Sappho's Journal

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

  Vaguely, I had the flash of an image: a fair, slim, country boy, notone 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 Kleisand Mallia, remained silent. My silence seemed to exasperate Rhodopis.

  “Of course, you could send Kleis to a thiase in Andros,” sheexclaimed. I refused to flinch. Sending one’s daughter to schoolelsewhere 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. Socritical of Charaxos...of me.” Her voice had grown confidential.

  “If Kleis has done anything foolish, I am willing to accept theresponsibility,” 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 soundof 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 achild? In protest, against me, my house? To estrange us farther?

  Did Kleis tell the whole truth about that day at the spring-revel? IfI 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 noright to be attracted to him? Do I make her out to be more sensitivethan she really is?

  Love is a jealous companion.

  Right now, all I can see clearly is that perfumed handkerchief andtwirling 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 ofimpersonal wisdom?

  ?

  I have sent for Kleis...

  It is true she is fond of Mallia, the boy acting as guardian to herin 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 andblocking 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 whywould 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 Ilearned how much of a child she is. For it is still filial jealousythat makes her difficult. She cannot bear to share me with my girls, myfriends, even my work.

  Poor, darling Kleis, how hard it is for some of us to grow up, tolearn to walk gracefully alone. I kissed and comforted her as best Icould, assuring her of my love.

  “There’s a place for you here, Kleis. Please try to find it. I knowthe 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 faraway.

  ?

  I have hurled myself into work. During long silences, while I amthinking, composing, I hear the water clock outside my door. Drop afterdrop, it fastens itself to my memory.

  The wind has continued for days on end, the sun hazy, the surfmagnificent in its wildness, all craft beached, no gulls anywhere, asense of abandonment throughout our town, people scurrying to getindoors.

  Only in the garden is there shelter, near the fountain. An angle ofthe 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 perfectsymmetry, stripped to the waist, brown caulking material in his hands.I did not need to light a lamp. I had memorized his body. We weremoving toward the submerged city; I saw myself swimming beside him; inthe water, he was above me, then below me; then we were one, divingtogether.

  I have fought other storms in my blood, and yet this one, with thewind howling, the surf beating, threatens to overcome me. I have neverfelt 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 awoman of his own, a country girl, a young, simple, laughing slip of athing 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 writeshe has been sick with fever.

  “My consolation is that I am sick for good reasons. I am sick of menbeing mistreated. I am sick of injustice.

  “As you know, I have been more than a fly on a chariot wheel. I havespoken out publicly and this has raised dust and stones. People stareat 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. Theones who rant loudest about it would run the farthest, were it tohappen.

  “I may have to flee soon, back to Corinth, it seems. These rulershere have friends. They know how to apply pressure.

  “Write me, Sappho. I need your sense of the gracious. Beautyforemost—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 hispalms 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, nofree 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, hestrikes an imposing figure, even majestic. Leaning on his cane, staringover the townsmen who crowd the forum, he looks a pillar, his headshaggy, beard glistening with oil, clothes immaculate.

  Something about the day had a timeless quality, as though none of itwas old, the exorbitant taxes, the stringent laws, the situation of theveteran—and the sea rolling, the gulls crying, the sun shining.

  Pittakos has not shown any noticeable objection. Perhaps he remembersthe youthful champion, before the exile. Then, it was not easy toignore 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 asoldier.

  ?

  And recalling the years in exile, I knew how bitter Alcaeus was. Ifthere is less vehemence in his voice than before, there is also greaterconviction.

  ?

 

  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 oursakes: Alcaeus’, Gogu’s, mine. I hear they are working hard. Now, whenThasos inquires at my door, I make excuses. They can get along withoutme.

  I keep hoping and waiting someone else will come to inquire, willbring 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.

  ?

  My pretty Gyrinno is sick with too much sun and too much swimming soI go about pampering her and nothing pleases her more.

  It has been some time since I brought her a tray, one I fixedespecially for her. I combed her hair tonight, cooled her skin withointment, and teased her till she made me promise a gift, a silvermirror from Serfo’s shop, one with suitably naughty figures on the backand handle: “the convivialists,” Serfo has named it.

  To help pamper Gyrinno, we had musicians in the courtyard. The airwas so warm, so languid, nobody wished to go to sleep. These werewandering musicians, from neighboring islands, and their songs weremostly new to us. They repeated the ones we liked best, tender mountainairs.

  Kleis, who has a phenomenal memory, was able to join them the secondor third time, harpist and flutist accompany. It was an intimateevening, ending with a tale by one of the wanderers, of Pegasus wingingover 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 thecrude, male love I wanted. However, I was half in my dreams and Iremembered the music and the tale and the moonlight, our songs andvoices, and everything blended into a pattern of peace and goodness.

  There are times when our hearts are particularly open to beauty: thiswas 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 thiscomparison, are strength and courage.

  Yes, there are times when our hearts open.

  ?

  There is more to life than wandering over an island. There is more tolife than happiness. There is more to life than work. There is more tolife than hope. What is it?

  Under a cypress, above the sea, facing the sea, I asked myself thisquestion and found this answer:

  Certainly, the living is all: there is no life after death: and sincethere is no other chance than this chance, it must be enough to havebeauty and kindness and time to enjoy them.

  Here, on this slope, earth’s form assures me this is true. And athome, among my girls, I can find it so, each girl an affirmation.

  ?

  Why is Kleis involved in spats with Gyrinno, Helen, Myra? Why are thegirls put out with her? Why can’t they agree to do the same thing atthe 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.

  ?

  When I think how many gods exist, I am shocked by man’s confusion andgullibility.

  “Man is like a cricket. He sees the cricket’s limitations but not hisown. The cricket can’t read or write or think scientifically. He can’tsail 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 scoffsand sneers but what is he but a two-legged cricket, brown, yellow orblack? I’m sure the cricket has his illusions, some of them as pat asours.

  ?

  Charaxos has returned to Mytilene.

  Our meeting was unavoidable, of course. He had on the commonplacemask of the man in the street and talked about his trip, the grindingpoverty 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 ushere.”

  What is there between us? It is something deeper than ourselves. WhenI 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 abrooch with a carnelian stone. We had a party on the beach and papaburnt his fingers in the fire as we cooked the mutton meat. I don’tlike mutton meat. I don’t like smoky fires. Papa sings badly. My doggot sick.

  I suppose all that was very important to me.

  Is our life important to anyone else?

  ?

  No word from Aesop.

  ?

  Sometimes I have to get away from everything and everyone, myself aswell.

  I went to a nearby fishing village. Necessity can be ingenious. Thefishermen have managed to build good boats out of the battered wrecksthat littered our shores. They tell me that the exporting of spongeshas 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 wasfree...wild...bold...headstrong...long ago.

  Yes, I would like to cruise into deep blue water and stare down, thento the sponge shallows and swim down, down.

  ?

  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 paintedover the house door. More and more, geometric designs are giving way tomore plastic ideas in decorating. Polychrome painting seems to growmore imaginative. Our ceramics are becoming more forceful. I thought ofthese things as I looked at the sun symbol, done in blue and gold.

  The Kamen brothers were, as always, mysterious, stiff, like Egyptianclay long dried by the sun. It is too bad they can’t apply some oftheir art to themselves. They are such emaciated creatures, I wonderwhat they eat?

  Each waits for the other to speak; each scrapes, bows, tries toefface himself. Tall, nut brown, with hair tied behind their necks,deer skin aprons over faded clothes, they make me feel like anintruder.

  As for my book, it is excellently made. The brothers areperfectionists in their craft. To them, poetry is nothing. Do they readit at all? However, the libraries will be pleased to receive thesecopies.

  I am sure this is my best work.

  ?

  Thousands of white herons flew over our island this morning, makingthe sky a sky of motion. They flew almost all morning, flying towardthe mainland. I watched them from a bridge in town, leaning against thecool stone rail, Anaktoria watching with me, perplexed. Not a birdfaltered. What directed them? Not a sound, as they flew. Some of thetownsmen gathered to stare, dead silent. In tens and twenties, theyflew over and onward, apparently at the same speed. Twice the flockscovered 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.

  ?

  Sometimes, we troop to our old theatre, lost in its bowl of cypressand overgrown with gra
ss and weeds, seats and benches crumbled. Layingaside our clothes, we toss rover reeds, have a try at archery, playcatch. Or we race or go in for leap-frog or tug-of-war.

  Little boys like to pester us and poke fun. Little boys—howdelightful they can be.

  If the day is sultry, we loll. Usually, the complaint is “too muchsun.” I used to think we needed lots of sun and exercise but now I’mnot sure.

  Lying on a moss-topped stone, time seemed to pause: I think there istrouble brewing. I don’t put it past Rhodopis to concoct something.Even Kleis has been too alarmed to return to Charaxos’ house. Malliahas told her to wait.

  There has been a to-do because the “right” people did not attend thehomecoming party for Charaxos. What a pity! I know of no changes in thelife of Mytilene that required a unanimous celebration.

  “Why must there be bad feelings between their house and ours?” Kleishas 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!