…

The Sirens cast from some high precipice at his escape…

“All petty bourgeois nonsense, that, dear Corbera. No-one can

Escape the Sirens, no-one. And, if they could,

Those goddesses would never be sufficiently concerned

To kill themselves like that — that is, of course, if they could die…”

I noticed then another photograph,

Faded, framed modestly, which showed an almost naked youth

With long, unruly curls, and features of unusual grace.

Perplexed, I paused thinking I’d understood,

But no. He said: “And this, my fellow countryman, this was

And is, and shall be still, Rosario La Ciura.” So!

The senator in dressing gown had been

A young, resplendent god. But then we spoke of other things.

He said, “I am to speak at a conference in Portugal;

I sail in May from Genoa on the Rex

With French and German conference members. Like Odysseus

I’ll stop my ears so as not to hear their nonsense. But there will

Be, nonetheless, some lovely days on deck,

Long days of sun and blue and salt smell of the confiding sea.”

Soon after this I left, and felt this visit had ensured

That our relations were now cordial.

I took the trouble to obtain for him some excellent

Sea-urchins; these with Etna wine and peasant bread

Were waiting for him when, quite timidly,

I asked him to my humble rooms. He came, and passing through

My bedroom, laughed. “So. Here we see the theatre of your poor

Plebeian rutting. And what books are these?

Quite good. Perhaps you’re less plebeian intellectually

Than I’d allowed. This Shakespeare was not quite devoid of worth:

‘A sea change into something rich and strange.

What potions have I drunk of Siren’s tears.’ The man at least

Knew something.” Later, when we sat to lunch and I produced

The Genoese sea-urchins on a tray,

He was in ecstasies. “You thought of this! How can you know

That these are what I yearn for most? I thank you, Corbera.”

I said, “You’re safe in eating them. They’re fresh — ”

He laughed. “You people fear decay, and strain your ears always

To the shuffling steps of Death. A pity that they aren’t still wrapped

In seaweed from the Augustan coast — these spikes

Have clearly never made divine blood flow…” But as he ate,

Absorbed and lacking gaiety, he likened once again

Their strange, partitioned, blood-red flesh

(As he had done when, in that sombre café, we first met)

To the female — puzzling, tasting of the sea, sea plants and salt.

He sighed and sipped some wine. I noticed then

Two tears which surreptitiously he wiped away. He spoke

Of Sicily — despite an absence of some fifty years,

Returning only briefly to discuss

At Syracuse some abstruse aspects of Greek Tragedy.

“But tell me again about our island, always beautiful,

If inhabited by donkeys… “ I recalled for him

The waving corn seen from the windy heights of Etna in May,

The scent of hillside rosemary, the taste of honeycomb,

The solitude near Syracuse, the gusts

From orange groves near Palermo — which, some say, only come

At sunsets at the end of June … Enchanted nights

At Castellamare bay, when anyone

Who lies back under the stars may lose his spirit into them…

He talked about the sea, and seemed to have remembered all

Its dark intensities which are

Essentially Sicilian. “And have you ever been

To Augusta, my good Corbera?” And, when I said I had,

He asked, “And did you ever see that inner part,

That little tidal bay past Punto Izzo, where the hill

Looks down on salt-pans?” “Yes, indeed,” I said, “It is

The loveliest spot in all of Sicily and, so far,

Unspoilt by any of our swarming Fascist Leagues of Youth.

A wild place, isn’t it? Deserted, not a house in sight;

The sea is peacock-coloured; opposite,

Beyond the iridescent waves is Etna. No-where is

So masterful, so calm, so silent, so divine.” He smiled,

Was silent, then said, “You’re a good lad, Corbera…

Now fetch that little car of yours, if you please, and take me home.”

We met again as usual in the weeks that followed. We read

Sicilian news-sheets in the sombre bar;

The senator seemed still inclined to talk of Sicily.

And now we took nocturnal walks along the Via Po

And through the bleak Piazza Vittorio

To watch the rushing river and the hill where spring would soon

Be prodigal. The lilacs had begun to flower; and here

Young couples braved the damp of winter grass.

“In Sicily the sun already burns, the fish appear

On moonlit nights in phosphorescent spray. Yet here we stand

At this insipid and deserted stream, and hear

The moans of these brief couplings like the sighs of approaching death.”

But he was greatly cheered by thoughts of his departure. Soon

He’d be approaching Lisbon by the sea.

He took my arm. “You should accompany me — a pity, though,

There’s no provision there for people lacking Greek — and if

Zuckmayer thought you weren’t proficient in

The optatives of the irregular verbs, you might be asked to leave.”

Two days before he went, he asked me to his house to dine:

Again the picture of the gods, again

The faded photograph of one who, once a youthful god,

Now seemed dismayed by his own metamorphosis; white-haired,

Slumped in a chair, he seemed intent to speak:

“Now, Corbera, if I’ve brought you here tonight and put at risk

Your fornications at the Rivoli, it is because

I need you. At my age, when one sets out,

There are no certainties, the more so if one trusts the sea…

And, since I really am quite fond of you, I should at least

Explain the reason for my oddities

And much that I have said, which must have made you think me mad.

I wish to tell you something which I rarely speak about,

Something which happened when I was that man — ”

He pointed to the photograph. “A long time ago,

Or so it must appear to you, in 1887,

When I was twenty-four, and looked like that,

I was a Classics graduate and had already earned

A certain reputation for some modest studies on

Ionian dialects. I was preparing to compete

For a Chair at Pavia University. To say the truth,

I have to tell you this — that never before that year, or since,

Had I, or have I, known a woman. There!”

I thought my face had stayed marmoreally impassive, but

I was deceived. “That wink of yours is ill-conceived, my friend.

I tell the truth, and also boast. I know

That we Catanian males are generally thought capable

Of impregnating even our wet-nurse. But not for me:

To spend one’s days and nights with gods and demi-gods,

One can resist the brothel stairs at San Birillio.

Religious scruples also held me back, in those laced days…

But, Corbera, your eyelashes again

Betray you! My little Corbera, you can scarcely have

A notion of the endless labours needed to compete

For such a chair in Ancient Greek.

The language, luckily, I knew as well as I do now;

But, for the rest — I do not wish to boast — the variants,

Both Alexandrian and Byzantine,

The innumerable connections linking literature and myth,

Philosophy, philology and science! I repeat,

It’s quite enough to drive a person mad.

And so I lived on little more than coffee and black olives

While studying, and cramming wayward boys for their exams

To pay my keep. And then came that appalling summer.

At night the sun was vomited again in Etna’s flames;

The heat by day was suffocating; metal railings burnt

The unwary hand; the lava paving stones

Seemed on the point of melting. Every day the sirocco flapped

Its slimy bat’s wing in one’s face. I was exhausted. Then

A friend who met me, wandering in the street

Reciting Greek I understood no longer, rescued me:

‘Rosario,’ he said, ‘I have a rustic three-roomed hut

At Augusta, far from town beside the sea.

I’m off to Switzerland. Pack your bags and go there. Go at once.’

He drew a map; I did not hesitate, and left that night,

And in the morning woke to face the sea

With Etna in the background much subdued in morning mists.

The house contained a couch on which I spent the night, three chairs,

A table; stoneware pots, a lamp; outside,

A fig tree and a well. I saw no-one. Then, in the town,

I made arrangements with the peasant mentioned by my friend

To bring me pasta, bread and vegetables

From time to time. I hired a tiny fishing boat and, with it,

Lobster pots and fishing lines. At once I was resolved

To stay at least two months. The heat! The heat

Was still intense but, rather than reverberate from walls,

It seemed to generate a brutal, fluid energy;

And in that heat the sea seemed to recede

And leave a multitude of diamonds on its surfaces.

My studies ceased to be an effort. Books became, instead,

Not obstacles, but keys opening the world,

Whose most entrancing aspects now seemed spread before my eyes.

Thus everything within their pages seemed to float as well

Before me. Often I declaimed the names

Of those forgotten gods, so long ignored, but who appeared

To skim transparently above the sea. This solitude

Was now complete, and broken only by

The peasant’s visits. Seeing my exalted, carefree state,

He’d leave provisions and depart, presuming me quite mad.

The sun, and solitary nights beneath

Rotating stars, the silence, meagre food, difficult texts —

All these conspired to predispose a mood for prodigy.

This was fulfilled one day soon after dawn.

I had awoken and at once rowed out some way from shore,

Then sought the shadow of an overhanging rock; the sun

Already climbed in ferment, pouring gold

Across that watered silk, the azure, unresisting sea.

I was declaiming ancient verses on this tide of blue,

When suddenly I felt the boat edge sway

As if behind me someone were about to climb on board.

I turned and saw her rising from the sea, a smooth-faced girl

Of sixteen, two small hands upon the gunwale;

She smiled. Her pale lips showed a glimpse of little, sharp, white teeth,

Sharp like a dog’s. But it was not the smile that people give

Debased by pity, cruelty

Or irony … This smile expressed itself alone — that is,

An almost animal delight, divine exultance, joy

In being all she was… This guileless smile

Was the first of many spells she cast; while from sun-coloured hair

Sea-water flowed down over green, wide-open, child-like eyes…

Our captious reason rankles at such sights,

And tries to harness memories of the obvious: I thought

I’d met a girl out bathing. Holding out my hands I leaned

To help her in. But she, with vigorous ease,

Emerged straight from the sea up to her waist and put her arms

Around my neck, enclosing me in some marine perfume

Which I had never known, and slipped into the boat.

Below her groin her body was the body of a fish,

Covered in minute scales of glittering blue and mother-of-pearl,

And ending in a supple tail, which beat

Idly against the bottom of the boat. She was a Siren.

She lay back with her head supported on crossed hands, and showed,

With serene immodesty, the delicate down

Of armpits, firm breasts tightly drawn apart, and perfect loins.

Again I noted what at first I’d thought a scent, but which

Was more some magical essence of the sea

— Or else it was the breath of youthful sensuality…

We were in floating shade but, twenty yards away, the beach

Seemed utterly abandoned to the sun.

And, being almost nude, I could not easily conceal

The effects on me of all this dazzlement. And then she spoke.

Her voice was even more remarkable

Than was her smile and smell of sea foam. I was overwhelmed,

Submerged in this slightly guttural, reverberating voice.

Behind the words one sensed the lazing surf

Of summer seas, the winds of lunar waves… And then I knew:

The music of the Sirens, Corbera, is no more than this,

Their speaking voice. She spoke in Greek and yet

I found it strangely difficult to understand. She said,

‘I heard you talking to yourself in words I understood.

I like you; take me. I am named Lighea,

Daughter of Calliope. Do not believe the tales

Invented of us. We kill none of you. We only love.’

Bent over her, I rowed as if into

Her laughing eyes. We reached the shore. I took that shimmering body

In my arms, and passed from solar glare into the shade.

She was already bringing to my mouth

The flavour of such pleasure as became inestimable,

And which, compared to your avowed carnalities, would seem

Like wine compared to water from the tap.”

He spoke with certainty, as if this were the recent past;

Never for a moment did I think the senator

Was telling lies. For there was nothing here

Which did not seem to have the truth of sun and sunlit sea…

And equally I felt that my own sexual vanity

Had been exposed, reduced to trivialities

By the penetrating light of this remembered blue and pearl…

“So those three weeks began. It is not proper, nor would it

Be kind to you, to enter into details —

Suffice to say that these embraces, frequent and intense,

United those extremes of pleasure, namely, the spiritual

And elemental… Think of what Balzac

Dared not express explicitly in his A Desert Passion…

For those immortal limbs relayed such life-force that, always,

Each loss of energy was soon restored —

I loved as much as all your Don Juans in their entire lives.

And oh, what love! Immune from convents, crimes, commander’s rages,

Leporellos’ trivialities,

Pretensions of the heart, sham deliquescence, false sighs…

(A Leporello did in fact disturb our passion once:

I heard the peasant’s heavy step outside,

And drew a sheet in haste across Lighea’s shining tail.

He saw her head and arms and, thinking this some village girl

He signalled with increased respect, and winked

And made a gesture of male solidarity, then left.)

Sometimes she’d disappear for several hours, and then return

More ardent, and I’d hear that voice again

Like lapping water on a sloping shore with tiny waves.

In fact, she often plunged into the sea and went away,

And then would meet me in the boat, or else,

If I were still indoors, would slither over pebbles, half

In the water and half out of it, and call to me for help

To climb the slope. Her lower body then,

So agile in the sea, took on the vulnerability

Of wounded animals, an aspect cancelled by her smile…

She ate from the sea, and only what was alive;

Sometimes she would emerge, her slender torso glistening,

And in her teeth a shining fish still quivering, with its blood

Staining her mouth and then — when cast aside —

The sea… And then her voice, Corbera! Her voice was like the call

Of conch-shell trumpets echoing over ruffled seas. When, once,

I gave her wine, she was incapable

Of drinking from the glass but gulped it from her open hands

As dogs drink with their tongues. Her eyes would widen with surprise

At such an unfamiliar flavour. Afterwards

She did not ask for it again. At times, she’d come ashore

With molluscs which I opened with a knife for her… Dear Corbera!

As I have said, she was both beast and yet

An Immortal, and it is regrettable that speech cannot

Continually express this synthesis with just that grace

Which she conveyed by her own flesh and blood,

A grace which was accompanied and augmented by her voice.

Not only did she show great joyousness and delicacy

Encountering the carnal act (so free

From dreary animal lust) but in her speaking voice I heard

Intense particularity which I have found elsewhere

In only one or two great poets. Not for nothing

Is she the daughter of Calliope. Ignorant

Of culture and official wisdom — and contemptuous

Of moral inhibitions — she belonged

To the fountainhead of culture, wisdom, immortality…

Sometimes she spoke of Pan and self-renewal. Then she’d say

‘While you are young and handsome, follow me.

My dwelling place is under mountainous dark water. Come.

Remember I have loved you and, when you are tired and cannot

Go on, lean on the sea and call me. I

Will always answer, since I am everywhere, and can assuage

Your thirst for sleep.’ She told me of the sea depths, bearded Tritons,

Bright translucent caverns. These, she said,

Were unreal visions. Under them the truth lay deeper, deep

In bland, mute palaces of formless waters… I could not

Distinguish all these mysteries from the voice

Which told them so mysteriously… And then, one day, she said,

‘I must go far away. I know a place where I can find

A gift for you.’ When she returned, she held

A branch of lilac coral, shell-encrusted, luminous…

For years I used to keep this in a drawer, and kiss

The places I remembered the Indifferent —

That is, the Beneficent One — had touched it. Later on, a maid

Could not resist its novelty and gave it to her ponce.

I found it later on the Ponte Vecchio,

Cleaned and polished, desecrated, drained of all its life,

And bought it back and that night sadly cast it to the depths

Of the Arno… Sometimes too she spoke

Of other human lovers she had taken during her

Millennial adolescence — fishermen and sailors, Greek,

Sicilian, Arab and Capresi… Some

Were shipwrecked mariners, adrift on rotting rafts; to them

She appeared a moment in the tempest’s lightning-flash, to change

Their lingering death to ecstasy. ‘And all of these

Have summoned me again in time, as I would have you do.’

Those weeks of summer passed so quickly as a single day,

But, afterwards, I realised that I had lived

For centuries. That young, lascivious girl, that cruel wild beast,

Had also been a Mother of all Wisdom, who had razed

All faiths, unsettled metaphysics … and

Who had led me with her fragile, often blood-stained fingers to

A true repose, eternal, knowing and beneficent.

She also formed in me an asceticism

Denied, not from renunciation, or the sullen will,

But from an incapacity to savour once again

Inferior pleasures. Certainly I shall

Not disobey her call, could not refuse to speak aloud

To the sea when it is time… Perhaps due to its violence,

That summer ended quickly, late in August.

The first drops fell, tepid as blood. The nights were a chain of slow,

Mute lightning-flashes, seeming on the horizon like

The cogitations of a god. At dawn

The sea, dove-coloured, would exclaim and moan like turtle-doves,

Arcane and restless, and in the evening crease like drying cloth

Without the slightest sign of breeze — smoke-grey,

Pearl-grey, steel-grey, divided and striated like the clouds.

Mist grazed the water; maybe, on the coast of Greece, the rain

Had come already. And Lighea’s mood

Changed like the sea from dawn to dusk. She fell more often silent,

Spent hours stretched on a rock and seldom went away. She said,

‘I want to stay with you. If I leave now,

My sea-companions will not want me to come back again.

]

There! Do you hear them calling me?’ Sometimes I thought

I heard a long sustained and lower note

Amidst the screech of the seagulls. ‘They are blowing on their shells

And summoning Lighea for the festival of storm.’

And that broke on the 26th, at dawn.

The sea was twisted in confusion. Wind-waves formed. We smelt

The scent of rosemary bushes. Then the wave broke on our rock.

The Siren cried, ‘Good-bye. You won’t forget!’

And disappeared into the iridescent sprays of surf.”

The senator left next morning. At the station he seemed still

As grumpy and acidic as before,

But, as the train began to move, his fingers reached out from

The carriage window, and just grazed my head. Next day there came

A telegraphed report from Genoa:

During the night-watch Senator La Ciura had been lost —

Had fallen from the Rex as it was steaming on to Naples,

And, although life-boats were launched at once,

The body of this celebrated scholar was not found…

After a week his will was read; the money in the bank,

Together with his furniture, was left

To his recent maid; the library of several thousand books

Was given to the University of Catania;

And, by a recent codicil,

I was bequeathed the Greek vase with the Siren figures, and

The splendid photograph of the Korè from the Acropolis.

Both objects I sent home to Palermo.

Then came the war, and I was stationed at Marmarica,

Rationed to half a litre of water a day. And there I heard

That “Liberators” had destroyed my home.

On my return, I found the photograph cut into strips

To serve as torches for the looters. The large bowl was smashed;

The largest fragment shows Ulysses’ feet

Tied to the mast against a glimpse of sea. I keep it still.

The books were stored in cellars at the University,

But, as there is no money for more shelves,

The Collection Rosario La Ciura slowly rots away.