His handwriting is the most perfect I have ever seen.Each letter formed so patiently, each thought expressedso beautifully. Does he strive for perfection because becannot forget his deformity?
I remember his eyes used to transfix me with theirbrown hypnosis.
He must be fifty, I think.
He had his beard trimmed and his hair curled, everymorning. His robes, so elegant, so clean, were alwaysperfumed. I seldom saw him without his doll, that bull-leaping doll of Cretan ivory, brightly painted! But hisapartment was simple, tastefully furnished, elegant ashis clothes. Each bath towel, I recall, bore a brilliantred octopus.
When he looked after Alcaeus and me, we ate with himevery day at least one meal. Through all the years of ourexile, he remained our most faithful friend. His friendswere our friends. His house was ours. His servants. Hetreated 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, butfor his wisdom. His reddish whiskers and black brows gavehim a comic look. But he sensed his profundity, as heguided me about Corinth and sat beside me at the templeof 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 mefables. He had learned many from his father, a Persian,and he was constantly visiting orientals to pick up theirstories and jokes. I hear his smooth, somnolentvoice...an effortless story- teller!
“I will certainly come and visit you,” he writes. “I amtired of Adelphi. The people make me uncomfortable. Iwant to roam over Lesbos, to be with you and Alcaeus. Iwant to see your home.”
Will he come? I hope he can. His letter has taken weeksto reach me. I suppose he could be on his way, by thistime.
?
It must have been almost dawn, when Alcaeus and a groupof revelers came banging at my door, shouting, laughing.We let them in and they demanded breakfast, some of themore intoxicated trying to seduce my girls, who werequite amused.
When the others were gone, Alcaeus drew me aside tospeak 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 wouldknow her voice anywhere.”
“Yes, of course...”
“I don’t like his slaves, as you know, and I don’tthink 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 shewere my daughter, a pretty girl...” He held up a warningfinger, then left.
?
Fourteen? No doubt he meant well, was sincere, but Iresented the implication.
Have I really been lax? Is my little girl in need ofdirection? It seems she was ten or eleven only yesterday.Fourteen, indeed!
Kleis never knew her father. He is one of a thousanddead, because of the wars. If he were here, she would notthink 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 werehere...
How am I to forbid Kleis?
Where is my frivolity? Where is my enthusiasm?
The sun’s color whitened my shutters and I threw themopen on the sea and the light burnished the tiles andsplashed the masks and my bed and I stared into its eye,to surprise its oracle.
?
I am criticized for my simple dress, my tastes. Thetownspeople say I should not be aloof. They say I am tooaristocratic. They say my parties are too gay andexclusive. They say my wealth is insufficient. Theysay...Yes, I could go on with this pettiness. But whyshould I?
I have my work and I must live to see beyond themoment, below the surface; I must interpret the wholeheart. For I know too well the inexorability of time, thedisappointments that nibble one’s heels. I must offsetthe 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 the trees...all dayalone. I have hated loneliness and yet I must be able to rest and get away fromresponsibilities, 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. How-ever, life must be better than death or the gods would have chosen to die. Lifemust be day-by-day and hour-by-hour. And I talk to myself and totally convincemyself and then the mew of a gull shatters my conviction.
(
Our spring revel saw us high on the mountain, the ocean misty blue, ourerotic flutes wailing the dawn. Kleis and I danced together, my girls joining usone by one, the deepest notes growing in volume, the slight notes droppingaway. 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 wassimply dancing, flashing with someone, alone, dancing for myself and the on-coming sun, dancing because I love to dance, dancing because I love life andtime is dead. Yes, time is dead at our spring festival and the flowers never spillfrom our hair.
Girls bared their breasts and arms to the light. Men clapped in unison. Themusic sped up and the faster pace widened our circle of dancers. Our bare feetkicked 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 oflegs and arms, sullen eyes, eyes longing for embrace...longing... longing...isn’t thatwhat life is?
Our tumbled-down temple rose behind us, whitish pillars, roofless phalli, ourgowns, arms and faces, circling.
Through my blur of happiness, I saw Anaktoria, Libus, Gorgo, Nano, oldfriends, fishermen, villagers. Old women went about hawking oranges. Old mendrank and talked.
In the afternoon, resting under trees, I became aware that the crowd hadscattered into small groups. How hungry we were! How thirsty! Then moredancing 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, totalk of Alcaeus and miss him, to remember our fun at other festivals. Cricketsbubbled 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 gottenbelow us.
A warm wind and some scarves, that was all I needed to sleep, a sleep some-what troubled because Kleis was not with me. But during the night she appearedand slipped into my arms, where she began to cry. I comforted her and slept andthought no more about her girlish tears till morning, when she whispered aboutCharaxos, his heavy drinking, then the darkness and torches, the wild games anddances higher up the mountain...
“I shouldn’t have gone with him! I should have stayed with the other boysand girls right here. This time, he has changed me. I’ll never be the same! And Ican’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 sadwhen youth is tricked! One speaks of treachery, stupidity, ugliness. One thinks offamily honor. And then I realize that Charaxos has no sense of honor, that mycode 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 whichway to go. Nothing is hotter than the heat of anger.
Charaxos—how the name burns my tongue, sears my tablet. It is impossibleto concentrate!
It wasn’t enough for us to quarrel over money! You, with your scarab, yourEgyptian 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 courtyardfountain, making birds cry out. As the walls of the house trembled, I shut myeyes, 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. Weneed more time together.
(
How tall she is! With golden hair and mint eyes, she grows more like her fa-ther each day. I detect a restlessness in her nature. Is it because of what hap-pened, 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, shestraightens 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 weregarlands, songs, dances... Then, someone came to me, brimming with theamusing 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 re-peated to me.
Why do we wish to be older, younger, always in protest? Why are we neversatisfied?
I wish there were no birthdays.
(
For several days, Kleis and I have sailed, our boat a good fishing boat, cap-tained by a young man named Phaon.
It was our first excursion around the whole island, in years. We sailed pastMalea Point to Eresos, to Antiss, then Methymn, and round our island, back toMytilene. I have never seen the water so calm. Probably because of the recenthot 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... Wethought of Odysseus, trying to identify ourselves with that heroic past, we—onlyislanders enjoying a holiday!
A striped awning sheltered us during the hot hours of the day. Nights werecool and comfortable. Our handsome captain was attentive. I thought he wasparticularly agreeable. Our food was tasty. How time drifted along.
Of course it was our being together, lulled by the sea, that made the trip sohappy for Kleis and me. It was our shared regrets, our resolve for the future, thatbrought us close. It was the little things we did for one another, the sleepingtogether...the voiceless communication.
(
How wonderful it is to get out of bed and stand by the window and take inthe 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 nomeaning 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 re-sent 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 nottell me where she goes. I can’t very well send someone to check on her. That’san ugly thing to do.
I think she isn’t visiting Charaxos’ house, because he has sailed for Egypt onone 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 agreat bronze statue of Poseidon by a temple...
“The water was like glass, not a seaweed moving, not a current...” His handswept sideways, spread flat. “Oh yes, coral...and plenty of fish, big ones. I swamhalfway down to the city, but there was no air in me to swim deeper. A fishwatched 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 ishandsome all over. I measured him with my eyes, as he talked to me. I measuredhis feet, hands, thighs, shoulders—the symmetry is unusual. His skin is the colorof 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 itbe 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 un-der,” 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. Itrembled. Then his expression altered and he changed the subject as quickly as aman might draw a sword during battle.
“I never thought I’d be blind. I never memorized any faces. My home, ourbay, the ships—I can’t recall things at will, with certainty. There’s so little differ-ence 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’swounded. 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 whathe sees...”
(
Mytilene
For several days, I have been working with Alcaeus in his library. He hastaken 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, jugglinghis agate paperweight from hand to hand, steadily, slowly. I barely have time towrite. 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 fromthe mainland, tasting of salt. Shutters groaned.
“To strike a balance between common sense and law, this is the cause towhich we must pledge ourselves. Our local tyrants must go. They realize thereisn’t enough corn. Poverty, we must grind against poverty. If our established lifeand prosperity can’t be made to serve, they, too, will go...”
Walking home, I was hardly aware that a gale had sprung up. Exekias, carry-ing 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. R
hodopis writing to me, especially withCharaxos gone...
I fixed an hour and we met at a discreet distance from the square, a bench inthe rear of a small temple.
Despite the extravagant clothes, the careful makeup, how hard the eyes, themouth. And I wondered how I looked to her, in my simple dress. But Rhodopisknows 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 mur-mured.
“I will expect thanks,” she said, with a mocking smile, twisting her parasolinto the sand, “for sparing you public embarrassment.”
I knew she was sharpening her wits, and paused. She lifted a scented hand-kerchief to her mouth and took a slow breath.