Gems:A horseman on a gold agate,a Nike on chalcedony,a nude girl on jasper,a fighting lion on rock crystal...Sappho is enjoying her collection:the sun, in her bedroom, is all white.She is all white.The gems flash:We see Sappho’s face in her hand mirror,the faces of her girls around her,girls singing.
Gems:
A horseman on a gold agate,
a Nike on chalcedony,
a nude girl on jasper,
a fighting lion on rock crystal...
Sappho is enjoying her collection:
the sun, in her bedroom, is all white.
She is all white.
The gems flash:
We see Sappho’s face in her hand mirror,
the faces of her girls around her,
girls singing.
MytileneOne of my girls has had a birthday. It should have been a happy day. There were garlands, songs, dances... Then, someone came to me, brimming with the amusing story: Kleis has been heard to say that she doesn’t know how old she is!“I’ve had so many double birthdays, I’ve lost count,” were the words repeated to me.Why do we wish to be older, younger, always in protest? Why are we never satisfied?I wish there were no birthdays.PFor several days, Kleis and I have sailed, our boat a good fishing boat, captained by a young man named Phaon.It was our first excursion around the whole island, in years. We sailed past Malea Point to Eresos, to Antiss, then Methymn, and round our island, back to Mytilene. I have never seen the water so calm. Probably because of the recent hot spell, the captain said.What a peaceful island, our Lesbos... We saw Mt. Ida, olive groves, cypress, temples, bouldered shores, goatherds, date palms, sailboats, dolphins... We thought of Odysseus, trying to identify ourselves with that heroic past, we—only islanders enjoying a holiday!A striped awning sheltered us during the hot hours of the day. Nights were cool and comfortable. Our handsome captain was attentive. I thought he was particularly agreeable. Our food was tasty. How time drifted along.Of course it was our being together, lulled by the sea, that made the trip so happy for Kleis and me. It was our shared regrets, our resolve for the future, that brought us close. It was the little things we did for one another, the sleeping together...the voiceless communication.PHow wonderful it is to get out of bed and stand by the window and take in the sea and breathe deeply.How good it is to dream a little.Phaeon...it is such a beautiful name.PThere are days when my girls seem utterly listless. Their activities have no meaning to them. Nothing pleases them. I hear them arguing among themselves, apart. It is as though a stranger had come to be with them.And Kleis seems more withdrawn. Does she resent the others or do they resent her? A curious unease creeps about the place.Sometimes, I wonder whether it is I who lacks.PI do not feel well.Time is slipping by...I don’t know what to do about Kleis: she goes off by herself, and does not tell me where she goes. I can’t very well send someone to check on her. That’s an ugly thing to do.I think she isn’t visiting Charaxos’ house, because he has sailed for Egypt on one of his wine ships. Of course she could be seeing someone else.Is it possible that she is interested in Phaon...how shall I find out?PI met him on the pier, the wind blowing, the water choppy under grey skies. He left off caulking his boat with a cheery “Hello” and climbed onto the pier. How pleased he was to see me! Was I planning another trip?Sitting on piles of rope, he told me of an underwater city he had seen, with a great bronze statue of Poseidon by a temple...“The water was like glass, not a seaweed moving, not a current...” His hand swept sideways, spread flat. “Oh yes, coral...and plenty of fish, big ones. I swam halfway down to the city, but there was no air in me to swim deeper. A fish watched me, from one side of Poseidon, its body curving behind the statue. Poseidon’s eyes were made of jewels...”Phaon is a handsome young man: I think a man is a man when he is handsome all over. I measured him with my eyes, as he talked to me. I measured his feet, hands, thighs, shoulders—the symmetry is unusual. His skin is the color of oakum and his muscles glide perceptibly under his skin. He smells of the sea.I stayed a long while, talking on the piles of rope, exciting talk. What would it be like to swim with him? To dive deep with him?We talked and talked. He never mentioned Kleis. And I forgot why I came.PI went to Alcaeus, to tell him about the submerged city.“You mean Helike?” he asked. “A quake tore apart the coast and it went under,” he said, and described something of what I had heard.“Phaon says the city is visible when the water’s clear, and still,” I said.“Phaon?”“Yes, you remember, the captain who took me on a trip around the island...”“He fixed his sightless eyes on me and I felt stunned, as one hypnotized. I trembled. Then his expression altered and he changed the subject as quickly as a man might draw a sword during battle.“I never thought I’d be blind. I never memorized any faces. My home, our bay, the ships—I can’t recall things at will, with certainty. There’s so little difference now between sleeping and waking. Anything may come to mind.“A soldier stares at his hand, slashed by a spear. He can’t believe he’s wounded. It’s not his blood spattering the rocks...“A man lies beside his shield, a hole in his side. He can’t believe he sees what he sees...”PMytileneFor several days, I have been working with Alcaeus in his library. He has taken heart, at last, and is pouring out words, political invective. I sit, amazed. Even his dead eyes have gathered light. He jabs out phrase after phrase, juggling his agate paperweight from hand to hand, steadily, slowly. I barely have time to write. He breathes deeply, his voice sonorous.Facing the sea, afternoon light on his face, he could be my old Alcaeus.Thasos brought us wine.And we worked still late, our lamps guttering in the wind, the air rough from the mainland, tasting of salt. Shutters groaned.“To strike a balance between common sense and law, this is the cause to which we must pledge ourselves. Our local tyrants must go. They realize there isn’t enough corn. Poverty, we must grind against poverty. If our established life and prosperity can’t be made to serve, they, too, will go...”Walking home, I was hardly aware that a gale had sprung up. Exekias, carrying my cloak, seemed surprised at my singing.PA note from Rhodopis—naturally, I was astonished. Her note concerned Kleis: could we talk together?It was hard to order my thoughts. Rhodopis writing to me, especially with Charaxos gone...I fixed an hour and we met at a discreet distance from the square, a bench in the rear of a small temple.Despite the extravagant clothes, the careful makeup, how hard the eyes, the mouth. And I wondered how I looked to her, in my simple dress. But Rhodopis knows the sister of Charaxos is not naive.It was a brief meeting, cold, the matter quickly attended to.After waving her servants to stand apart, she faced me with unveiled scorn:“You daughter’s visits are making my household a difficult one,” she said.I flushed.“So the plaintiff has become the accused? An interesting reversal,” I murmured.“I will expect thanks,” she said, with a mocking smile, twisting her parasol into the sand, “for sparing you public embarrassment.”I knew she was sharpening her wits, and paused. She lifted a scented handkerchief to her mouth and took a slow breath.“I have waited a long time for this, but I’m more charitable than you think. I won’t keep you waiting. It is Mallia—a servant boy, who has caught Kleis’ fancy...”Vaguely, I had the flash of an image: a fair, slim, country boy, not one of the slaves.“And what is it you want?” I said, in the same level voice.The parasol twirled.“Oh, things could be arranged...”I did not doubt this. But not knowing the relationship between Kleis and Mallia, remained silent. My silence seemed to exasperate Rhodopis.“Of course, you could send Kleis to athiasein Andros,” she exclaimed. I refused to flinch. Sending one’s daughter to school elsewhere was to admit one’s own school had failed. Rhodopis knew this, as well as I.“Or, I could dismiss Mallia, but then, where would the lovers meet? And if he took her home with him...”I still waited. Somewhere there was a trap. Rhodopis had not written, then met me, without a purpose.“Perhaps you have given too much thought to family honor, Sappho. So critical of Charaxos...of me.” Her voice had grown confidential.“If Kleis has done anything foolish, I am willing to accept the responsibility,” I said.“And the consequence, too...with my husband?”I stood up, brushing off the bench dust.The interview was over: obviously, further discussion was useless. Why let Rhodopis press her advantage? I nodded and left, with the sound of her laughter behind me.PWhy?It is a question I must answer: it is a multiple question.Has Rhodopis done this to spite me, wound me, shame me?Is Kleis doing this to assert herself, to prove that she is not a child? In protest, against me, my house? To estrange us farther?Did Kleis tell the whole truth about that day at the spring-revel? If I knew what happened...She seemed so happy on our ocean trip. Or was it I who was happy? Perhaps I teased her too much before Phaon. Did she think I had no right to be attracted to him? Do I make her out to be more sensitive than she really is?Love is a jealous companion.Right now, all I can see clearly is that perfumed handkerchief and twirling parasol.PI have never been afraid of consequences attached to my own actions. Must one learn to be braver than that? Or is this a matter of impersonal wisdom?PI have sent for Kleis...It is true she is fond of Mallia, the boy acting as guardian to her in the house of Charaxos, protecting her from Charaxos.It was Mallia who served as wine boy at the spring festival.Curiously, it is Rhodopis who has sided with them in opposing and blocking Charaxos. Yet, that is not so curious, either.“You’re wrong to distrust Rhodopis,” says Kleis.But my doubts persist and I consider her a foolish child. For why would she make a confidante of Rhodopis?“I wish you could be happier with me,” I said.Our talk seemed to unlock her heart and she burst into tears and I learned how much of a child she is. For it is still filial jealousy that makes her difficult. She cannot bear to share me with my girls, my friends, even my work.Poor, darling Kleis, how hard it is for some of us to grow up, to learn to walk gracefully alone. I kissed and comforted her as best I could, assuring her of my love.“There’s a place for you here, Kleis. Please try to find it. I know the girls are eager to help you, if you’ll let them.”She promised, but the far-away look remained in her eyes.Athiasein Andros—the thought saddens me, for then she would be far away.PI have hurled myself into work. During long silences, while I am thinking, composing, I hear the water clock outside my door. Drop after drop, it fastens itself to my memory.The wind has continued for days on end, the sun hazy, the surf magnificent in its wildness, all craft beached, no gulls anywhere, a sense of abandonment throughout our town, people scurrying to get indoors.Only in the garden is there shelter, near the fountain. An angle of the house shuts off the strongest blasts.I have ordered everyone to work. At least they appear busy.While the wind howled, a tempest rose in me.I woke during the night to fight it. Yet, there it was, that perfect symmetry, stripped to the waist, brown caulking material in his hands. I did not need to light a lamp. I had memorized his body. We were moving toward the submerged city; I saw myself swimming beside him; in the water, he was above me, then below me; then we were one, diving together.I have fought other storms in my blood, and yet this one, with the wind howling, the surf beating, threatens to overcome me. I have never felt more deserted. Death and blindness have made my bed sterile.Beauty, stay with me! I said.Beauty said: Don’t be afraid.How shall I cope with this whirlwind? What does it know of surfeit, satiety?I’m too old, compared to his twenty or twenty-two. He may have a woman of his own, a country girl, a young, simple, laughing slip of a thing who satisfies him.In my dream I saw him at the prow of his boat, talking with Kleis.I should send her to Andros.I need to go to Andros, myself!I must seek Alcaeus...he must help me...I see Phaon in his bed, his young arms, his young legs, his close-cropped hair, blue eyes, smooth face.Like a storm punishing the olives, love shakes me.I must go to sleep.Forget!PAnother letter has reached me from Aesop. Still in Adelphi, he writes he has been sick with fever.“My consolation is that I am sick for good reasons. I am sick of men being mistreated. I am sick of injustice.“As you know, I have been more than a fly on a chariot wheel. I have spoken out publicly and this has raised dust and stones. People stare at me on the streets.“I am sick of the aristocrats. I am sick of prejudice and ignorance. There must be a better life.“A free society...this is the most fabulous joke of all time. The ones who rant loudest about it would run the farthest, were it to happen.“I may have to flee soon, back to Corinth, it seems. These rulers here have friends. They know how to apply pressure.“Write me, Sappho. I need your sense of the gracious. Beauty foremost—I wish I could think as you think.“Tell Alcaeus I send him my best, that I miss him...”I took my letter to Alcaeus and read it aloud in his library.“I’m afraid it is serious this time,” I said.“It is always serious, when we speak out,” said Alcaeus, laying his palms flat on the desk.“He says it is dangerous for him to come here.”“He must learn restraint!”“And you, Alcaeus, do you think you have learned restraint?”There was silence and then he said:“Those of us who are free must speak, or there will be no freedom, no free men left to restrain those who think in terms of chains.”PSitting in the square the other day, I listened to Alcaeus speaking, excited because he had taken cudgel in hand. Blind though he is, he strikes an imposing figure, even majestic. Leaning on his cane, staring over the townsmen who crowd the forum, he looks a pillar, his head shaggy, beard glistening with oil, clothes immaculate.Something about the day had a timeless quality, as though none of it was old, the exorbitant taxes, the stringent laws, the situation of the veteran—and the sea rolling, the gulls crying, the sun shining.Pittakos has not shown any noticeable objection. Perhaps he remembers the youthful champion, before the exile. Then, it was not easy to ignore the charges against those in office, the outcries against “drunkards, thieves, bastards!” Now Pittakos nods and walks on his way, aware that a blind man may be an excellent orator but no longer a soldier.PAnd recalling the years in exile, I knew how bitter Alcaeus was. If there is less vehemence in his voice than before, there is also greater conviction.P
Mytilene
O
O
ne of my girls has had a birthday. It should have been a happy day. There were garlands, songs, dances... Then, someone came to me, brimming with the amusing story: Kleis has been heard to say that she doesn’t know how old she is!
“I’ve had so many double birthdays, I’ve lost count,” were the words repeated to me.
Why do we wish to be older, younger, always in protest? Why are we never satisfied?
I wish there were no birthdays.
P
For several days, Kleis and I have sailed, our boat a good fishing boat, captained by a young man named Phaon.
It was our first excursion around the whole island, in years. We sailed past Malea Point to Eresos, to Antiss, then Methymn, and round our island, back to Mytilene. I have never seen the water so calm. Probably because of the recent hot spell, the captain said.
What a peaceful island, our Lesbos... We saw Mt. Ida, olive groves, cypress, temples, bouldered shores, goatherds, date palms, sailboats, dolphins... We thought of Odysseus, trying to identify ourselves with that heroic past, we—only islanders enjoying a holiday!
A striped awning sheltered us during the hot hours of the day. Nights were cool and comfortable. Our handsome captain was attentive. I thought he was particularly agreeable. Our food was tasty. How time drifted along.
Of course it was our being together, lulled by the sea, that made the trip so happy for Kleis and me. It was our shared regrets, our resolve for the future, that brought us close. It was the little things we did for one another, the sleeping together...the voiceless communication.
P
How wonderful it is to get out of bed and stand by the window and take in the sea and breathe deeply.
How good it is to dream a little.
Phaeon...it is such a beautiful name.
P
There are days when my girls seem utterly listless. Their activities have no meaning to them. Nothing pleases them. I hear them arguing among themselves, apart. It is as though a stranger had come to be with them.
And Kleis seems more withdrawn. Does she resent the others or do they resent her? A curious unease creeps about the place.
Sometimes, I wonder whether it is I who lacks.
P
I do not feel well.
Time is slipping by...
I don’t know what to do about Kleis: she goes off by herself, and does not tell me where she goes. I can’t very well send someone to check on her. That’s an ugly thing to do.
I think she isn’t visiting Charaxos’ house, because he has sailed for Egypt on one of his wine ships. Of course she could be seeing someone else.
Is it possible that she is interested in Phaon...how shall I find out?
P
I met him on the pier, the wind blowing, the water choppy under grey skies. He left off caulking his boat with a cheery “Hello” and climbed onto the pier. How pleased he was to see me! Was I planning another trip?
Sitting on piles of rope, he told me of an underwater city he had seen, with a great bronze statue of Poseidon by a temple...
“The water was like glass, not a seaweed moving, not a current...” His hand swept sideways, spread flat. “Oh yes, coral...and plenty of fish, big ones. I swam halfway down to the city, but there was no air in me to swim deeper. A fish watched me, from one side of Poseidon, its body curving behind the statue. Poseidon’s eyes were made of jewels...”
Phaon is a handsome young man: I think a man is a man when he is handsome all over. I measured him with my eyes, as he talked to me. I measured his feet, hands, thighs, shoulders—the symmetry is unusual. His skin is the color of oakum and his muscles glide perceptibly under his skin. He smells of the sea.
I stayed a long while, talking on the piles of rope, exciting talk. What would it be like to swim with him? To dive deep with him?
We talked and talked. He never mentioned Kleis. And I forgot why I came.
P
I went to Alcaeus, to tell him about the submerged city.
“You mean Helike?” he asked. “A quake tore apart the coast and it went under,” he said, and described something of what I had heard.
“Phaon says the city is visible when the water’s clear, and still,” I said.
“Phaon?”
“Yes, you remember, the captain who took me on a trip around the island...”
“He fixed his sightless eyes on me and I felt stunned, as one hypnotized. I trembled. Then his expression altered and he changed the subject as quickly as a man might draw a sword during battle.
“I never thought I’d be blind. I never memorized any faces. My home, our bay, the ships—I can’t recall things at will, with certainty. There’s so little difference now between sleeping and waking. Anything may come to mind.
“A soldier stares at his hand, slashed by a spear. He can’t believe he’s wounded. It’s not his blood spattering the rocks...
“A man lies beside his shield, a hole in his side. He can’t believe he sees what he sees...”
P
Mytilene
For several days, I have been working with Alcaeus in his library. He has taken heart, at last, and is pouring out words, political invective. I sit, amazed. Even his dead eyes have gathered light. He jabs out phrase after phrase, juggling his agate paperweight from hand to hand, steadily, slowly. I barely have time to write. He breathes deeply, his voice sonorous.
Facing the sea, afternoon light on his face, he could be my old Alcaeus.
Thasos brought us wine.
And we worked still late, our lamps guttering in the wind, the air rough from the mainland, tasting of salt. Shutters groaned.
“To strike a balance between common sense and law, this is the cause to which we must pledge ourselves. Our local tyrants must go. They realize there isn’t enough corn. Poverty, we must grind against poverty. If our established life and prosperity can’t be made to serve, they, too, will go...”
Walking home, I was hardly aware that a gale had sprung up. Exekias, carrying my cloak, seemed surprised at my singing.
P
A note from Rhodopis—naturally, I was astonished. Her note concerned Kleis: could we talk together?
It was hard to order my thoughts. Rhodopis writing to me, especially with Charaxos gone...
I fixed an hour and we met at a discreet distance from the square, a bench in the rear of a small temple.
Despite the extravagant clothes, the careful makeup, how hard the eyes, the mouth. And I wondered how I looked to her, in my simple dress. But Rhodopis knows the sister of Charaxos is not naive.
It was a brief meeting, cold, the matter quickly attended to.
After waving her servants to stand apart, she faced me with unveiled scorn:
“You daughter’s visits are making my household a difficult one,” she said.
I flushed.
“So the plaintiff has become the accused? An interesting reversal,” I murmured.
“I will expect thanks,” she said, with a mocking smile, twisting her parasol into the sand, “for sparing you public embarrassment.”
I knew she was sharpening her wits, and paused. She lifted a scented handkerchief to her mouth and took a slow breath.
“I have waited a long time for this, but I’m more charitable than you think. I won’t keep you waiting. It is Mallia—a servant boy, who has caught Kleis’ fancy...”
Vaguely, I had the flash of an image: a fair, slim, country boy, not one of the slaves.
“And what is it you want?” I said, in the same level voice.
The parasol twirled.
“Oh, things could be arranged...”
I did not doubt this. But not knowing the relationship between Kleis and Mallia, remained silent. My silence seemed to exasperate Rhodopis.
“Of course, you could send Kleis to athiasein Andros,” she exclaimed. I refused to flinch. Sending one’s daughter to school elsewhere was to admit one’s own school had failed. Rhodopis knew this, as well as I.
“Or, I could dismiss Mallia, but then, where would the lovers meet? And if he took her home with him...”
I still waited. Somewhere there was a trap. Rhodopis had not written, then met me, without a purpose.
“Perhaps you have given too much thought to family honor, Sappho. So critical of Charaxos...of me.” Her voice had grown confidential.
“If Kleis has done anything foolish, I am willing to accept the responsibility,” I said.
“And the consequence, too...with my husband?”
I stood up, brushing off the bench dust.
The interview was over: obviously, further discussion was useless. Why let Rhodopis press her advantage? I nodded and left, with the sound of her laughter behind me.
P
Why?
It is a question I must answer: it is a multiple question.
Has Rhodopis done this to spite me, wound me, shame me?
Is Kleis doing this to assert herself, to prove that she is not a child? In protest, against me, my house? To estrange us farther?
Did Kleis tell the whole truth about that day at the spring-revel? If I knew what happened...
She seemed so happy on our ocean trip. Or was it I who was happy? Perhaps I teased her too much before Phaon. Did she think I had no right to be attracted to him? Do I make her out to be more sensitive than she really is?
Love is a jealous companion.
Right now, all I can see clearly is that perfumed handkerchief and twirling parasol.
P
I have never been afraid of consequences attached to my own actions. Must one learn to be braver than that? Or is this a matter of impersonal wisdom?
P
I have sent for Kleis...
It is true she is fond of Mallia, the boy acting as guardian to her in the house of Charaxos, protecting her from Charaxos.
It was Mallia who served as wine boy at the spring festival.
Curiously, it is Rhodopis who has sided with them in opposing and blocking Charaxos. Yet, that is not so curious, either.
“You’re wrong to distrust Rhodopis,” says Kleis.
But my doubts persist and I consider her a foolish child. For why would she make a confidante of Rhodopis?
“I wish you could be happier with me,” I said.
Our talk seemed to unlock her heart and she burst into tears and I learned how much of a child she is. For it is still filial jealousy that makes her difficult. She cannot bear to share me with my girls, my friends, even my work.
Poor, darling Kleis, how hard it is for some of us to grow up, to learn to walk gracefully alone. I kissed and comforted her as best I could, assuring her of my love.
“There’s a place for you here, Kleis. Please try to find it. I know the girls are eager to help you, if you’ll let them.”
She promised, but the far-away look remained in her eyes.
Athiasein Andros—the thought saddens me, for then she would be far away.
P
I have hurled myself into work. During long silences, while I am thinking, composing, I hear the water clock outside my door. Drop after drop, it fastens itself to my memory.
The wind has continued for days on end, the sun hazy, the surf magnificent in its wildness, all craft beached, no gulls anywhere, a sense of abandonment throughout our town, people scurrying to get indoors.
Only in the garden is there shelter, near the fountain. An angle of the house shuts off the strongest blasts.
I have ordered everyone to work. At least they appear busy.
While the wind howled, a tempest rose in me.
I woke during the night to fight it. Yet, there it was, that perfect symmetry, stripped to the waist, brown caulking material in his hands. I did not need to light a lamp. I had memorized his body. We were moving toward the submerged city; I saw myself swimming beside him; in the water, he was above me, then below me; then we were one, diving together.
I have fought other storms in my blood, and yet this one, with the wind howling, the surf beating, threatens to overcome me. I have never felt more deserted. Death and blindness have made my bed sterile.
Beauty, stay with me! I said.
Beauty said: Don’t be afraid.
How shall I cope with this whirlwind? What does it know of surfeit, satiety?
I’m too old, compared to his twenty or twenty-two. He may have a woman of his own, a country girl, a young, simple, laughing slip of a thing who satisfies him.
In my dream I saw him at the prow of his boat, talking with Kleis.
I should send her to Andros.
I need to go to Andros, myself!
I must seek Alcaeus...he must help me...
I see Phaon in his bed, his young arms, his young legs, his close-cropped hair, blue eyes, smooth face.
Like a storm punishing the olives, love shakes me.
I must go to sleep.
Forget!
P
Another letter has reached me from Aesop. Still in Adelphi, he writes he has been sick with fever.
“My consolation is that I am sick for good reasons. I am sick of men being mistreated. I am sick of injustice.
“As you know, I have been more than a fly on a chariot wheel. I have spoken out publicly and this has raised dust and stones. People stare at me on the streets.
“I am sick of the aristocrats. I am sick of prejudice and ignorance. There must be a better life.
“A free society...this is the most fabulous joke of all time. The ones who rant loudest about it would run the farthest, were it to happen.
“I may have to flee soon, back to Corinth, it seems. These rulers here have friends. They know how to apply pressure.
“Write me, Sappho. I need your sense of the gracious. Beauty foremost—I wish I could think as you think.
“Tell Alcaeus I send him my best, that I miss him...”
I took my letter to Alcaeus and read it aloud in his library.
“I’m afraid it is serious this time,” I said.
“It is always serious, when we speak out,” said Alcaeus, laying his palms flat on the desk.
“He says it is dangerous for him to come here.”
“He must learn restraint!”
“And you, Alcaeus, do you think you have learned restraint?”
There was silence and then he said:
“Those of us who are free must speak, or there will be no freedom, no free men left to restrain those who think in terms of chains.”
P
Sitting in the square the other day, I listened to Alcaeus speaking, excited because he had taken cudgel in hand. Blind though he is, he strikes an imposing figure, even majestic. Leaning on his cane, staring over the townsmen who crowd the forum, he looks a pillar, his head shaggy, beard glistening with oil, clothes immaculate.
Something about the day had a timeless quality, as though none of it was old, the exorbitant taxes, the stringent laws, the situation of the veteran—and the sea rolling, the gulls crying, the sun shining.
Pittakos has not shown any noticeable objection. Perhaps he remembers the youthful champion, before the exile. Then, it was not easy to ignore the charges against those in office, the outcries against “drunkards, thieves, bastards!” Now Pittakos nods and walks on his way, aware that a blind man may be an excellent orator but no longer a soldier.
P
And recalling the years in exile, I knew how bitter Alcaeus was. If there is less vehemence in his voice than before, there is also greater conviction.
P
Aegean shells, beach shells,shells in a woman’s hands,shells in a child’s hands.Underwater, fish glidethrough a sunken ship,passing huge wine jars,a young Hermes,sponges...coral...kelp...sharks.
Aegean shells, beach shells,
shells in a woman’s hands,
shells in a child’s hands.
Underwater, fish glide
through a sunken ship,
passing huge wine jars,
a young Hermes,
sponges...coral...kelp...sharks.
Alcaeus has taken back his former secretary. I am glad for all our sakes: Alcaeus’, Gogu’s, mine. I hear they are working hard. Now, when Thasos inquires at my door, I make excuses. They can get along without me.I keep hoping and waiting someone else will come to inquire, will bring a message. Since he never looks for me, I must not look for him.I will walk by the sea until I am too tired to move.PMy pretty Gyrinno is sick with too much sun and too much swimming so I go about pampering her and nothing pleases her more.It has been some time since I brought her a tray, one I fixed especially for her. I combed her hair tonight, cooled her skin with ointment, and teased her till she made me promise a gift, a silver mirror from Serfo’s shop, one with suitably naughty figures on the back and handle: “the convivialists,” Serfo has named it.To help pamper Gyrinno, we had musicians in the courtyard. The air was so warm, so languid, nobody wished to go to sleep. These were wandering musicians, from neighboring islands, and their songs were mostly new to us. They repeated the ones we liked best, tender mountain airs.Kleis, who has a phenomenal memory, was able to join them the second or third time, harpist and flutist accompany. It was an intimate evening, ending with a tale by one of the wanderers, of Pegasus winging over the ocean on an errand of mercy for a lost lover.Toward dawn, I woke to find Atthis with me, her cheek against mine. More aware of my inner needs than others, she had come to comfort me, alleviate my longing. Her perfume, kisses and caresses were not the crude, male love I wanted. However, I was half in my dreams and I remembered the music and the tale and the moonlight, our songs and voices, and everything blended into a pattern of peace and goodness.There are times when our hearts are particularly open to beauty: this was one of those times. Everything, at this moment, assumed perfection. And because we recognize its illusory quality it is the more precious.Out of the night comes the word someone has tried to communicate, that we are plural, not single...not forgotten. Here, in this comparison, are strength and courage.Yes, there are times when our hearts open.PThere is more to life than wandering over an island. There is more to life than happiness. There is more to life than work. There is more to life than hope. What is it?Under a cypress, above the sea, facing the sea, I asked myself this question and found this answer:Certainly, the living is all: there is no life after death: and since there is no other chance than this chance, it must be enough to have beauty and kindness and time to enjoy them.Here, on this slope, earth’s form assures me this is true. And at home, among my girls, I can find it so, each girl an affirmation.PWhy is Kleis involved in spats with Gyrinno, Helen, Myra? Why are the girls put out with her? Why can’t they agree to do the same thing at the same time?Why is there so much unrest and dissatisfaction everywhere? Corinth, Sparta, Argos, Sicyon...the news reaches us by boat.Why is Phaon far at sea, headed for Byzantium?It seems to be a world of questions.PWhen I think how many gods exist, I am shocked by man’s confusion and gullibility.“Man is like a cricket. He sees the cricket’s limitations but not his own. The cricket can’t read or write or think scientifically. He can’t sail a boat or build a house. He potters away in his clod or field. What can a cricket know about god?”That’s what man says, unable to see beyond his own clod. He scoffs and sneers but what is he but a two-legged cricket, brown, yellow or black? I’m sure the cricket has his illusions, some of them as pat as ours.PCharaxos has returned to Mytilene.Our meeting was unavoidable, of course. He had on the commonplace mask of the man in the street and talked about his trip, the grinding poverty in Egypt, the bad state of our mercenaries there...No mention of settling his debts! Not a word about Rhodopis! Evidently Kleis does not exist.“All of us are well, thank you,” I said. “Nothing has changed for us here.”What is there between us? It is something deeper than ourselves. When I walked away, my eyes burned and my cheeks felt hot.Here is a passage from my first journal, written in childish hand:Today is my birthday and mother gave me earrings and papa gave me a brooch with a carnelian stone. We had a party on the beach and papa burnt his fingers in the fire as we cooked the mutton meat. I don’t like mutton meat. I don’t like smoky fires. Papa sings badly. My dog got sick.I suppose all that was very important to me.Is our life important to anyone else?PNo word from Aesop.PSometimes I have to get away from everything and everyone, myself as well.I went to a nearby fishing village. Necessity can be ingenious. The fishermen have managed to build good boats out of the battered wrecks that littered our shores. They tell me that the exporting of sponges has become extensive.I wish I could sail with a sponge crew. I went with a crew once. Glued inside my decorum, I can’t believe I was free...wild...bold...headstrong...long ago.Yes, I would like to cruise into deep blue water and stare down, then to the sponge shallows and swim down, down.PMy new book is ready.It was interesting to visit the Kamen house and check the copies.I stopped for a moment in the alley to gaze at the sun symbol painted over the house door. More and more, geometric designs are giving way to more plastic ideas in decorating. Polychrome painting seems to grow more imaginative. Our ceramics are becoming more forceful. I thought of these things as I looked at the sun symbol, done in blue and gold.The Kamen brothers were, as always, mysterious, stiff, like Egyptian clay long dried by the sun. It is too bad they can’t apply some of their art to themselves. They are such emaciated creatures, I wonder what they eat?Each waits for the other to speak; each scrapes, bows, tries to efface himself. Tall, nut brown, with hair tied behind their necks, deer skin aprons over faded clothes, they make me feel like an intruder.As for my book, it is excellently made. The brothers are perfectionists in their craft. To them, poetry is nothing. Do they read it at all? However, the libraries will be pleased to receive these copies.I am sure this is my best work.PThousands of white herons flew over our island this morning, making the sky a sky of motion. They flew almost all morning, flying toward the mainland. I watched them from a bridge in town, leaning against the cool stone rail, Anaktoria watching with me, perplexed. Not a bird faltered. What directed them? Not a sound, as they flew. Some of the townsmen gathered to stare, dead silent. In tens and twenties, they flew over and onward, apparently at the same speed. Twice the flocks covered the sun and our town darkened, tiled roofs turning grey.There were murmurs...I remembered the herons as I tried to rest, wings and more wings, bearing me away.PSometimes, we troop to our old theatre, lost in its bowl of cypress and overgrown with grass and weeds, seats and benches crumbled. Laying aside our clothes, we toss rover reeds, have a try at archery, play catch. Or we race or go in for leap-frog or tug-of-war.Little boys like to pester us and poke fun. Little boys—how delightful they can be.If the day is sultry, we loll. Usually, the complaint is “too much sun.” I used to think we needed lots of sun and exercise but now I’m not sure.Lying on a moss-topped stone, time seemed to pause: I think there is trouble brewing. I don’t put it past Rhodopis to concoct something. Even Kleis has been too alarmed to return to Charaxos’ house. Mallia has told her to wait.There has been a to-do because the “right” people did not attend the homecoming party for Charaxos. What a pity! I know of no changes in the life of Mytilene that required a unanimous celebration.“Why must there be bad feelings between their house and ours?” Kleis has asked. “Of course I hate him for what he did to me.”My knees trembled.How explain life to one who has not lived it!“You could help me, if you wanted to,” she said.Just like that!I believe we only know what life gives us: can sound be described to the deaf?“After all, Charaxos is your brother,” she reminded me.I wanted to say: He was, before all, not after all.I can barely check my anger, angers, one on top the other, too many for me to consider and come through sane.As I went home, I saw a man beating his slave. The slave, who has had everything taken from him, is being punished publicly for an insignificant theft!PThe situation is becoming impossible: Why has Charaxos dragged Alcaeus into our quarrel?I found them hurling insults at one another, Alcaeus’ house and servants in an uproar. I hurried into the library and had to pound on the door.“I can thank you for this!” shouted Charaxos, the moment he saw me.“Leave, Sappho. I asked him to come and now I’ll have him thrown out,” Alcaeus bawled, lunging across the table.“Our hero!” snorted Charaxos.“Enough. Get out!”“Suppose you and I have a private word elsewhere,” said Charaxos to me, bitterly. “As for you, old battle ax, I’ll settle with you another time. I’m sick of your trouble-making. Maybe one exile was not enough...”Quick as a flash, I slapped him. He eyed me grimly, then turned and left.Naturally, Alcaeus refused to tell me what the visit was about.All this is contemptible.I can not forget the scene of the angry men, the threat.Perhaps the next move had better be mine? Before my opponent makes it a “check” from which I can’t escape...as they say in the new Persian game.PMy girls sense that I am troubled and try to distract me.“No work today!” cries Gyrinno.“Let’s hunt flowers in the woods.”Heptha bothers the cook to prepare me special delights.Anaktoria dresses up a song, Helen and Gyrinno dance, Atthis tries a musty joke.It is a healing tempo...I am grateful...These are lazy, summer days, the hammocks full, doves cooing in the olives. I send my thoughts on a long trip: may they find Phaon and bring him back to me.PThis is theatre season and the talk is of actors and acting. I like to familiarize myself with a play before attending its performance because I can appreciate it much more. I never miss a play if I can help it, whether comedy or tragedy, though I prefer comedy. But I think the “offstage” is interesting, too—that is, if one can remain a spectator there. It is when we become involved that we lose our theatre perspective.Neglates, who used to be a leading actor in Athens, likes to sit with me. He is our best critic. He is always urging me to write a play, “something about us,” he says.“The theatre needs you. Why don’t you try? We need new blood.”I suppose he is right. If we rely on the old writers altogether, the stage will become stale. Perhaps I can think of something for the religious festivals next year.Theatre means meeting people I seldom see anywhere else. I like the contacts.People feel sorry for Scandia because he is the father of such a charming, marriageable daughter. White-faced, pinch-eyed, his neck twisted by a boyhood accident, one arm dangling—would they feel less sorry for him, if his daughter were ugly?Andros is the next thing to a dwarf in size. He has the face of a twenty-year-old, although he must be well over fifty. He needs no one’s pity—only some money! He is the best mask-maker our theatre has ever had.P
A
A
lcaeus has taken back his former secretary. I am glad for all our sakes: Alcaeus’, Gogu’s, mine. I hear they are working hard. Now, when Thasos inquires at my door, I make excuses. They can get along without me.
I keep hoping and waiting someone else will come to inquire, will bring a message. Since he never looks for me, I must not look for him.
I will walk by the sea until I am too tired to move.
P
My pretty Gyrinno is sick with too much sun and too much swimming so I go about pampering her and nothing pleases her more.
It has been some time since I brought her a tray, one I fixed especially for her. I combed her hair tonight, cooled her skin with ointment, and teased her till she made me promise a gift, a silver mirror from Serfo’s shop, one with suitably naughty figures on the back and handle: “the convivialists,” Serfo has named it.
To help pamper Gyrinno, we had musicians in the courtyard. The air was so warm, so languid, nobody wished to go to sleep. These were wandering musicians, from neighboring islands, and their songs were mostly new to us. They repeated the ones we liked best, tender mountain airs.
Kleis, who has a phenomenal memory, was able to join them the second or third time, harpist and flutist accompany. It was an intimate evening, ending with a tale by one of the wanderers, of Pegasus winging over the ocean on an errand of mercy for a lost lover.
Toward dawn, I woke to find Atthis with me, her cheek against mine. More aware of my inner needs than others, she had come to comfort me, alleviate my longing. Her perfume, kisses and caresses were not the crude, male love I wanted. However, I was half in my dreams and I remembered the music and the tale and the moonlight, our songs and voices, and everything blended into a pattern of peace and goodness.
There are times when our hearts are particularly open to beauty: this was one of those times. Everything, at this moment, assumed perfection. And because we recognize its illusory quality it is the more precious.
Out of the night comes the word someone has tried to communicate, that we are plural, not single...not forgotten. Here, in this comparison, are strength and courage.
Yes, there are times when our hearts open.
P
There is more to life than wandering over an island. There is more to life than happiness. There is more to life than work. There is more to life than hope. What is it?
Under a cypress, above the sea, facing the sea, I asked myself this question and found this answer:
Certainly, the living is all: there is no life after death: and since there is no other chance than this chance, it must be enough to have beauty and kindness and time to enjoy them.
Here, on this slope, earth’s form assures me this is true. And at home, among my girls, I can find it so, each girl an affirmation.
P
Why is Kleis involved in spats with Gyrinno, Helen, Myra? Why are the girls put out with her? Why can’t they agree to do the same thing at the same time?
Why is there so much unrest and dissatisfaction everywhere? Corinth, Sparta, Argos, Sicyon...the news reaches us by boat.
Why is Phaon far at sea, headed for Byzantium?
It seems to be a world of questions.
P
When I think how many gods exist, I am shocked by man’s confusion and gullibility.
“Man is like a cricket. He sees the cricket’s limitations but not his own. The cricket can’t read or write or think scientifically. He can’t sail a boat or build a house. He potters away in his clod or field. What can a cricket know about god?”
That’s what man says, unable to see beyond his own clod. He scoffs and sneers but what is he but a two-legged cricket, brown, yellow or black? I’m sure the cricket has his illusions, some of them as pat as ours.
P
Charaxos has returned to Mytilene.
Our meeting was unavoidable, of course. He had on the commonplace mask of the man in the street and talked about his trip, the grinding poverty in Egypt, the bad state of our mercenaries there...
No mention of settling his debts! Not a word about Rhodopis! Evidently Kleis does not exist.
“All of us are well, thank you,” I said. “Nothing has changed for us here.”
What is there between us? It is something deeper than ourselves. When I walked away, my eyes burned and my cheeks felt hot.
Here is a passage from my first journal, written in childish hand:
Today is my birthday and mother gave me earrings and papa gave me a brooch with a carnelian stone. We had a party on the beach and papa burnt his fingers in the fire as we cooked the mutton meat. I don’t like mutton meat. I don’t like smoky fires. Papa sings badly. My dog got sick.
I suppose all that was very important to me.
Is our life important to anyone else?
P
No word from Aesop.
P
Sometimes I have to get away from everything and everyone, myself as well.
I went to a nearby fishing village. Necessity can be ingenious. The fishermen have managed to build good boats out of the battered wrecks that littered our shores. They tell me that the exporting of sponges has become extensive.
I wish I could sail with a sponge crew. I went with a crew once. Glued inside my decorum, I can’t believe I was free...wild...bold...headstrong...long ago.
Yes, I would like to cruise into deep blue water and stare down, then to the sponge shallows and swim down, down.
P
My new book is ready.
It was interesting to visit the Kamen house and check the copies.
I stopped for a moment in the alley to gaze at the sun symbol painted over the house door. More and more, geometric designs are giving way to more plastic ideas in decorating. Polychrome painting seems to grow more imaginative. Our ceramics are becoming more forceful. I thought of these things as I looked at the sun symbol, done in blue and gold.
The Kamen brothers were, as always, mysterious, stiff, like Egyptian clay long dried by the sun. It is too bad they can’t apply some of their art to themselves. They are such emaciated creatures, I wonder what they eat?
Each waits for the other to speak; each scrapes, bows, tries to efface himself. Tall, nut brown, with hair tied behind their necks, deer skin aprons over faded clothes, they make me feel like an intruder.
As for my book, it is excellently made. The brothers are perfectionists in their craft. To them, poetry is nothing. Do they read it at all? However, the libraries will be pleased to receive these copies.
I am sure this is my best work.
P
Thousands of white herons flew over our island this morning, making the sky a sky of motion. They flew almost all morning, flying toward the mainland. I watched them from a bridge in town, leaning against the cool stone rail, Anaktoria watching with me, perplexed. Not a bird faltered. What directed them? Not a sound, as they flew. Some of the townsmen gathered to stare, dead silent. In tens and twenties, they flew over and onward, apparently at the same speed. Twice the flocks covered the sun and our town darkened, tiled roofs turning grey.
There were murmurs...
I remembered the herons as I tried to rest, wings and more wings, bearing me away.
P
Sometimes, we troop to our old theatre, lost in its bowl of cypress and overgrown with grass and weeds, seats and benches crumbled. Laying aside our clothes, we toss rover reeds, have a try at archery, play catch. Or we race or go in for leap-frog or tug-of-war.
Little boys like to pester us and poke fun. Little boys—how delightful they can be.
If the day is sultry, we loll. Usually, the complaint is “too much sun.” I used to think we needed lots of sun and exercise but now I’m not sure.
Lying on a moss-topped stone, time seemed to pause: I think there is trouble brewing. I don’t put it past Rhodopis to concoct something. Even Kleis has been too alarmed to return to Charaxos’ house. Mallia has told her to wait.
There has been a to-do because the “right” people did not attend the homecoming party for Charaxos. What a pity! I know of no changes in the life of Mytilene that required a unanimous celebration.
“Why must there be bad feelings between their house and ours?” Kleis has asked. “Of course I hate him for what he did to me.”
My knees trembled.
How explain life to one who has not lived it!
“You could help me, if you wanted to,” she said.
Just like that!
I believe we only know what life gives us: can sound be described to the deaf?
“After all, Charaxos is your brother,” she reminded me.
I wanted to say: He was, before all, not after all.
I can barely check my anger, angers, one on top the other, too many for me to consider and come through sane.
As I went home, I saw a man beating his slave. The slave, who has had everything taken from him, is being punished publicly for an insignificant theft!
P
The situation is becoming impossible: Why has Charaxos dragged Alcaeus into our quarrel?
I found them hurling insults at one another, Alcaeus’ house and servants in an uproar. I hurried into the library and had to pound on the door.
“I can thank you for this!” shouted Charaxos, the moment he saw me.
“Leave, Sappho. I asked him to come and now I’ll have him thrown out,” Alcaeus bawled, lunging across the table.
“Our hero!” snorted Charaxos.
“Enough. Get out!”
“Suppose you and I have a private word elsewhere,” said Charaxos to me, bitterly. “As for you, old battle ax, I’ll settle with you another time. I’m sick of your trouble-making. Maybe one exile was not enough...”
Quick as a flash, I slapped him. He eyed me grimly, then turned and left.
Naturally, Alcaeus refused to tell me what the visit was about.
All this is contemptible.
I can not forget the scene of the angry men, the threat.
Perhaps the next move had better be mine? Before my opponent makes it a “check” from which I can’t escape...as they say in the new Persian game.
P
My girls sense that I am troubled and try to distract me.
“No work today!” cries Gyrinno.
“Let’s hunt flowers in the woods.”
Heptha bothers the cook to prepare me special delights.
Anaktoria dresses up a song, Helen and Gyrinno dance, Atthis tries a musty joke.
It is a healing tempo...I am grateful...
These are lazy, summer days, the hammocks full, doves cooing in the olives. I send my thoughts on a long trip: may they find Phaon and bring him back to me.
P
This is theatre season and the talk is of actors and acting. I like to familiarize myself with a play before attending its performance because I can appreciate it much more. I never miss a play if I can help it, whether comedy or tragedy, though I prefer comedy. But I think the “offstage” is interesting, too—that is, if one can remain a spectator there. It is when we become involved that we lose our theatre perspective.
Neglates, who used to be a leading actor in Athens, likes to sit with me. He is our best critic. He is always urging me to write a play, “something about us,” he says.
“The theatre needs you. Why don’t you try? We need new blood.”
I suppose he is right. If we rely on the old writers altogether, the stage will become stale. Perhaps I can think of something for the religious festivals next year.
Theatre means meeting people I seldom see anywhere else. I like the contacts.
People feel sorry for Scandia because he is the father of such a charming, marriageable daughter. White-faced, pinch-eyed, his neck twisted by a boyhood accident, one arm dangling—would they feel less sorry for him, if his daughter were ugly?
Andros is the next thing to a dwarf in size. He has the face of a twenty-year-old, although he must be well over fifty. He needs no one’s pity—only some money! He is the best mask-maker our theatre has ever had.
P
Moonlight: Hand in hand,Sappho and her daughter, Kleis,walk along a path through hillsideolive groves, the ocean white below,the murmur of waves part of their leisure andsad conversation about Aesop.
Moonlight: Hand in hand,
Sappho and her daughter, Kleis,
walk along a path through hillside
olive groves, the ocean white below,
the murmur of waves part of their leisure and
sad conversation about Aesop.
Mytilene642 B.C.My heart is heavy...Aesop, my friend, is dead.He could have had a kinder messenger—it was Pittakos who brought me the news.“The mob killed him for causing trouble in Adelphi,” he said, his eyes cruelly cold. He had met me on the street, after a performance of “The Martyrs.”Did he think this the right time to let me know? Was it a warning?I stared at him, as he shambled beside me. Then, before my face could reveal too much, I lowered my veil and walked away, trembling, my eyes unseeing.I did not go home for a long time. I walked by the shore until the ball of fire sank wearily into the dark water. The hills had a beaten look, the sea an oppressive flatness. A gull’s cry wept in me. Alone...alone... I was much more alone.Alone in my library, I opened the box Aesop had given me and removed his fox, lion, donkey, raven and frog. He had moulded them for me. Two were made of light-colored clay, others of dark. They were as highly glazed as scarabs. I arranged them on a shelf above my desk and could feel my friend’s presence, as though he were beside me.But there would be no more letters.No visit!Lighting my lamp, I began my ode to “The Friend of Man.”PI knew Alcaeus would be as disturbed as I.I expected him to roar, “The mob!” Instead, he bowed his head, his hands on his lap, and remained silent. Slowly, he clenched his fists and gouged them into his thighs. Muscles corded his arms and swelled as he stood.“He should have come here, to us!”“He was sick, Alcaeus.”“Then I should have gone to him! Why was I doubly blind? I knew he was under attack for opposing the aristocrats.”Round and round, back and forth, we talked: what might have been, what should have been:“If he had gone to Athens, he would have been safe with Solon.”“If only he could have stayed in Corinth...”And remembering what a friend Aesop had been to us, he said:“He knew I liked bread from that oven of Stexos... He was always bringing me my favorite wine.”“He couldn’t do enough, that time I got so sick. The best doctors, he...”“Wild boar, to help you get strong.”We recounted the fables, their Persian origin, the circumstances of their telling. How he loved travelers, especially from the East.I see Aesop on his balcony, the wind making him blink his eyes; he has on dark blue trousers, yellow sash and gold blouse and carries his doll and is smiling and nodding.Was it his profound understanding of life that made such a difference? He showed breadth of mind at all times. Revealing human character through animal traits, he taught us the comedy of our faults and aspirations.Alcaeus has begun writing letters, to protest against this outrage in Adelphi, to alert friends, to cry out.PHigh on a hill, I sit and stare at my bare feet and try to guess how many steps they have taken.I peer at my legs and consider the color and texture of my skin. I rub my hands over my knees and ankles.What of Phaon’s feet, the rigging they have climbed and the decks they have walked?Storms have crashed over him. He has held his ship to sun and stars, legs spread wide, feet on the planking.Does the sea mean so much to him? Is it his woman?As I watch the arrival of boats in the bay, the unloading at the dock, I keep remembering his brown face.PThe rains have begun.They flood across the mosaic floor of the courtyard, draining noisily.I am weaving a scarf, very white, light in weight, my seat a strip of rawhide on four pegs.Around me the girls sit and chatter. Heptha and Myra weave together, working at one loom, whispering. The rain and wind come together over the house. Laughing secretly, Atthis and Gyrinno dash off, padding through the rain, across the court.Kleis unwinds my ball of thread and keeps paying it out slowly, rhythmically, her hands in time to a song she is humming to herself.The white wool is restful. I can weave nothingness or I can weave in my whole past, the sea, my house, the cliffs, the trees.My fingers are Phaon’s.PI have not changed my mother’s house since she died because change is no friend of mine. Occasionally, I have had to repair or refinish a table, and a chair or picture, but were mama to return tomorrow she would feel at home.I often think that I will meet her, as I go from one room to another, mama gliding softly, smiling, holding out her warm hands to me...we would sit and weave by the window, the sea beyond, our voices low. With our terra-cotta lamps gleaming, we would talk until late, too sleepy to chat any longer.I can’t remember my father, he died so young. His lineage, extending to Agamemnon, frightens me: That inheritance must carry into these thick walls and the glazed tiles—a strong house.Mama gave me his royal flute, said to be carved from a bull’s leg, but it has been years since I have taken it from its silk-lined box. Its sickly color never pleased me.Its music comes to me sometimes: mountain vagaries, war music, sea songs, fragments of a day I can never know.A bat coasts through my open windows.Is there a better hour than dusk?I feel that life is infinitely precious at such an hour, that sordidness and decay are lies. It is the hour when we cross the threshold of starlight.Sometimes, before dropping asleep, I long to see Olympus, as part of this general dream:Never is it swept by the winds nor touched by snow,a purer air surrounds it, a white clarity envelops it,and the gods there taste of happiness that lasts forever...PIt has been a dreadful ordeal. I can hardly describe the events of this past fortnight.I had barely recovered from the shock of Aesop’s death, when word came that Alcaeus had been attacked.I had gone to a friend’s home and we had been chatting on the sea-terrace, when children burst in with the alarming news. I hurried with them to Alcaeus, the boys distressing me with their fantasies.I found Alcaeus in bed, severely bruised and cut, with Thasos in attendance.“It was Charaxos,” Thasos said, quietly.I must have gasped. I could not speak.“I was alone...wandering,” Alcaeus explained, then turned his face to the wall.And I dared to hope that Charaxos would come to his senses! I pressed my lips to Alcaeus’ hand.“I’ll get Libus,” I said.“Someone has already gone for him,” said Thasos.Libus, too, was shocked: he ordered the servants to bring Theodorus, another doctor.As the news spread through town, people gathered in the street in front of Alcaeus’ house, angry townsmen, yelling about Charaxos, calling on Pittakos for justice.During the night, a mob threatened Charaxos’ home, and in the morning, they stoned the place, battering shutters, screaming and demanding justice.Pittakos sent soldiers to maintain order but the soldiers sided with the mob, forcing the doors, smashing furniture and chasing away the servants.Sometime during the day, Charaxos and Rhodopis fled in one of their wine boats, heading for the mainland. I understand there was a fracas in the square, some wanting to overtake the ship.For two days, I did not leave Alcaeus’ home, taking turns at his side. In that circle of close friends, death pushed us hard, trying to break through.Finally, Libus, more lean-faced and pallid than usual, from his sleepless nights and responsibility, drew me aside:“He’s going to pull through. You can go home and rest. Trust me...”I slept and dreamed and came back and the days went like that before Alcaeus was out of danger, and we cheered him on the road to recovery.Pittakos and some of his officials visited him, expressing their regrets, saying a committee had called, demanding Charaxos’ punishment. I kept out of the room, leaving Alcaeus and Libus to handle the situation.“Our tyrant sides with me!” Alcaeus chortled after they had gone. “I’ve won!”It is a poor victory: we have not won back our years of exile. But, for the citizenry, this is something on the side of justice and worth talking about.For my part, I suspect that Charaxos will return presently, unmolested. He is too important to our local welfare, employing too many, to be brushed aside. When his boat anchors, Pittakos will fine him lightly. By then, sentiment will have cooled.Justice is rightly placed among the stars.POn my next visit to Alcaeus, I took my clay animals and placed them in his hands, describing each, one by one. He felt them carefully—too slowly—a sad expression on his face.“So Aesop made them?” he said. “It’s good you have them...proof that his world is still here. I wish I could remember his...his faith...”Taking the figures from Alcaeus, I put them on a table between us: we three had sat at a table like this, in exile, planning, planning: those worries swept back again, distorted. Confused, I could feel myself trapped. I knew that in those eyes opposite me, death sat there, at least a part of death, the same death that was in those clay animals.Our hands met across the table.PVilla PoseidonIt is useless to cross-examine Alcaeus. He will not discuss Charaxos.“Here, do me a favor, read me something from Hesiod,” he says, and hands me the poet’s advice to his brother.How history repeats itself! Family problems haven’t changed: this is an earlier Charaxos, who bribed judges to deprive Hesiod of his inheritance.If I did not know better, I could almost believe Charaxos had used this story for his model.As time goes on, I feel the stigma of our relationship more and more. How can I be his sister?Despite the liberality of our views, I am astonished that Alcaeus respects and trusts me. I can’t shake my guilt: the fact that Charaxos has cheated and betrayed me does not exonerate me of blame. I am tired of all this. It is a confusion I can’t accept indefinitely.PPhaon’s ship has anchored in the harbor.I have remained in my room throughout the day.I have enjoyed the detail from my fresco—Etruscan girl strewing flowers, hair streaming over her shoulders, face filled with joy, arms outspread.I am like that girl.PI took Exekias. As oldest member of my household, I feel she is the best chaperone. In her crumpled face there is more than Assyrian placidity: she has known me longest and is sympathetic and discreet: she says things the way my mother said them, so warmly I can’t forget.We left the house early, our scarves about our heads, women sweeping doorways and steps, sprinkling the dusty street, cleaning where horses and cattle had passed. Birds sickled from the eaves, dogs and horses drank at a watering trough, nuzzling moss, rubbing gnats, their hairy comradeship obvious in roll of eyes.We had not been in the market long when I saw him, alongside a stall with a sailor, both drinking coconuts, shaking them, holding them up, tipping them, draining the juice, laughing. They had on shorts and were brown, incredible ocean brown.Then Phaon saw me. Hurriedly, he set down the coconut and left the stall and came toward me, smiling, wiping his fingers on his shorts. In the way he spoke, in the way he stood, I sensed how he had missed me, other tell-tales in his voice and hands. And I knew, as we talked, that he sensed my longing as well: it brought us closer that we made no secret of our feelings.A parrot jabbered atop its cage and a monkey squealed and battered at its bronze ring, until its owner brought bananas. People crowded us, elbowing with baskets of fruit and shrimp. Phaon and I walked under palm-ceilinged aisles, dust sifting around us, light finning through stalls, over herbs, nuts, wines and cheeses...the smells made me hungry. Together we ate Cappian cheese, tangy to tongue and nose.“It never tasted better out at sea,” he said.“I hope everything tastes better now.”“It does...yes, I’m home again!”Exekias ghosted behind me, face alert, her hands pushing me along; so we moved, past the pottery lads, one of them glazing a bowl between his calloused knees, the color as bright as the sliced oranges beside him ready for eating.“Do you suppose you and I can sail again?” he asked, as we watched, seeing ourselves instead of the pottery boys. “There should be time...soon...when I’m unloaded.”I caught his half question, half statement.“If I were invited, I’d consider.”My teasing brought a flash from him and laughter and he moved back a little, nodding agreeably.As I walked home, I felt that my mind had been invaded by everything around me. I tried to hurry, thinking I’d remember all, the prices of the traders, the baskets of starfish, the white parrot; I’ll remember his voice, his feet in the dust, his smiles.Exekias babbled dully about food and flagrant cheating, her basket bumping my hip. I wondered how I could wait, through the days ahead, how could I occupy myself, until Phaon and I sailed? It was a question for water clocks and gulls, spindrift and wind, thought unfolding in my room, scudding across the floor to the window, stopping there, leaping out, to other lands, other times, backlashing with the net that contains yesterday...flames in a cruse...Atthis, slipping her perfumed hands over my eyes...PMy lips burn, my hands are moist, I feel faint... Is that my voice, the sound of my laughter? Am I walking over these tiles?Did I have supper last night? Drink? Rehearse a song?My girls realize I am lost—wandering. I can’t look into their eyes for long. When I see Kleis cross the room a trickle of ice slips down my back.What if he finds me too old, what if my love doesn’t please him...if he mocks me, or stands in awe, or wants to amuse himself?Phaon...I see you against every wall, against the sky, in the dark, in the sun under the trees. My flesh aches, my arms melt. Never has passion fermented so strongly in me.Yet no messenger comes.I can’t bear the nights, to lie alone, to feel my breath on my pillow, feel the cool sheet.In the morning, I ask Exekias questions, just to hear her voice, not listening, for how can she know whether he has forgotten me or is afraid or sick?He is busy with his boat and port affairs. He has gone to visit his sister, with no thought of returning soon. He has sailed. He talks with his men—coarse talks. He eats, drinks, works, sleeps, snores.No—he is fixing our boat for our trip.No, he has many sweethearts, dark, tall, frivolous, lusty, daring—all young.Why do I punish myself?I hurt with weariness and desire. I will simply face the bedroom wall and shut out the light. No, I will concentrate on my work. What shall I write about?PWhere is the sea that we sailed?Was it a long trip?Was our sail grey or brown?Was the water rough?The answers mean so little. Born of the sea, where is love more beautiful than on the sea? Like water, light, warm, swaying, the indispensable ingredient, the transformations, the necessities, the luxury, with the whites of the waves whiter than salt, with gulls flashing in the sun, with the bow of the boat swinging.We swam, dove, played, laughed. There was bread soaked in honey and nuts dipped in wine and fruit, whose peelings we tossed to the birds. There was the creaking of the sail for our silences, the long brown tiller arm reaching to the sun, his hands on my shoulders.He padded the bottom of the boat and we lay there, the wind heeling us briefly, the water sucking and his mouth sucking mine and the hunger of his body—the hunger I knew no sea could satisfy. Cradled, we talked softly:“Was your trip good?”“We had good weather for several days, then storms... It’s like that, you know, most every trip. I try to keep far away from the coast, to avoid shifting winds. I keep farther away than most sailors. It shortens the trip...”“You’re not afraid?”“No.”“When will you be leaving?”“I have no cargo.”“Stay...Phaon...”We had supper and I hated the food that kept us from our love-making.A sponge lay on the floor and he dipped water over me as the sun washed over us, sinking rapidly. Why couldn’t it stay for us? I saw him as Cretan, as Babylonian, as Persian, inventing his lineage. His atavistic hands moved certainly, oarsman’s hands, netman’s hands, the sea’s...mine.Nothing’s more rhythmic than love with waves for bed, rocking, sucking, soothing. I lay there in his arms, thinking of the plants below, the glassy window of the water, the fish, coral, ruined cities...the lovers of other days, the mother of us all, love, pulsing in the rigging, in the pull of his legs, the hasp of his fingers. The rollers were kind to us, never too violent yet tingling the blood. The backs of waves looked at us. The spray spilled salt on our skin, gulls screaming.We made love again, better than before, this time under the moon, our bodies wet from swimming, the summer night blowing over us, bringing us closer to shore where the surf boomed. Moonlight ignited inside the water and phosphorescence added to the brilliance. Flying fish sprang free. His body was so dark, mine so white...la, the rough of him!Were any other lovers as happy that day?As we stretched side by side, he said, with sleepy tongue:“I remember an evening like this, a night of phosphorescence. I was lying on the deck, almost asleep. A flash tore the sky, silver light...it came streaking nearer and nearer. I woke some of my sailors. My helmsman shouted. We pointed and argued. The light hit the water and sent up boiling steam. We smelled something. Stripping, I swam where the light had hit the water. We were becalmed and I thought I had seen something white but found only dead fish, their bellies shining. The largest one filled my arms and I swam back to the boat and hauled it aboard. It had a brand across one side. We argued, and threw it back.”“What was it that fell?” I asked.“Some said it was a star,” he said.P“I was born in Pyrgos,” Phaon tells me, his head on my lap. “I was born in a terrible thunderstorm, in my father’s hut. He was a very clever fisherman but there were times when we got very hungry and on one of those times we waded out to sea, he and I, to throw a net...we were hungry. I wasn’t helping much but I was there, small, perhaps learning something. Ah, that little island was barren and poor. And there I was in the water, the sun coming out of the sea, blinding me. And then my father screamed and I saw him fall. I tried to reach him. I splashed. I ran. I fell. I shouted. We were alone, we two. My father was thrashing about. It seems he had fallen into a pool, a rock pool, you know what they are. Maybe he forgot it was there, or didn’t know. I can’t say. But he had been hit by a shark and was bleeding. So I helped him, as best I could, both of us splashing, falling, the surf rising around us, big. He fell on the beach and I ran for help but before I could find help and come to him he had bled to death, on the sand, his hands on his wound, the wound from the shark.”PWe went up the mountain, to the outcrop and the temple, spent all day alone, the sheep tinkling their bells, the heat steady. He knew of a spring unknown to me and a hollow olive where bees had a hive. Only deep in the olive grove was it cooler and we buried ourselves under the trees.The watery brown of his body was mine. I found his voice deeper than I had thought. I found his mouth. Discoveries went on, nothing repetitive, the wind, no, the olive shade, or the moss and mushrooms. Crushing a mushroom he rubbed it against his thighs. The smell of mushroom in the cool, dark place! His smell and mine; the smell of earth: life was a vortex of fragrances, peace on the fringes, then a shepherd’s bell!“I’ve wanted to be a shepherd,” I said.“It would be too lonely for me,” he said. “It’s lonely enough at sea. I look for a sign of land, a strip of floating bark, land bird or turtle. I look...there at the bow I’m always looking...now it will be you, ahead, in the sea. At sea I have my crew...no, I couldn’t be a shepherd. But you?”“For me, I’d have more time to think, to write, to gather the world of stillness. I could weave it into a pattern we’d recognize as important: succor, inspiration, hope. There is a cliff...you know it... the Leucadian cliff... I’d go there with my flock and dream as they fed about me, the sea below us, the murmur of antiquity around us.PIt wasn’t easy to visit Alcaeus and hear him talk, as he reclined at supper, his hands close to a lighted lamp, restless fingers, perturbed in a blunted way: the tensility of the battlefield gone from them: moving, they move in on themselves.“Sometimes, I want to see a face...your face, Sappho. I want to see many faces, the faces of my men. I’d like to see a helmet and plume, the scarlet horsehair plume...color...what a great thing...“My house has no window or door. Who wants a house that way?“What of other blind men and their darkness! What good can that darkness do them?“When my father was small he was scared of the dark. I never was. But this dark has become fear...words can’t break it. Only sleep breaks it. When I’m lying in bed, on the verge of waking, I think, remembering the old light, I think, the sun’s up. But where’s the sun!”Someone had dusted his shields and spears on the wall: I noticed the black point of an Egyptian lance, the cold grey pennons on a Persian hide: perhaps they had decorated the sand outside his tent.This contrast troubled me and yet I longed to share my happiness: the child in me wanted to discountenance reason: the brown shoulders and rolling sea never left me as we talked and I tried to comfort, reminding him of days when it was fun to climb the hills and explore the beaches, fun all day: he admitted there had been time without pain and wondered why we were eventually cheated?Fog leaned against the house and I described it and he asked me to walk with him. As we followed the shore, he talked of warriors he had know, “strategists,” he called them; he boomed his words, excited by memories and the walk and the fog, which he could feel on his face and hands. His cane cracked against driftwood and I restrained him, to find his hands trembling.P
Mytilene
642 B.C.
M
M
y heart is heavy...Aesop, my friend, is dead.
He could have had a kinder messenger—it was Pittakos who brought me the news.
“The mob killed him for causing trouble in Adelphi,” he said, his eyes cruelly cold. He had met me on the street, after a performance of “The Martyrs.”
Did he think this the right time to let me know? Was it a warning?
I stared at him, as he shambled beside me. Then, before my face could reveal too much, I lowered my veil and walked away, trembling, my eyes unseeing.
I did not go home for a long time. I walked by the shore until the ball of fire sank wearily into the dark water. The hills had a beaten look, the sea an oppressive flatness. A gull’s cry wept in me. Alone...alone... I was much more alone.
Alone in my library, I opened the box Aesop had given me and removed his fox, lion, donkey, raven and frog. He had moulded them for me. Two were made of light-colored clay, others of dark. They were as highly glazed as scarabs. I arranged them on a shelf above my desk and could feel my friend’s presence, as though he were beside me.
But there would be no more letters.
No visit!
Lighting my lamp, I began my ode to “The Friend of Man.”
P
I knew Alcaeus would be as disturbed as I.
I expected him to roar, “The mob!” Instead, he bowed his head, his hands on his lap, and remained silent. Slowly, he clenched his fists and gouged them into his thighs. Muscles corded his arms and swelled as he stood.
“He should have come here, to us!”
“He was sick, Alcaeus.”
“Then I should have gone to him! Why was I doubly blind? I knew he was under attack for opposing the aristocrats.”
Round and round, back and forth, we talked: what might have been, what should have been:
“If he had gone to Athens, he would have been safe with Solon.”
“If only he could have stayed in Corinth...”
And remembering what a friend Aesop had been to us, he said:
“He knew I liked bread from that oven of Stexos... He was always bringing me my favorite wine.”
“He couldn’t do enough, that time I got so sick. The best doctors, he...”
“Wild boar, to help you get strong.”
We recounted the fables, their Persian origin, the circumstances of their telling. How he loved travelers, especially from the East.
I see Aesop on his balcony, the wind making him blink his eyes; he has on dark blue trousers, yellow sash and gold blouse and carries his doll and is smiling and nodding.
Was it his profound understanding of life that made such a difference? He showed breadth of mind at all times. Revealing human character through animal traits, he taught us the comedy of our faults and aspirations.
Alcaeus has begun writing letters, to protest against this outrage in Adelphi, to alert friends, to cry out.
P
High on a hill, I sit and stare at my bare feet and try to guess how many steps they have taken.
I peer at my legs and consider the color and texture of my skin. I rub my hands over my knees and ankles.
What of Phaon’s feet, the rigging they have climbed and the decks they have walked?
Storms have crashed over him. He has held his ship to sun and stars, legs spread wide, feet on the planking.
Does the sea mean so much to him? Is it his woman?
As I watch the arrival of boats in the bay, the unloading at the dock, I keep remembering his brown face.
P
The rains have begun.
They flood across the mosaic floor of the courtyard, draining noisily.
I am weaving a scarf, very white, light in weight, my seat a strip of rawhide on four pegs.
Around me the girls sit and chatter. Heptha and Myra weave together, working at one loom, whispering. The rain and wind come together over the house. Laughing secretly, Atthis and Gyrinno dash off, padding through the rain, across the court.
Kleis unwinds my ball of thread and keeps paying it out slowly, rhythmically, her hands in time to a song she is humming to herself.
The white wool is restful. I can weave nothingness or I can weave in my whole past, the sea, my house, the cliffs, the trees.
My fingers are Phaon’s.
P
I have not changed my mother’s house since she died because change is no friend of mine. Occasionally, I have had to repair or refinish a table, and a chair or picture, but were mama to return tomorrow she would feel at home.
I often think that I will meet her, as I go from one room to another, mama gliding softly, smiling, holding out her warm hands to me...we would sit and weave by the window, the sea beyond, our voices low. With our terra-cotta lamps gleaming, we would talk until late, too sleepy to chat any longer.
I can’t remember my father, he died so young. His lineage, extending to Agamemnon, frightens me: That inheritance must carry into these thick walls and the glazed tiles—a strong house.
Mama gave me his royal flute, said to be carved from a bull’s leg, but it has been years since I have taken it from its silk-lined box. Its sickly color never pleased me.
Its music comes to me sometimes: mountain vagaries, war music, sea songs, fragments of a day I can never know.
A bat coasts through my open windows.
Is there a better hour than dusk?
I feel that life is infinitely precious at such an hour, that sordidness and decay are lies. It is the hour when we cross the threshold of starlight.
Sometimes, before dropping asleep, I long to see Olympus, as part of this general dream:
Never is it swept by the winds nor touched by snow,
a purer air surrounds it, a white clarity envelops it,
and the gods there taste of happiness that lasts forever...
P
It has been a dreadful ordeal. I can hardly describe the events of this past fortnight.
I had barely recovered from the shock of Aesop’s death, when word came that Alcaeus had been attacked.
I had gone to a friend’s home and we had been chatting on the sea-terrace, when children burst in with the alarming news. I hurried with them to Alcaeus, the boys distressing me with their fantasies.
I found Alcaeus in bed, severely bruised and cut, with Thasos in attendance.
“It was Charaxos,” Thasos said, quietly.
I must have gasped. I could not speak.
“I was alone...wandering,” Alcaeus explained, then turned his face to the wall.
And I dared to hope that Charaxos would come to his senses! I pressed my lips to Alcaeus’ hand.
“I’ll get Libus,” I said.
“Someone has already gone for him,” said Thasos.
Libus, too, was shocked: he ordered the servants to bring Theodorus, another doctor.
As the news spread through town, people gathered in the street in front of Alcaeus’ house, angry townsmen, yelling about Charaxos, calling on Pittakos for justice.
During the night, a mob threatened Charaxos’ home, and in the morning, they stoned the place, battering shutters, screaming and demanding justice.
Pittakos sent soldiers to maintain order but the soldiers sided with the mob, forcing the doors, smashing furniture and chasing away the servants.
Sometime during the day, Charaxos and Rhodopis fled in one of their wine boats, heading for the mainland. I understand there was a fracas in the square, some wanting to overtake the ship.
For two days, I did not leave Alcaeus’ home, taking turns at his side. In that circle of close friends, death pushed us hard, trying to break through.
Finally, Libus, more lean-faced and pallid than usual, from his sleepless nights and responsibility, drew me aside:
“He’s going to pull through. You can go home and rest. Trust me...”
I slept and dreamed and came back and the days went like that before Alcaeus was out of danger, and we cheered him on the road to recovery.
Pittakos and some of his officials visited him, expressing their regrets, saying a committee had called, demanding Charaxos’ punishment. I kept out of the room, leaving Alcaeus and Libus to handle the situation.
“Our tyrant sides with me!” Alcaeus chortled after they had gone. “I’ve won!”
It is a poor victory: we have not won back our years of exile. But, for the citizenry, this is something on the side of justice and worth talking about.
For my part, I suspect that Charaxos will return presently, unmolested. He is too important to our local welfare, employing too many, to be brushed aside. When his boat anchors, Pittakos will fine him lightly. By then, sentiment will have cooled.
Justice is rightly placed among the stars.
P
On my next visit to Alcaeus, I took my clay animals and placed them in his hands, describing each, one by one. He felt them carefully—too slowly—a sad expression on his face.
“So Aesop made them?” he said. “It’s good you have them...proof that his world is still here. I wish I could remember his...his faith...”
Taking the figures from Alcaeus, I put them on a table between us: we three had sat at a table like this, in exile, planning, planning: those worries swept back again, distorted. Confused, I could feel myself trapped. I knew that in those eyes opposite me, death sat there, at least a part of death, the same death that was in those clay animals.
Our hands met across the table.
P
Villa Poseidon
It is useless to cross-examine Alcaeus. He will not discuss Charaxos.
“Here, do me a favor, read me something from Hesiod,” he says, and hands me the poet’s advice to his brother.
How history repeats itself! Family problems haven’t changed: this is an earlier Charaxos, who bribed judges to deprive Hesiod of his inheritance.
If I did not know better, I could almost believe Charaxos had used this story for his model.
As time goes on, I feel the stigma of our relationship more and more. How can I be his sister?
Despite the liberality of our views, I am astonished that Alcaeus respects and trusts me. I can’t shake my guilt: the fact that Charaxos has cheated and betrayed me does not exonerate me of blame. I am tired of all this. It is a confusion I can’t accept indefinitely.
P
Phaon’s ship has anchored in the harbor.
I have remained in my room throughout the day.
I have enjoyed the detail from my fresco—Etruscan girl strewing flowers, hair streaming over her shoulders, face filled with joy, arms outspread.
I am like that girl.
P
I took Exekias. As oldest member of my household, I feel she is the best chaperone. In her crumpled face there is more than Assyrian placidity: she has known me longest and is sympathetic and discreet: she says things the way my mother said them, so warmly I can’t forget.
We left the house early, our scarves about our heads, women sweeping doorways and steps, sprinkling the dusty street, cleaning where horses and cattle had passed. Birds sickled from the eaves, dogs and horses drank at a watering trough, nuzzling moss, rubbing gnats, their hairy comradeship obvious in roll of eyes.
We had not been in the market long when I saw him, alongside a stall with a sailor, both drinking coconuts, shaking them, holding them up, tipping them, draining the juice, laughing. They had on shorts and were brown, incredible ocean brown.
Then Phaon saw me. Hurriedly, he set down the coconut and left the stall and came toward me, smiling, wiping his fingers on his shorts. In the way he spoke, in the way he stood, I sensed how he had missed me, other tell-tales in his voice and hands. And I knew, as we talked, that he sensed my longing as well: it brought us closer that we made no secret of our feelings.
A parrot jabbered atop its cage and a monkey squealed and battered at its bronze ring, until its owner brought bananas. People crowded us, elbowing with baskets of fruit and shrimp. Phaon and I walked under palm-ceilinged aisles, dust sifting around us, light finning through stalls, over herbs, nuts, wines and cheeses...the smells made me hungry. Together we ate Cappian cheese, tangy to tongue and nose.
“It never tasted better out at sea,” he said.
“I hope everything tastes better now.”
“It does...yes, I’m home again!”
Exekias ghosted behind me, face alert, her hands pushing me along; so we moved, past the pottery lads, one of them glazing a bowl between his calloused knees, the color as bright as the sliced oranges beside him ready for eating.
“Do you suppose you and I can sail again?” he asked, as we watched, seeing ourselves instead of the pottery boys. “There should be time...soon...when I’m unloaded.”
I caught his half question, half statement.
“If I were invited, I’d consider.”
My teasing brought a flash from him and laughter and he moved back a little, nodding agreeably.
As I walked home, I felt that my mind had been invaded by everything around me. I tried to hurry, thinking I’d remember all, the prices of the traders, the baskets of starfish, the white parrot; I’ll remember his voice, his feet in the dust, his smiles.
Exekias babbled dully about food and flagrant cheating, her basket bumping my hip. I wondered how I could wait, through the days ahead, how could I occupy myself, until Phaon and I sailed? It was a question for water clocks and gulls, spindrift and wind, thought unfolding in my room, scudding across the floor to the window, stopping there, leaping out, to other lands, other times, backlashing with the net that contains yesterday...flames in a cruse...Atthis, slipping her perfumed hands over my eyes...
P
My lips burn, my hands are moist, I feel faint... Is that my voice, the sound of my laughter? Am I walking over these tiles?
Did I have supper last night? Drink? Rehearse a song?
My girls realize I am lost—wandering. I can’t look into their eyes for long. When I see Kleis cross the room a trickle of ice slips down my back.
What if he finds me too old, what if my love doesn’t please him...if he mocks me, or stands in awe, or wants to amuse himself?
Phaon...
I see you against every wall, against the sky, in the dark, in the sun under the trees. My flesh aches, my arms melt. Never has passion fermented so strongly in me.
Yet no messenger comes.
I can’t bear the nights, to lie alone, to feel my breath on my pillow, feel the cool sheet.
In the morning, I ask Exekias questions, just to hear her voice, not listening, for how can she know whether he has forgotten me or is afraid or sick?
He is busy with his boat and port affairs. He has gone to visit his sister, with no thought of returning soon. He has sailed. He talks with his men—coarse talks. He eats, drinks, works, sleeps, snores.
No—he is fixing our boat for our trip.
No, he has many sweethearts, dark, tall, frivolous, lusty, daring—all young.
Why do I punish myself?
I hurt with weariness and desire. I will simply face the bedroom wall and shut out the light. No, I will concentrate on my work. What shall I write about?
P
Where is the sea that we sailed?
Was it a long trip?
Was our sail grey or brown?
Was the water rough?
The answers mean so little. Born of the sea, where is love more beautiful than on the sea? Like water, light, warm, swaying, the indispensable ingredient, the transformations, the necessities, the luxury, with the whites of the waves whiter than salt, with gulls flashing in the sun, with the bow of the boat swinging.
We swam, dove, played, laughed. There was bread soaked in honey and nuts dipped in wine and fruit, whose peelings we tossed to the birds. There was the creaking of the sail for our silences, the long brown tiller arm reaching to the sun, his hands on my shoulders.
He padded the bottom of the boat and we lay there, the wind heeling us briefly, the water sucking and his mouth sucking mine and the hunger of his body—the hunger I knew no sea could satisfy. Cradled, we talked softly:
“Was your trip good?”
“We had good weather for several days, then storms... It’s like that, you know, most every trip. I try to keep far away from the coast, to avoid shifting winds. I keep farther away than most sailors. It shortens the trip...”
“You’re not afraid?”
“No.”
“When will you be leaving?”
“I have no cargo.”
“Stay...Phaon...”
We had supper and I hated the food that kept us from our love-making.
A sponge lay on the floor and he dipped water over me as the sun washed over us, sinking rapidly. Why couldn’t it stay for us? I saw him as Cretan, as Babylonian, as Persian, inventing his lineage. His atavistic hands moved certainly, oarsman’s hands, netman’s hands, the sea’s...mine.
Nothing’s more rhythmic than love with waves for bed, rocking, sucking, soothing. I lay there in his arms, thinking of the plants below, the glassy window of the water, the fish, coral, ruined cities...the lovers of other days, the mother of us all, love, pulsing in the rigging, in the pull of his legs, the hasp of his fingers. The rollers were kind to us, never too violent yet tingling the blood. The backs of waves looked at us. The spray spilled salt on our skin, gulls screaming.
We made love again, better than before, this time under the moon, our bodies wet from swimming, the summer night blowing over us, bringing us closer to shore where the surf boomed. Moonlight ignited inside the water and phosphorescence added to the brilliance. Flying fish sprang free. His body was so dark, mine so white...la, the rough of him!
Were any other lovers as happy that day?
As we stretched side by side, he said, with sleepy tongue:
“I remember an evening like this, a night of phosphorescence. I was lying on the deck, almost asleep. A flash tore the sky, silver light...it came streaking nearer and nearer. I woke some of my sailors. My helmsman shouted. We pointed and argued. The light hit the water and sent up boiling steam. We smelled something. Stripping, I swam where the light had hit the water. We were becalmed and I thought I had seen something white but found only dead fish, their bellies shining. The largest one filled my arms and I swam back to the boat and hauled it aboard. It had a brand across one side. We argued, and threw it back.”
“What was it that fell?” I asked.
“Some said it was a star,” he said.
P
“I was born in Pyrgos,” Phaon tells me, his head on my lap. “I was born in a terrible thunderstorm, in my father’s hut. He was a very clever fisherman but there were times when we got very hungry and on one of those times we waded out to sea, he and I, to throw a net...we were hungry. I wasn’t helping much but I was there, small, perhaps learning something. Ah, that little island was barren and poor. And there I was in the water, the sun coming out of the sea, blinding me. And then my father screamed and I saw him fall. I tried to reach him. I splashed. I ran. I fell. I shouted. We were alone, we two. My father was thrashing about. It seems he had fallen into a pool, a rock pool, you know what they are. Maybe he forgot it was there, or didn’t know. I can’t say. But he had been hit by a shark and was bleeding. So I helped him, as best I could, both of us splashing, falling, the surf rising around us, big. He fell on the beach and I ran for help but before I could find help and come to him he had bled to death, on the sand, his hands on his wound, the wound from the shark.”
P
We went up the mountain, to the outcrop and the temple, spent all day alone, the sheep tinkling their bells, the heat steady. He knew of a spring unknown to me and a hollow olive where bees had a hive. Only deep in the olive grove was it cooler and we buried ourselves under the trees.
The watery brown of his body was mine. I found his voice deeper than I had thought. I found his mouth. Discoveries went on, nothing repetitive, the wind, no, the olive shade, or the moss and mushrooms. Crushing a mushroom he rubbed it against his thighs. The smell of mushroom in the cool, dark place! His smell and mine; the smell of earth: life was a vortex of fragrances, peace on the fringes, then a shepherd’s bell!
“I’ve wanted to be a shepherd,” I said.
“It would be too lonely for me,” he said. “It’s lonely enough at sea. I look for a sign of land, a strip of floating bark, land bird or turtle. I look...there at the bow I’m always looking...now it will be you, ahead, in the sea. At sea I have my crew...no, I couldn’t be a shepherd. But you?”
“For me, I’d have more time to think, to write, to gather the world of stillness. I could weave it into a pattern we’d recognize as important: succor, inspiration, hope. There is a cliff...you know it... the Leucadian cliff... I’d go there with my flock and dream as they fed about me, the sea below us, the murmur of antiquity around us.
P
It wasn’t easy to visit Alcaeus and hear him talk, as he reclined at supper, his hands close to a lighted lamp, restless fingers, perturbed in a blunted way: the tensility of the battlefield gone from them: moving, they move in on themselves.
“Sometimes, I want to see a face...your face, Sappho. I want to see many faces, the faces of my men. I’d like to see a helmet and plume, the scarlet horsehair plume...color...what a great thing...
“My house has no window or door. Who wants a house that way?
“What of other blind men and their darkness! What good can that darkness do them?
“When my father was small he was scared of the dark. I never was. But this dark has become fear...words can’t break it. Only sleep breaks it. When I’m lying in bed, on the verge of waking, I think, remembering the old light, I think, the sun’s up. But where’s the sun!”
Someone had dusted his shields and spears on the wall: I noticed the black point of an Egyptian lance, the cold grey pennons on a Persian hide: perhaps they had decorated the sand outside his tent.
This contrast troubled me and yet I longed to share my happiness: the child in me wanted to discountenance reason: the brown shoulders and rolling sea never left me as we talked and I tried to comfort, reminding him of days when it was fun to climb the hills and explore the beaches, fun all day: he admitted there had been time without pain and wondered why we were eventually cheated?
Fog leaned against the house and I described it and he asked me to walk with him. As we followed the shore, he talked of warriors he had know, “strategists,” he called them; he boomed his words, excited by memories and the walk and the fog, which he could feel on his face and hands. His cane cracked against driftwood and I restrained him, to find his hands trembling.
P