Part 3
When he looked after Alcaeus and me, we ate with him every day at least one meal. Through all the years of our exile, he remained our most faithful friend. His friends were our friends. His house was ours. His servants. He treated everyone with equal respect.
“I never forget that I was a slave,” he often said.
He was much sought after, not only for his humor, but for his wisdom. His reddish whiskers and black brows gave him a comic look. But he sensed his profundity, as he guided me about Corinth and sat beside me at the temple of Apollo, watching the people and the boats and the sea birds, and hearing the choral virgins sing.
Evenings, he would lay aside his doll and tell me fables. He had learned many from his father, a Persian, and he was constantly visiting orientals to pick up their stories and jokes. I hear his smooth, somnolent voice...an effortless story- teller!
“I will certainly come and visit you,” he writes. “I am tired of Adelphi. The people make me uncomfortable. I want to roam over Lesbos, to be with you and Alcaeus. I want to see your home.”
Will he come? I hope he can. His letter has taken weeks to reach me. I suppose he could be on his way, by this time.
It must have been almost dawn, when Alcaeus and a group of revelers came banging at my door, shouting, laughing. We let them in and they demanded breakfast, some of the more intoxicated trying to seduce my girls, who were quite amused.
When the others were gone, Alcaeus drew me aside to speak in earnest.
“Do you know that Kleis goes to Charaxos’ house?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That she visits your brother’s house frequently.”
“Do you know this...or is it gossip?”
“We just went by his place. She’s there now. I would know her voice anywhere.”
“Yes, of course...”
“I don’t like his slaves, as you know, and I don’t think they are fit company for Kleis.”
“No, no, certainly, I shall speak to her...”
“It will take more than that, I’m afraid.”
“Why, Alcaeus, she’s a mere child...”
“Oh come now, Kleis must be fourteen or more. If she were my daughter, a pretty girl...” He held up a warning finger, then left.
Fourteen? No doubt he meant well, was sincere, but I resented the implication.
Have I really been lax? Is my little girl in need of direction? It seems she was ten or eleven only yesterday. Fourteen, indeed!
Kleis never knew her father. He is one of a thousand dead, because of the wars. If he were here, she would not think of slipping off at night. She looks much like him. I remember his face, the candid eyes and lips.
I remember the ivory gleam of his body. Ah, if he were here...
How am I to forbid Kleis?
Where is my frivolity? Where is my enthusiasm?
The sun’s color whitened my shutters and I threw them open on the sea and the light burnished the tiles and splashed the masks and my bed and I stared into its eye, to surprise its oracle.
I am criticized for my simple dress, my tastes. The townspeople say I should not be aloof. They say I am too aristocratic. They say my parties are too gay and exclusive. They say my wealth is insufficient. They say...Yes, I could go on with this pettiness. But why should I?
I have my work and I must live to see beyond the moment, below the surface; I must interpret the whole heart. For I know too well the inexorability of time, the disappointments that nibble one’s heels. I must offset the pain, the loss. There is no one to take my arm, there is no one to lean on. There is only my work—and my girls.
All day in the fragrant lemon forest, fallen fruit underneath the trees...all day alone. I have hated loneliness and yet I must be able to rest and get away from responsibilities, to welcome the gods of trees and ocean and those long dead, whose marble shrines dot a corner of this wood. There are so many dead. However, life must be better than death or the gods would have chosen to die. Life must be day-by-day and hour-by-hour. And I talk to myself and totally convince myself and then the mew of a gull shatters my conviction.
Our spring revel saw us high on the mountain, the ocean misty blue, our erotic flutes wailing the dawn. Kleis and I danced together, my girls joining us one by one, the deepest notes growing in volume, the slight notes dropping away. How the wet grass slid our feet!
I closed my eyes, remembering nothing, letting the song have me; then, eyes open, I went on forgetting, forgetting where I was, what this was: I was simply dancing, flashing with someone, alone, dancing for myself and the oncoming sun, dancing because I love to dance, dancing because I love life and time is dead. Yes, time is dead at our spring festival and the flowers never spill from our hair.
Girls bared their breasts and arms to the light. Men clapped in unison. The music sped up and the faster pace widened our circle of dancers. Our bare feet kicked blossoms thrown by boys. We ate and danced, drank and danced again. Kleis, it seemed to me, danced more beautifully than anyone.
Beauty, I said: We are here again, help us to find life’s meaning.
Beauty said: There is always meaning, look for it.
The step and re-step, circle and re-circle, gulp of air, ache of chest, ache of legs and arms, sullen eyes, eyes longing for embrace...longing... longing...isn’t that what life is?
Our tumbled-down temple rose behind us, whitish pillars, roofless phalli, our gowns, arms and faces, circling.
Through my blur of happiness, I saw Anaktoria, Libus, Gorgo, Nano, old friends, fishermen, villagers. Old women went about hawking oranges. Old men drank and talked.
In the afternoon, resting under trees, I became aware that the crowd had scattered into small groups. How hungry we were! How thirsty! Then more dancing and, with tiny fires in the twilight, food cooking, pots bubbling, love-making, songs. It was the dusk I love. And it was easy to grow sentimental, to talk of Alcaeus and miss him, to remember our fun at other festivals. Crickets bubbled like little pots. Frogs burped. A bat fluttered over our fires. Below, somewhere on the bay, a ship winked and made me feel that the sky had gotten below us.
A warm wind and some scarves, that was all I needed to sleep, a sleep somewhat troubled because Kleis was not with me. But during the night she appeared and slipped into my arms, where she began to cry. I comforted her and slept and thought no more about her girlish tears till morning, when she whispered about Charaxos, his heavy drinking, then the darkness and torches, the wild games and dances higher up the mountain...
“I shouldn’t have gone with him! I should have stayed with the other boys and girls right here. This time, he has changed me. I’ll never be the same! And I can’t bear the sight of him!”
...A journal is for solace, for strength.
I write in my library, the rain falling, Kleis in her room, asleep. How sad when youth is tricked! One speaks of treachery, stupidity, ugliness. One thinks of family honor. And then I realize that Charaxos has no sense of honor, that my code is incomprehensible to him. So, I’ll not show my distress—our distress.
Life is for the strong, they say.
How strong must a person be?
I feel like dry smoke. And smoke twists and turns inside, not knowing which way to go. Nothing is hotter than the heat of anger.
Charaxos—how the name burns my tongue, sears my tablet. It is impossible to concentrate!
It wasn’t enough for us to quarrel over money! You, with your scarab, your Egyptian clothes, your obelisks, your slaves, your woman!
Perhaps Kleis is mistaken. Children are given to exaggeration.
I don’t know what to believe.
Today, an earthquake shook our island, sloshing water from our courtyard fountain, making birds cry out. As the walls of the house trembled, I shut my eyes, thinking: No, not yet...there’s still so much.
And I made up my mind to go out more, to get about more. With Kleis. We need more time together.
How tall she is! With golden hair and mint eyes, she grows more like her father each day. I detect a restlessness in her nature. Is it because of what happened, or because she is with me? Or do I imagine it?
Her shoulders stoop, her face is sad. When I speak to her about it, she straightens and gazes far off, her eyes worried. Perhaps we make a strange pair.
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.
Mytilene
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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...”
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.
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 a thiase in 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.
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.
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?
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.
A thiase in Andros—the thought saddens me, for then she would be far away.
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!
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.