Will he ever write again?
He left early, insisting he would find his way home by himself. Asoldier, reduced to being treated like an irresponsible infant—ofcourse he resented it. But I know he did not return home. Instead, hehas rambled into the hills again.
Now the others are gone. And I wonder, looking towards the slope,what it is that Alcaeus hopes to find, a new life?
I shall not be able to sleep indoors tonight. My bed will have to beunder the trees. Perhaps the wind can bring me some special message.
?
The banquet honoring the warriors was held last night.
Alcaeus had his collection of war shields displayed on his diningroom walls. Of hide and metal, in various shapes, they united the roomand its glazing lamps and candles. I felt myself the focal point of apainted eye on a circular hide, as I sat by him. I could not recallsuch an assembly in years: Scythian, Etruscan, Turkish, Negro. Bowls ofincense sent threads to the ceiling. Wisps floated in front of me wherea man in Egyptian clothes, headband studded with rubies, sat beside hiscourtesan.
Alcaeus made his way to the dais, when everyone was seated, aboutfifty of us. Hands resting on a table, arms healed and ringed withcopper bands, he leaned forward, waiting for silence. His hair had beenfreshly curled, and his beard trimmed and brushed with oil. I wastroubled, thinking he might be impudent or truculent. Instead he spokegravely and it was difficult to believe he could not see us. I thoughthe glanced straight at me.
“Tonight, friends, there will be no tirade, no poetry. I wish to paymy respects, and offer my thanks for our return to our island. I knowhow beautiful it is...”
There was a murmur of appreciation.
“Soldiers have a way of talking out of turn,” he went on, remindingthem of the gossip that had come to his ears, shameful talk that madefaces blush with guilt and anger.
“It’s time for me, as their commander, to speak. Very well, I will!”And his voice thundered across the room, to make sure that none wouldmiss or mistake its message. Was this the Alcaeus who had joked andsported and sung ribald songs, as the popular friend of young men whowere proud, rich, playful and naive? Here was someone speaking out ofexperience...
“I assure you the truce was an honorable truce—and will berespected.” An older, solemn Alcaeus...who reviewed the war withwisdom.
“And now let us forget fear and enjoy life and see that our peopleprosper.” It was an impressive speech, one they would long remember.
Our personal servants, assisted by the usual naked boys, waited onus, pouring the Chian wine. Gradually, people began to move about, totalk and drink together. Men long absent from such gatherings movednervously or waited glumly—alone or in knots of two or three, feelingseparate. How does one forget the battlefield? I heard the burr ofancient Egyptian. Persian was spoken by men from Ablas. Women gatheredabout the newly returned; some were excited, some were beautifullydressed, their hair piled in curls, their shoulders bare, wearing goldsandals.
As the evening wore on, the old familiar sense of freedom returned.Restraint dropped away. Voices and laughter increased. Then applausebroke out as a Negro entertainer entered, carrying a smoking torch.
Under the edge of the portico, he freed a basket of birds and juggledseveral wicker balls. I had never seen this gaunt, ribbed giant,beautifully naked; some said he had come on a wine ship as a crewman.He spun the cages higher and higher and as they whirled in the torchlight, he tore open first one and then anther, to liberate the birds. Amagnificent performance.
The suggestion worried Pittakos and he pushed through the crowd totake the floor. Pittakos, with his rasping tongue and fish eyes—wasthere a more dishonest ruler? How ironical that he should represent us!As he kept folding and unfolding his robe, he spoke about our fleet,how he would have the ships repaired and converted into fishing boatsfor the use of the community...never mentioning that our fleet wasrotted!
Presently, the musicians and dancers wandered among us and the partywent on. After many songs and a lot of wine, Alcaeus slipped his armthrough mine and suggested we go upstairs. It was all very obvious, ofcourse—that he was drunk and I unwilling, that times had changed andeverything with it. When was it we had dashed, hand in hand, up hisstaircase, giggling and pushing one another? How many years ago?
Ah, deception and illusion, do we dare recreate the past and itsformer happiness? Only in memory is it done successfully. Yet, here wewere in his room.
Life is for love!
In the old days, when we had made love, we had closed our eyes, tointensify sensations. Now he would not need to shut his eyes. And hisarms, hands, fingers—once young and sure—what could they remember?
I could not keep back tears, tears he would never know, as hestumbled, laughed, then sprawled over the fur covering of his bed.While the music filtered in to us, I cushioned him in my lap and wipedthe perspiration from his face, hating the war and the years behind us.After mumbling a few words, he turned over and fell into profoundsleep.
So, that was the resumption of our love...and, as I leaned against ahillside olive, the salt air fresh about me, I accepted defeat, awarethat my loneliness would appear again and again. There, on the hill,gazing seaward, where fishing smacks moved, I rubbed the horny bark,envying the tree’s longevity and its years ahead. Would I trade places,to brood over Mytilene, for centuries?
Alone?
Then Atthis circled me in her arms, creeping up behind me and cuppingmy eyes. I recognized her by her laughter and perfume.
“Atthis...”
?
Alcaeus’ home is much older than mine, with patina walls, Parianmarble floors, and a collection of rare Athenian busts. His library hasa Corinthian copy of Homer and a collection of Periander’s maxims,while I have been contented with some papyri, of choral lyrics anddithyrambs.
As I stretch out in a leather chair in his library and read to him,the honeysuckle makes its fragrance outside, surely a woman’s flower,so fecund. I try to keep my voice and thoughts within the room, beyondthe reach of its fragrance. The honeysuckle does not suit us or theroom. And Alcaeus knows this, too. His impassive features grow stern,as though to reprimand me. Insatiable Sappho! Yet how can I help it? Imust love and be loved.
Laying down the book, I kneel and place my cheek against his knee.His hands, gliding over my hair and neck, are dead. His voice, out ofits black, reproaches me.
I want to cry: but I didn’t blind you!
The other day in the library, he said:
“I wanted to write something great... During the war, I conceived ofa series of island poems, bucolic, legendary, praise of this life.” Andhe motioned toward the ocean and our island.
“Dictate to me,” I said, hoping to rouse his impulse.
His silence, at first natural enough, went on, and I becameembarrassed by his stare at the bookshelves.
“I want to help you, Alcaeus.”
Again the silence. How was I to get through it?
Taking a volume of his poems, I read aloud several of his favorites.Slowly, his face relaxed and he settled deeper in his chair. After awhile, he said:
“Read some of yours, Sappho.”
I opened a book, one of my earliest ones, and read several passages.But I could not continue; I felt my mind wrapped in fog; my handsbecame icy. I shut my eyes and said to myself: See, this is what it’slike to be blind. You’re blind, blind to love and life...
As I kissed him good-bye, I longed for our youth, its freedom, itsdaring, its quarrels and fun.
Walking home, I told myself I should never return to his house.
?
In looking back over the pages of my journal, I am alarmed by thepassage of time. When I was young, I thought time was a philanthropist.
I remember so well that day mama took me to the ocean, and the rainfell unexpectedly, lashing and soaking us. We finally discovered ashepherd�
��s hut, but I got colder and colder in its windowless gloom.Lying on the floor, among stiff hides, with the rain sounding loud andthe hides smelling strong, I thought the storm would never end. Towarddusk, a shepherd and his boy came, dripping with wet and shivering, andmy mother dried the boy and made him lie down with me under the hides.Were we seven or eight? Together, our bodies grew warm and we laystill, listening to the wind and the rain thud across the green roof,while the shepherd went about building a fire and preparing supper. Ihave forgotten the boy’s name, but not his face. Forever after, Ithought of him as my first lover. I doubt whether we spoke a word allthat delicious evening.
Now I find it hard to renew ties with the past. Not onlyAlcaeus...but Dioscurides...Pylades...Milo...the very names make meunhappy. All destroyed by war. What special stupidity do men possessthat they must involve themselves in such a gamble, with lossinevitable, anyhow?
?
The columns of the temple of Zeus, in Athens,
stand white against the moonlit sky.
A woman walks among columnar cypress,
her sandals scraping sand and gravel.
A hawk wheels above.
T
he masks I have on my bedroom walls seem less clever than they appearedyears ago. Our theatre, too, has changed through the years, become moremediocre.
Yesterday, at the play, I sat closer than usual and was delighted bythe comic faces, so new and frightful that children screamed andsquealed. Good, I thought. Perhaps the play may take on life.
...A man with a tambourine strutted about...an old beggar, pack onback, pulled at his beard and mimicked words sung by the chorus. Heseemed to be one of us or a Chian, maybe. It was pleasant enough tosoak myself in comedy for a while, for right after the play, Charaxosfound me and suggested we stroll in private. Obviously, he hadsomething on his mind!
He began by offering me an exquisite scarab, saying he had purchasedit for me, from a sailor who had touched port.
“For me?” I became suspicious! I fingered the beetle-shaped oval,unlike any I had seen. An amethyst was set in the center withcharacters engraved around it.
“An Etruscan scarab should make a pretty keepsake,” he said.
“Then I think you should keep it.”
“Why? Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Of what?”
“That it might bring bad luck.”
He laughed ironically, as he flipped and caught the scarab, with aflick of his wrist.
“What is it you want?” I asked, coming directly to the point.
“To be treated with respect, Rhodopis and I—not criticized.”
“Do I say too much?”
“I don’t like your tongue.” He was scowling now.
“Nor I your woman’s!”
“Leave her out! I warn you—she’s no longer a slave!”
“It wasn’t that she was a slave that bothered me.”
“A courtesan, then!”
“No, you should know better than that. Oh, no...it was yourassumption that our family funds could be lifted, without my consentand without my knowledge. Taken to buy Rhodopis. You sold three or fourwine ships to pay her price, along with the money taken from me.”
“Can’t you forget...”
“Not conveniently. Nobody enjoys being robbed.”
“I have said I would repay you.”
“But that was nearly two years ago. And you go right on selling wineand buying equipment. I have heard that you added a ship last month.Wasn’t it convenient to pay me then?”
His fist tightened over the scarab, and he bowed and turned away,rejoining his wife who was strolling behind us with her friends andservants.
Theatre!
?
Villa Poseidon
Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria and I went swimming in the bay by thedriftwood tree. It was late, the sun misty, its eye sleepy, pelicansroosting, a dolphin or two frolicking close to shore. I had been unableto forget my meeting with Charaxos, until Anaktoria, who is the bestswimmer among us, grabbed me by the heels as I floated by, and towed meto the bottom. That ended my anger and irritation. I lit after her,snatching for her long hair. Arms around her, I forced her to tow metoward shore, making myself as heavy as possible.
As the four of us played on the beach, I thought: When will thishappen again? Something about the late afternoon—its hammered out sun,its tempered air, its windlessness, its smell of spring—seemed unrealeven as it happened. We tossed our blankets on the sand, dashed backand forth to the water’s edge, splashed each other, then arrangedourselves in a circle and began combing each other’s hair. We sang andlaughed, comparing, whose was finest, whose was thickest.
Atthis, whose hair was shortest, bragged she could swim the farthest.That started an argument.
“Who swam halfway round the island last year?” demanded Gyrinno.
“Who was born at sea?” said Anaktoria.
“You can tell the best swimmer by the shape of her buttocks,” saidAtthis. “Look at mine, how flat they are.” She jumped up, to show us.
“A boy’s buttocks,” laughed Gyrinno.
“Here. Measure. Mine are smaller,” said Anaktoria.
So we measured, laughing, fussing, pushing, our hair streaming aroundus—a gull on the shore padding back and forth, scolding. Atthis won,but Anaktoria had the loveliest breasts, so round, almost transparentin that evening light. I have rarely seen a girl of such grace, not thechildish grace of some, but the accomplished grace of true femininity.As the others became aware of my admiration, they became jealous andpeevish, and tried to shift the praise.
They talked about my smallness, my violet hair... “your deep blueeyes”... “your melodious voice...”
But this was Anaktoria’s hour. She had been away, visiting in Samnos,staying with her family, and I was eager to hear the news.
“I thought I was homesick... But it is Mytilene I love best... Mybrother has a girl now. He goes to her house whenever he is notworking. I saw very little of him... Life there was very dull. Familyvisits from door to door. The same cup of wine, the same paste of nutsand fruit, the same questions, answers, family anecdotes and jokes...How lonesome I was!”
Growing quiet, all of us responded to the evening, the lingering sea-light, the arrival of the stars, the whispering shingle, the breeze,carrying the scents and sounds from Mytilene.
Anaktoria and I walked home together, feeling our bond closer,stronger than before. I had missed her more than I thought: I hadmissed her a dozen times a day.
?
I have been sick today and to amuse myself I have made some jottingsabout my girls:
Atthis—lover of yellow ribbons, scared of the dark. To avoid goingout, will invent a headache, a toothache or a stomachache. An orphan,she gets homesick for the home she never had. Prefers women to men.Tells amusing jokes and stories. Loves laughter. Mimics. Is madejealous easily. Speaks slowly...ivory-skinned.
Gyrinno—the daughter of a wine merchant, can outdrink most men.Worries about her figure, eats next to nothing. Uses violet perfume.Our best dancer. Otherwise, is lazy, careless of dress and makeup.Never reads. Wants to marry someone wealthy and entertain lavishly.Snores.
Anaktoria—hair yellower than torchlight, soft-girl, dabbler inpoetry, dreamer, lovely singer. Plays lyre and flute equally well.Adores games, trees, flowers, swimming, archery. Wants to travel, be apriestess.
Then there are the new girls: Heptha, with copper hair... Myra, whois Turkish... Helen, a scatterbrained darling... Ah, but each isexquisite in her own way. No two are alike. I love them all.
And yet, I am grieved, since my own daughter is jealous of them.Dear, foolish Kleis, who pretends she has never been a child and is yetso far from being a woman.
?
I have spent weeks over a poem, revising, revising.
I do my best writing in
the morning, when the sea light is sparkingmy room. How important the harmony is to me: harmony in my house, onthe island, in my heart.
Sometimes, I call my girls to let them hear what I have written.Sometimes, in the evenings, I recite my poems for friends. Sometimes, Igo days, unable to write a word. They are cold days.
Shall I use eleven syllables?
A poem does not grow like a leaf, but has to be shaped. I often thinkof a lyric as an amphora; little by little I must mold its lines on thewheel of my mind. It is the structure, containing the song. It must begraceful, strong, so that the words and the music can flow...
The wings of the swans have drawn you toward the darkground,
with yoke chariot bearing down from heaven...
Come to me...free me from trouble...
?
Today I received a letter from Aesop, written at Adelphi. It is a joyto hear from him. I thought he had forgotten me. What a good companionhe was, all those days in Corinth... Companion? He was more like afather!
His handwriting is the most perfect I have ever seen. Each letterformed so patiently, each thought expressed so beautifully. Does hestrive for perfection because be cannot forget his deformity?
Sappho's Journal Page 3