The Wanderess

The author of
The Wanderess
wrote and designed this novel to be
read in traditional book format (codex). As his publisher, we
must apologize to him for what we have done to the book by
making it available for e-readers. Much of the spacing between
paragraphs, and between quotations, has been compromised in
this Kindle format. And without also reading the paperback
version of this novel, you will go away without enjoying the effect
of one of Payne’s most charming touches in
The Wanderess
: his
footnotes.

Therefore, Kind Reader, if when you are done reading, you
decide to show the author the polite courtesy of posting a simple
review of
The Wanderess
on the online bookstore where you
purchased it, please do not be less generous in the number of stars
you give the novel ‘
for reasons of ebook formatting and readability
alone.’
If you find beauty and joy within these pages, let the praise
go to him. You may let us know if you enjoyed, or didn’t enjoy,
this ebook’s formatting, by emailing:
[email protected].

I
designate
this novel to my little sister,
Stefanie
. While I
dedicate
it to my
Heroines
, my
Patronesses
, and to the
Wanderesses
of the world. To my Heroines and Patronesses, for
their support during the novel’s creation; to the Wanderesses, for
their inspiration and the poetic beauty of their lives.

Special dedication goes to
Mimi
of Chantilly, France for
her selfless and undying support. Without her, this book would
have died in Valencia. Special thanks as well to
Guillemette
of
Paris, to
Nausica’a
of Lagonisi, Greece;
Carolina
of São Paulo,
Claire
of Paris,
Choteuse
of Marseille …and to my
Mother
. As for
the men, my gratitude extends to the XVIII century adventurer,
Abbé Prévost, for his classic novel
Manon Lescaut
, which served
as the inspiration and architectural model for
The Wanderess.
Most importantly, this dedication extends to my close friend, the
famed writer and scholar,
Pietros Maneos,
for his heroic support
during the writing of
The Wanderess
, and for his
‘Bramabella’
—
both the literary movement, and the land.

“I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved
that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my
undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the
drops of the night.”

…I jot this phrase of invocation in my old leather-bound
notebook on a bright, cold morning at the Café **** in Paris, and
with it I’m inspired to take the reader back to the time I first met
and became acquainted with the girl I call
The Wanderess
—as
well as a famous adventurer named
Saul
,
the Son of Solarus
. It
was because of these two that I would come to know one of the
most beautiful and touching of all love stories I could ever invent
or imagine, a tale to inspire the heroic soul. But that will all come
later. Now let us go back to the beginning. It all started three
years ago, in Italy…

I had left Paris in the fall to roam the countryside in
Europe and the islands, as the book I was writing at the time
required some literary research that obliged me to travel. There
were details to be learned about several locales. A specific garden
in London to visit. A provincial inn in Calais, in northern France,
to investigate. As well as a property in rural Tuscany where I
planned to set the scene of a lovers’ retreat, reminiscent of
Boccaccio. Finally, a tragic ending to be staged in Corsica and
Mallorca made it necessary that I visit these enchanting islands.

It was with considerable regret that I left Paris that month,
for autumn is my favorite time to be in the capital. When in
September the last of the Parisians have returned from their
homes in the country, we collectively throw ourselves back into
the joys of city life and the voluptuous season begins. Autumn:
the season of parties, banquets, ballets and festive balls; the time
when the luxurious
parisiennes
are the most luxurious, the virgin
demoiselles
the most virginal, the fragrant
bourgeoises
the most
fragrant, the
courtisanes
the most divine. Still, although I love
elegant parties, dancing and dining and spending the night with a
sweet woman in my arms, my life belongs to literature. And so I
left Paris that autumn to do my research and am now glad I did,
for I have the most fascinating story to tell of my experience.

Arriving in Pisa, I hired a driver to take me to the village of
Petrognano where I had to check on some facts and spend a few
days. There was a certain country inn where I’d planned to lunch,
stay the afternoon and sleep the night. In the days to follow, I
would inspect the layout of the area for literary purposes.

Riding in over the countryside, the hills were burnished
gold and copper. The black forms of the peasants who worked
collecting chestnuts and olives in the fields dotted the landscape.
And with their bulky capes, and their large harvest sacks, they
resembled those great European bison that graze in the Caucasus.

Arriving in Petrognano, we rode up a winding road and
stopped in front of a quaint little inn: La Locanda Villa B***
¹
. This
was the inn I had travelled from Paris to find, and it was in front
of this inn that I saw a most touching scene. A scene I will relate
to you now…

Between tears and embraces, the handsome gentleman
whose face was quite pale as though torn by a grief that had been
aching him for some time, promised the girl that he would return
at daybreak the following morning, swearing that only one night
would ever separate them again, that after this night they would
be linked for life. The girl kept asking him to give her one last kiss
before he left, and kissed him so passionately, abandoning herself
to him completely, that I no longer had any doubt that he was
anything besides her lover. Over and over she cried that this was
surely the last time they would see each other, that something
could happen
—perhaps something
would happen
to him on the
road?—and spilling ever more tears, she finally allowed herself to
be freed from his lap so that the man’s driver could set off on the
journey.

As the gentleman started riding away, I could see him
choking heavily on his own tears, now that the two were actually
separated. He called back to the girl that he would waste no time
and soon would return to find her at the inn and the two would
never again part company for as long as they lived. Although the
girl wept at this, spilling a flood of tears that seemed never to end,
she was not so generous in words, and offered no response to his
hopeful vows. This is something that surprised me, as if she knew
something that he did not know. I would soon find out that my
suspicion was right, that there was a secret between them—or
dividing them
, rather. And so, with my heart torn by this touching
scene between two handsome people I’d chanced upon in the
yard, I bid my driver take a break from his duties so I could eat a
meal in the restaurant of the inn, take some notes on my
surroundings for literary purposes, and relax my body that was
weary and sore after such a long journey. I fancied that in
sleeping at this same lodging where the girl would be sleeping
while she waits for her lover to return the next morning, I might
chance upon a discussion with her and find out what such an
enchanting-looking creature was like in person.

It was then while I was in the dining room, sitting at a
table near the hall where guests at the inn check-in and out, that I
heard something that startled me: this young girl who had just
been swearing her eternal devotion to the man who was at this
time travelling to Florence, was now at the check-out counter
whispering to the innkeeper that she would need to leave the inn
that very moment,
and not a moment longer
; that she would be
travelling on—“alone, and far”—and needed her bags brought
down in the instant. When they asked what they would tell
Signore when he returned from Florence, she made the sound of
money piling on the counter and I gathered that this money
would purchase some desired response. I could tell by the sounds
exchanged once they had accepted the money that Signore would
hear simply:
that
she had left, and
how
she had left, but nothing
as to the route or destination of Signorina.

I, who had been so touched by the scene of affection
shared between these seemingly perfect lovers as the gentleman
was leaving, became horribly disturbed that this little angel who
had spilled so many tears then could now be heartless enough as
to abandon her lover without so much as a word as to where she
was going! I quickly signed for my meal and went out to find her
and inquire about the situation. She had gone out into the yard. I
was determined to get to the bottom of the matter, even if it
meant following her wherever she was going, or else, by seekingout her lover in Florence. It was true, I had my literary research
that obliged me to stay and inspect the Villa B*** and the
surrounding countryside, and even to interview some peasants,
read vernacular books, study local plants and the like, but I
decided that if such a tender scene of romance and affection
between two lovers could be followed immediately by a scene of
such deceit and betrayal, well then I didn’t need to concern myself
with literary research—or literature at all, for that matter!—since
this scene of deceit and betrayal was proving that the world didn’t
have any meaning or purpose, and therefore literature had no
meaning or purpose, and so the world didn’t even deserve
literature! Deeply disturbed and unhappy due to all I’d overheard,
I left the dining hall and went out into the yard to see where the
girl was going with the porter who hurried after her with her bags.

Once in the yard, the porter left the girl and placed her
bags in the shade of a tree so he could go check on the status of
the transportation to Rome, (it turned out she was going to
Rome). When the porter came back, he told her with great regret
that there had been some problem with the courier to Rome,
some delay. “What kind of problem?!” she demanded of the
porter. Her face paled completely. She looked horrified. “What
kind of delay?!”

“The driver was trampled by a bull in Certaldo, Miss, his
skull is smashed. The replacement driver won’t be arriving here
before very late in the evening.” To this the girl sobbed ever more
despairingly as she tugged with her little hands at the lace hem of
her skirt. She looked up and flashed her pair of eyes betraying
extreme worry. The porter offered to give her a room where she
could wait till evening and have an excellent meal prepared at the
inn’s expense, but she told him through her veil of tears that she
couldn’t stay another moment at the inn, and that if fate had dealt
her such a miserable hand as it appeared it had, she would suffer
the road alone with her shoes scuffing in the dust. Although how
was she to carry her bags?! In despair, she plopped herself down
on her luggage and told the porter to come find her in the yard
the moment the transportation was ready to leave for Rome.
With the porter gone, she began again to spill an endless flood of
tears into her cupped hands.

I who was meanwhile still a discreet witness to this scene
was so incredibly touched to see a girl so young and beautiful
crying so magnificently that I decided to approach her in a gentle
manner. When she heard the crunching of my shoes on the
gravel beside her, she stopped weeping and looked up at me with
great modesty. Her tender cheeks were steaming with hot tears. I
introduced myself, and not waiting for her to reply, I told her that
I’d overheard her request to go to Rome, as well as the response
that the transport to Rome wouldn’t be leaving until late in the
evening; so to save her waiting the entire day and evening in the
yard, I would take her there myself, we would leave in a few
minutes. After all, I had some important research I needed to do
in Rome and was going there myself. This latter remark was a lie,
as the only literary research I had need of in Italy concerned
Tuscany, but I was anxious to find out the story of this matchless
girl. Needless to say, she accepted my offer, her face beamed with
relief and gleamed with hope. So within a quarter of an hour, my
driver was around loading her luggage in the rear with my own,
and everyone climbed in and we were off! …me, myself, and the
loveliest girl in Europe. My joy knew no bounds as we wound
around the burnished gold and copper hills of the Italian
landscape. We dashed down roads, and my heart expanded with
joy.

The poor girl cried so uncontrollably for the first part of
the journey, pouring endless tears onto her shoulders, soaking her
little shirt, that it was impossible to find out anything from her, or
about her. We spoke for the first time when we reached Siena. I
asked her where she was going in Rome, if she knew the city and
had someone to meet, someplace to stay, or if she would be
travelling on from Rome. She pressed a cloth to her eyes and said
that she was travelling on from Rome immediately by boat. She
needed to catch a boat to leave Italy, to leave Europe entirely, all
as soon as possible. I laughed through my nose at this and replied
that it was very fortunate to learn this now, in Siena, as this was
the point to turn off for all port destinations. “There is no port in
Rome,” I told her, “and to get a boat one has to go to
Civitavecchia, which is on the coast, about three leagues closer to
us than Rome, about seventeen leagues from Rome, should I have
taken you there first.” She thanked me for being a good guide,
apologizing that she only knew the north of Italy and that she
would very much like my driver to take us to Civitavecchia so she
could take a boat and leave the country. She then resumed her
crying.

I continued to be fascinated by this weeping, and by all of
womankind. How is it that a woman lets a man go to Florence as
he swears his love for her, saying that he will be back at daybreak
the following day so the two can never again part, and while she
doesn’t exactly swear a promise to be there to meet him at
daybreak, she gives him all the reason in the world to make him
believe that she
will
be there, her love and passion for him being
so strong, her tears being so numerous. Then finally the moment
the hopeful gentleman leaves, the woman turns into a cold and
calculating absconder who pays-off hotel staff-members with gold
to make sure that they deceive the poor devil who will return at
the point of day only to have his heart completely shattered.
Then she finds she can’t get to Rome on her own that day, so she
allows a masculine stranger to shuttle her across the wide, strange
earth, on roads she doesn’t know, to places with names like
‘Civitavecchia’; and all the way she sobs, spilling liters of tears as
though
the one who was truly broken-hearted
by this whole affair
was
she!
— ‘Oh, womankind! You will never cease to confuse me!’

Not being able to handle it anymore, having the whole
future of literature as dependent on the answer as my own wellbeing, I finally turned to the girl on the journey and said:

“Mademoiselle… or perhaps,
Madame
… Please just instruct
me on one thing… This handsome gentleman you just abandoned
in Tuscany… I could see by your tears you were shedding back at
the inn, and continue to spill in my car just now, that he is no
simple companion nor casual affection, but a great lover and
friend. And no doubt from his appearance, and from his own
sorrowful face and shedding of tears—which although were fewer
than your own, were just as potent and showed to come from a
heart just as broken, for no doubt his masculinity restricted some
of the tears he would have liked to shed, for I as a man myself
know that whatever didn’t pour from his eyes in the way of brine,
poured in his heart in the way of blood, and so he was ever
deserving of your love and pity… So why on earth should you
abandon a man so deserving?! You will let him come back
tomorrow at daybreak to a cold Tuscan inn filled with strangers to
find his one true love is gone! The hotel keepers will keep the
truth from him for the gold that you filled their pockets with.
Please tell me why you left him.”

“Dear Sir,” responded the girl with a voice so clear and
light and so very feminine that hearing it sent shudders of joy
through the masculine chambers of my heart; she looked up at me
modestly, soft as a lamb, and her tender cheeks shone with fresh
stains of the tears she neglected to wipe, she spoke thus: “Please,
Sir, I will tell you all that you ask, for I am deeply indebted to you
for driving me down to the port where I can set sail and leave Italy
alone, anonymous, and unfollowed… I will surely tell you all and I
will not lie to you about whatever you ask of me… never will I lie
to you! …for I always acknowledge the generosity of others; only I
beg
of you that you
do not ask me
where I am going,
nor why!
For
if I tell you the truth, it will put you in a terribly awkward
position. The story is so sad, and its participants are such
undeserving victims, that you will certainly feel obliged to tell
Saul—(‘Saul’ is the name of the man with whom you saw me this
morning)—you will feel obliged to drive back to Tuscany to find
him and tell him all that I told you and where I am sailing to, for
he does not deserve the fate that awaits him, neither do I. So
please, Sir, again I will tell you the truth if you ask, only please…
please…
do not ask!
” With these words spoken, she resumed
spilling tears. I kept my silence, and remarked to myself the rare
nobility of this remarkable girl for the fact that she begged me not
to ask her about her secret for the mere reason alone that she
would refuse me no favor and tell me no lie, but that she thought
it better for the outcome of her story for me to remain ignorant.
She and I continued down the Italian road, as the golden evening
sun made its heavenly fall.

Only once more did the girl and I speak before reaching
the port at Civitavecchia. It was a moment she had stopped
crying and was looking sadly out at the landscape passing by. I
took the opportunity to ask her name, and she turned her big eyes
to me which were still soft with tears. She fluttered her eyelashes,
her eyes sparkling—a slight hesitation—then she answered:
“Saskia.”

I, who am a seasoned studier of characters, took this
hesitation and fluttering of eyelashes to be a sign that she was
deciding whether or not to lie to me about her name, but in the
end she had told me the truth. Saskia, I knew, was a name that
belonged to the Saxon people. The only Saskia I’d ever heard of
was the wife of the painter Rembrandt. She smiled after she told
me her name, as though she were happy she had not lied to me,
that she had told me the truth after all. She then asked me my
name. I told her.