Sappho's Journal

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

I believe we only know what life gives us: can sound be described tothe 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 manyfor me to consider and come through sane.

  As I went home, I saw a man beating his slave. The slave, who has hadeverything taken from him, is being punished publicly for aninsignificant theft!

  ?

  The situation is becoming impossible: Why has Charaxos draggedAlcaeus into our quarrel?

  I found them hurling insults at one another, Alcaeus’ house andservants in an uproar. I hurried into the library and had to pound onthe 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 thrownout,” Alcaeus bawled, lunging across the table.

  “Our hero!” snorted Charaxos.

  “Enough. Get out!”

  “Suppose you and I have a private word elsewhere,” said Charaxos tome, bitterly. “As for you, old battle ax, I’ll settle with you anothertime. I’m sick of your trouble-making. Maybe one exile was notenough...”

  Quick as a flash, I slapped him. He eyed me grimly, then turned andleft.

  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 ita “check” from which I can’t escape...as they say in the new Persiangame.

  ?

  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 amusty joke.

  It is a healing tempo...I am grateful...

  These are lazy, summer days, the hammocks full, doves cooing in theolives. I send my thoughts on a long trip: may they find Phaon andbring him back to me.

  ?

  This is theatre season and the talk is of actors and acting. I liketo familiarize myself with a play before attending its performancebecause I can appreciate it much more. I never miss a play if I canhelp it, whether comedy or tragedy, though I prefer comedy. But I thinkthe “offstage” is interesting, too—that is, if one can remain aspectator there. It is when we become involved that we lose our theatreperspective.

  Neglates, who used to be a leading actor in Athens, likes to sit withme. 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, thestage will become stale. Perhaps I can think of something for thereligious festivals next year.

  Theatre means meeting people I seldom see anywhere else. I like thecontacts.

  People feel sorry for Scandia because he is the father of such acharming, marriageable daughter. White-faced, pinch-eyed, his necktwisted by a boyhood accident, one arm dangling—would they feel lesssorry for him, if his daughter were ugly?

  Andros is the next thing to a dwarf in size. He has the face of atwenty-year-old, although he must be well over fifty. He needs no one’spity—only some money! He is the best mask-maker our theatre has everhad.

  ?

 

  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.

  Mytilene

  642 B.C.

  M

  y heart is heavy...Aesop, my friend, is dead.

  He could have had a kinder messenger—it was Pittakos who brought methe news.

  “The mob killed him for causing trouble in Adelphi,” he said, hiseyes 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 couldreveal too much, I lowered my veil and walked away, trembling, my eyesunseeing.

  I did not go home for a long time. I walked by the shore until theball of fire sank wearily into the dark water. The hills had a beatenlook, 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 removedhis fox, lion, donkey, raven and frog. He had moulded them for me. Twowere made of light-colored clay, others of dark. They were as highlyglazed as scarabs. I arranged them on a shelf above my desk and couldfeel 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.”

  ?

  I knew Alcaeus would be as disturbed as I.

  I expected him to roar, “The mob!” Instead, he bowed his head, hishands on his lap, and remained silent. Slowly, he clenched his fistsand gouged them into his thighs. Muscles corded his arms and swelled ashe 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 hewas 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 alwaysbringing 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 oftheir telling. How he loved travelers, especially from the East.

  I see Aesop on his balcony, the wind making him blink his eyes; hehas on dark blue trousers, yellow sash and gold blouse and carries hisdoll and is smiling and nodding.

  Was it his profound understanding of life that made such adifference? He showed breadth of mind at all times. Revealing humancharacter through animal traits, he taught us the comedy of our faultsand aspirations.

  Alcaeus has begun writing letters, to protest against this outrage inAdelphi, to alert friends, to cry out.

  ?

  High on a hill, I sit and stare at my bare feet and try to guess howmany steps they have taken.

  I peer at my legs and consider the color and texture of my skin. Irub my hands over my knees and ankles.

  What of Phaon’s feet, the rigging they have climbed and the decksthey 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 thedock, I keep remembering his brown face.

  ?

  The rains have begun.

  They flood across the mosaic floor of the courtyard, drainingnoisily.

  I am weaving a scarf, very white, light in weight, my seat a strip ofrawhide 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 overthe house. Laughing secretly, Atthis an
d Gyrinno dash off, paddingthrough 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 inmy whole past, the sea, my house, the cliffs, the trees.

  My fingers are Phaon’s.

  ?

  I have not changed my mother’s house since she died because change isno friend of mine. Occasionally, I have had to repair or refinish atable, and a chair or picture, but were mama to return tomorrow shewould 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...wewould sit and weave by the window, the sea beyond, our voices low. Withour terra-cotta lamps gleaming, we would talk until late, too sleepy tochat any longer.

  I can’t remember my father, he died so young. His lineage, extendingto Agamemnon, frightens me: That inheritance must carry into thesethick 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, seasongs, 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, thatsordidness and decay are lies. It is the hour when we cross thethreshold of starlight.

  Sometimes, before dropping asleep, I long to see Olympus, as part ofthis 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...

  ?

  It has been a dreadful ordeal. I can hardly describe the events ofthis past fortnight.

  I had barely recovered from the shock of Aesop’s death, when wordcame 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 withthem to Alcaeus, the boys distressing me with their fantasies.

  I found Alcaeus in bed, severely bruised and cut, with Thasos inattendance.

  “It was Charaxos,” Thasos said, quietly.

  I must have gasped. I could not speak.

  “I was alone...wandering,” Alcaeus explained, then turned his face tothe wall.

  And I dared to hope that Charaxos would come to his senses! I pressedmy 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 infront of Alcaeus’ house, angry townsmen, yelling about Charaxos,calling on Pittakos for justice.

  During the night, a mob threatened Charaxos’ home, and in themorning, they stoned the place, battering shutters, screaming anddemanding justice.

  Pittakos sent soldiers to maintain order but the soldiers sided withthe mob, forcing the doors, smashing furniture and chasing away theservants.

  Sometime during the day, Charaxos and Rhodopis fled in one of theirwine boats, heading for the mainland. I understand there was a fracasin the square, some wanting to overtake the ship.

  For two days, I did not leave Alcaeus’ home, taking turns at hisside. In that circle of close friends, death pushed us hard, trying tobreak through.

  Finally, Libus, more lean-faced and pallid than usual, from hissleepless 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 beforeAlcaeus was out of danger, and we cheered him on the road to recovery.

  Pittakos and some of his officials visited him, expressing theirregrets, saying a committee had called, demanding Charaxos’ punishment.I kept out of the room, leaving Alcaeus and Libus to handle thesituation.

  “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 worthtalking about.

  For my part, I suspect that Charaxos will return presently,unmolested. He is too important to our local welfare, employing toomany, to be brushed aside. When his boat anchors, Pittakos will finehim lightly. By then, sentiment will have cooled.

  Justice is rightly placed among the stars.

  ?

  On my next visit to Alcaeus, I took my clay animals and placed themin his hands, describing each, one by one. He felt them carefully—tooslowly—a sad expression on his face.

  “So Aesop made them?” he said. “It’s good you have them...proof thathis 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: wethree had sat at a table like this, in exile, planning, planning: thoseworries swept back again, distorted. Confused, I could feel myselftrapped. I knew that in those eyes opposite me, death sat there, atleast a part of death, the same death that was in those clay animals.

  Our hands met across the table.

  ?

  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, andhands me the poet’s advice to his brother.

  How history repeats itself! Family problems haven’t changed: this isan earlier Charaxos, who bribed judges to deprive Hesiod of hisinheritance.

  If I did not know better, I could almost believe Charaxos had usedthis 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 Alcaeusrespects and trusts me. I can’t shake my guilt: the fact that Charaxoshas cheated and betrayed me does not exonerate me of blame. I am tiredof all this. It is a confusion I can’t accept indefinitely.

  ?

  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 strewingflowers, hair streaming over her shoulders, face filled with joy, armsoutspread.

  I am like that girl.

  ?

  I took Exekias. As oldest member of my household, I feel she is thebest chaperone. In her crumpled face there is more than Assyrianplacidity: 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 sweepingdoorways and steps, sprinkling the dusty street, cleaning where horsesand cattle had passed. Birds sickled from the eaves, dogs and horsesdrank at a watering trough, nuzzling moss, rubbing gnats, their hairycomradeship obvious in roll of eyes.

  We had not been in the market long when I saw him, alongside a stallwith a sailor, both drinking coconuts, shaking them, holding them up,tipping them, draining the juice, laughing. They had on shorts and werebrown, incredible ocean brown.

  Then Phaon saw me. Hurriedly, he set down the coconut and left thestall and came toward me, smiling, wiping his fingers on his shorts. Inthe 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, thathe sensed my longing as well: it brought us closer that we made nosecret of our feelings.

  A parrot jabbered atop its cage and a monkey squealed and battered atits b
ronze ring, until its owner brought bananas. People crowded us,elbowing with baskets of fruit and shrimp. Phaon and I walked underpalm-ceilinged aisles, dust sifting around us, light finning throughstalls, over herbs, nuts, wines and cheeses...the smells made mehungry. 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; sowe moved, past the pottery lads, one of them glazing a bowl between hiscalloused knees, the color as bright as the sliced oranges beside himready 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 betime...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 alittle, nodding agreeably.

  As I walked home, I felt that my mind had been invaded by everythingaround me. I tried to hurry, thinking I’d remember all, the prices ofthe traders, the baskets of starfish, the white parrot; I’ll rememberhis voice, his feet in the dust, his smiles.