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'Is that the same poem?' she asked.
'The same poem, yes. The ancient poem that isn't quite
forgotten yet.'
'Finish it, Charles.'
« — 'Or set upon a golden bough to sing»
«To lords and ladies of Byzantium»
«Of what is past, or passing, or to come.'»
'How beautiful. What does it mean?'
'That it isn't necessary to be mortal. That we can allow
ourselves to be gathered into the artifice of eternity, that we can
be transformed, that we can move on beyond the flesh. Yeats didn't
mean it in quite the way I do — he wouldn't have begun to comprehend
what we're talking about, not a word of it — and yet, and yet — the
underlying truth is the same. Live, Gioia! With me!' He turned to
her and saw colour coming into her pallid cheeks. 'It does make
sense, what I'm suggesting, doesn't it? You'll attempt it, won't
you? Whoever makes the visitors can be induced to remake you. Right?
What do you think: can they, Gioia?'
She nodded in a barely perceptible way. 'I think so,' she
said faintly. 'It's very strange. But I think it ought to be
possible. Why not, Charles? Why not?'
'Yes,' he said. 'Why not?'
In the morning they hired a vessel in the harbour, a low
sleek pirogue with a blood-red sad, skippered by a rascally-looking
temporary whose smile was irresistible. Phillips shaded his eyes and
peered northwards across the sea. He thought he could almost make
out the shape of the great city sprawling on its seven hills,
Constantine's New Rome beside the Golden Horn, the mighty dome of
Hagia Sophia, the sombre walls of the citadel, the palaces and
churches, the Hippodrome, Christ in glory rising above all else in
brilliant mosaic streaming with light.
'Byzantium,' Phillips said. 'Take us there the shortest and
quickest way.'
'It is my pleasure,' said the boatman with unexpected grace.
Gioia smiled.
Robert Silverberg,
Sailing to Byzantium (excerpts)
