Sappho's Journal

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

  I remember his eyes used to transfix me with their brown hypnosis.

  He must be fifty, I think.

  He had his beard trimmed and his hair curled, every morning. Hisrobes, so elegant, so clean, were always perfumed. I seldom saw himwithout his doll, that bull-leaping doll of Cretan ivory, brightlypainted! But his apartment was simple, tastefully furnished, elegant ashis clothes. Each bath towel, I recall, bore a brilliant red octopus.

  When he looked after Alcaeus and me, we ate with him every day atleast one meal. Through all the years of our exile, he remained ourmost 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 hesensed his profundity, as he guided me about Corinth and sat beside meat the temple of Apollo, watching the people and the boats and the seabirds, and hearing the choral virgins sing.

  Evenings, he would lay aside his doll and tell me fables. He hadlearned many from his father, a Persian, and he was constantly visitingorientals 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 ofAdelphi. 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 revelerscame banging at my door, shouting, laughing. We let them in and theydemanded breakfast, some of the more intoxicated trying to seduce mygirls, 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 voiceanywhere.”

  “Yes, of course...”

  “I don’t like his slaves, as you know, and I don’t think they are fitcompany 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 mydaughter, a pretty girl...” He held up a warning finger, then left.

  ?

  Fourteen? No doubt he meant well, was sincere, but I resented theimplication.

  Have I really been lax? Is my little girl in need of direction? Itseems she was ten or eleven only yesterday. Fourteen, indeed!

  Kleis never knew her father. He is one of a thousand dead, because ofthe wars. If he were here, she would not think of slipping off atnight. She looks much like him. I remember his face, the candid eyesand 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 seaand the light burnished the tiles and splashed the masks and my bed andI stared into its eye, to surprise its oracle.

  ?

  I am criticized for my simple dress, my tastes. The townspeople say Ishould not be aloof. They say I am too aristocratic. They say myparties 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 thesurface; I must interpret the whole heart. For I know too well theinexorability of time, the disappointments that nibble one’s heels. Imust offset the pain, the loss. There is no one to take my arm, thereis no one to lean on. There is only my work—and my girls.

  ?

  All day in the fragrant lemon forest, fallen fruit underneath thetrees...all day alone. I have hated loneliness and yet I must be ableto rest and get away from responsibilities, to welcome the gods oftrees and ocean and those long dead, whose marble shrines dot a cornerof this wood. There are so many dead. However, life must be better thandeath or the gods would have chosen to die. Life must be day-by-day andhour-by-hour. And I talk to myself and totally convince myself and thenthe 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, mygirls joining us one by one, the deepest notes growing in volume, theslight 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, whatthis was: I was simply dancing, flashing with someone, alone, dancingfor 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 ourspring festival and the flowers never spill from our hair.

  Girls bared their breasts and arms to the light. Men clapped inunison. The music sped up and the faster pace widened our circle ofdancers. Our bare feet kicked blossoms thrown by boys. We ate anddanced, drank and danced again. Kleis, it seemed to me, danced morebeautifully 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 ofchest, ache of legs and arms, sullen eyes, eyes longing forembrace...longing... longing...isn’t that what life is?

  Our tumbled-down temple rose behind us, whitish pillars, rooflessphalli, 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 hawkingoranges. Old men drank and talked.

  In the afternoon, resting under trees, I became aware that the crowdhad scattered into small groups. How hungry we were! How thirsty! Thenmore dancing and, with tiny fires in the twilight, food cooking, potsbubbling, love-making, songs. It was the dusk I love. And it was easyto grow sentimental, to talk of Alcaeus and miss him, to remember ourfun at other festivals. Crickets bubbled like little pots. Frogsburped. A bat fluttered over our fires. Below, somewhere on the bay, aship 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 sleepsomewhat troubled because Kleis was not with me. But during the nightshe appeared and slipped into my arms, where she began to cry. Icomforted her and slept and thought no more about her girlish tearstill morning, when she whispered about Charaxos, his heavy drinking,then the darkness and torches, the wild games and dances higher up themountain...

  “I shouldn’t have gone with him! I should have stayed with the otherboys and girls right here. This time, he has changed me. I’ll never bethe 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 Charaxoshas 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 knowingwhich way to go. Nothing is hotter than the heat of anger.

  Charaxos—how the name burns my tongue, sears my tablet. It isimpossible 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 ourcourtyard fountain, making birds cry out. As the walls of the housetrembled, I shut my eyes, thinking: No, not yet...there’s still somuch.

  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 likeher father each day. I detect a restlessness in her nature. Is itbecause of what happened, or because she is with me? Or do I imagineit?

  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 astrange 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 shedoesn’t know how old she is!

  “I’ve had so many double birthdays, I’ve lost count,” were the wordsrepeated to me.

  Why do we wish to be older, younger, always in protest? Why are wenever satisfied?

  I wish there were no birthdays.

  ?

  For several days, Kleis and I have sailed, our boat a good fishingboat, captained by a young man named Phaon.

  It was our first excursion around the whole island, in years. Wesailed past Malea Point to Eresos, to Antiss, then Methymn, and roundour 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 withthat heroic past, we—only islanders enjoying a holiday!

  A striped awning sheltered us during the hot hours of the day. Nightswere cool and comfortable. Our handsome captain was attentive. Ithought he was particularly agreeable. Our food was tasty. How timedrifted along.

  Of course it was our being together, lulled by the sea, that made thetrip so happy for Kleis and me. It was our shared regrets, our resolvefor the future, that brought us close. It was the little things we didfor one another, the sleeping together...the voiceless communication.

  ?

  How wonderful it is to get out of bed and stand by the window andtake 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 activitieshave no meaning to them. Nothing pleases them. I hear them arguingamong themselves, apart. It is as though a stranger had come to be withthem.

  And Kleis seems more withdrawn. Does she resent the others or do theyresent 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, anddoes not tell me where she goes. I can’t very well send someone tocheck on her. That’s an ugly thing to do.

  I think she isn’t visiting Charaxos’ house, because he has sailed forEgypt on one of his wine ships. Of course she could be seeing someoneelse.

  Is it possible that she is interested in Phaon...how shall I findout?

  ?

  I met him on the pier, the wind blowing, the water choppy under greyskies. He left off caulking his boat with a cheery “Hello” and climbedonto the pier. How pleased he was to see me! Was I planning anothertrip?

  Sitting on piles of rope, he told me of an underwater city he hadseen, 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 offish, big ones. I swam halfway down to the city, but there was no airin me to swim deeper. A fish watched me, from one side of Poseidon, itsbody 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 ishandsome all over. I measured him with my eyes, as he talked to me. Imeasured his feet, hands, thighs, shoulders—the symmetry is unusual.His skin is the color of oakum and his muscles glide perceptibly underhis 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 Icame.

  ?

  I went to Alcaeus, to tell him about the submerged city.

  “You mean Helike?” he asked. “A quake tore apart the coast and itwent under,” he said, and described something of what I had heard.

  “Phaon says the city is visible when the water’s clear, and still,” Isaid.

  “Phaon?”

  “Yes, you remember, the captain who took me on a trip around theisland...”

  “He fixed his sightless eyes on me and I felt stunned, as onehypnotized. I trembled. Then his expression altered and he changed thesubject 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. Anythingmay come to mind.

  “A soldier stares at his hand, slashed by a spear. He can’t believehe’s wounded. It’s not his blood spattering the rocks...

  “A man lies beside his shield, a hole in his side. He can’t believehe sees what he sees...”

  ?

  Mytilene

  For several days, I have been working with Alcaeus in his library. Hehas taken heart, at last, and is pouring out words, politicalinvective. I sit, amazed. Even his dead eyes have gathered light. Hejabs out phrase after phrase, juggling his agate paperweight from handto hand, steadily, slowly. I barely have time to write. He breathesdeeply, his voice sonorous.

  Facing the sea, afternoon light on his face, he could be my oldAlcaeus.

  Thasos brought us wine.

  And we worked still late, our lamps guttering in the wind, the airrough from the mainland, tasting of salt. Shutters groaned.

  “To strike a balance between common sense and law, this is the causeto which we must pledge ourselves. Our local tyrants must go. Theyrealize there isn’t enough corn. Poverty, we must grind againstpoverty. 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 concernedKleis: could we talk together?

  It was hard to order my thoughts. Rhodopis writing to me, especiallywith Charaxos gone...

  I fixed an hour and we met at a discreet distance from the square, abench in the rear of a small temple.

  Despite the extravagant clothes, the car
eful makeup, how hard theeyes, the mouth. And I wondered how I looked to her, in my simpledress. 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 unveiledscorn:

  “You daughter’s visits are making my household a difficult one,” shesaid.

  I flushed.

  “So the plaintiff has become the accused? An interesting reversal,” Imurmured.

  “I will expect thanks,” she said, with a mocking smile, twisting herparasol into the sand, “for sparing you public embarrassment.”

  I knew she was sharpening her wits, and paused. She lifted a scentedhandkerchief to her mouth and took a slow breath.

  “I have waited a long time for this, but I’m more charitable than youthink. I won’t keep you waiting. It is Mallia—a servant boy, who hascaught Kleis’ fancy...”