Voices from the Past

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

  Vaguely, I had the flash of an image: a fair, slim, country boy, not one of theslaves.

  “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 Kleis andMallia, remained silent. My silence seemed to exasperate Rhodopis.

  “Of course, you could send Kleis to a thiase in Andros,” she exclaimed. I re-fused to flinch. Sending one’s daughter to school elsewhere was to admit one’sown school had failed. Rhodopis knew this, as well as I.

  “Or, I could dismiss Mallia, but then, where would the lovers meet? And if hetook her home with him...”

  I still waited. Somewhere there was a trap. Rhodopis had not written, thenmet 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 the responsibility,”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 letRhodopis press her advantage? I nodded and left, with the sound of her laughterbehind 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 a child? In pro-test, against me, my house? To estrange us farther?

  Did Kleis tell the whole truth about that day at the spring-revel? If I knewwhat happened...

  She seemed so happy on our ocean trip. Or was it I who was happy? PerhapsI teased her too much before Phaon. Did she think I had no right to be attractedto him? Do I make her out to be more sensitive than she really is?

  Love is a jealous companion.

  Right now, all I can see clearly is that perfumed handkerchief and twirlingparasol.

  (

  I have never been afraid of consequences attached to my own actions. Mustone learn to be braver than that? Or is this a matter of impersonal wisdom?

  (

  I have sent for Kleis...

  It is true she is fond of Mallia, the boy acting as guardian to her in the houseof 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 and blockingCharaxos. 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 why would shemake 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 I learnedhow much of a child she is. For it is still filial jealousy that makes her difficult.She cannot bear to share me with my girls, my friends, even my work.

  Poor, darling Kleis, how hard it is for some of us to grow up, to learn to walkgracefully alone. I kissed and comforted her as best I could, assuring her of mylove.

  “There’s a place for you here, Kleis. Please try to find it. I know the girls areeager 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 am thinking,composing, I hear the water clock outside my door. Drop after drop, it fastensitself to my memory.

  The wind has continued for days on end, the sun hazy, the surf magnificentin its wildness, all craft beached, no gulls anywhere, a sense of abandonmentthroughout our town, people scurrying to get indoors.

  Only in the garden is there shelter, near the fountain. An angle of the houseshuts 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 perfect symmetry,stripped to the waist, brown caulking material in his hands. I did not need tolight a lamp. I had memorized his body. We were moving toward the submergedcity; I saw myself swimming beside him; in the water, he was above me, thenbelow me; then we were one, diving together.

  I have fought other storms in my blood, and yet this one, with the windhowling, the surf beating, threatens to overcome me. I have never felt moredeserted. 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 a woman ofhis own, a country girl, a young, simple, laughing slip of a thing who satisfieshim.

  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 writes he hasbeen sick with fever.

  “My consolation is that I am sick for good reasons. I am sick of men beingmistreated. I am sick of injustice.

  “As you know, I have been more than a fly on a chariot wheel. I have spokenout publicly and this has raised dust and stones. People stare at me on thestreets.

  “I am sick of the aristocrats. I am sick of prejudice and ignorance. Theremust be a better life.

  “A free society...this is the most fabulous joke of all time. The ones who rantloudest about it would run the farthest, were it to happen.

  “I may have to flee soon, back to Corinth, it seems. These rulers here havefriends. They know how to apply pressure.

  “Write me, Sappho. I need your sense of the gracious. Beauty foremost—Iwish 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 his palms flaton 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, no freemen left to restrain those who think in terms of chains.”

  (

  Sitting in the square the other day, I listened to Alcaeus speaking, excited be-cause he had taken cudgel in hand. Blind though he is, he strikes an imposingfigure, even majestic. Leaning on his cane, staring over the townsmen whocrowd the forum, he looks a pillar, his head shaggy, beard glistening with oil,clothes immaculate.

  Something about the day had a timeless quality, as though none of it was old,the exorbitant taxes, the stringent laws, the situation of the veteran—and the searolling, the gulls crying, the sun shining.

  Pittakos has not shown any noticeable objection. Perh
aps he remembers theyouthful champion, before the exile. Then, it was not easy to ignore the chargesagainst those in office, the outcries against “drunkards, thieves, bastards!” NowPittakos nods and walks on his way, aware that a blind man may be an excellentorator but no longer a soldier.

  (

  And recalling the years in exile, I knew how bitter Alcaeus was. If there is lessvehemence in his voice than before, there is also greater conviction.

  (

 

  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 our sakes: Alcaeus’,Gogu’s, mine. I hear they are working hard. Now, when Thasos inquires at mydoor, I make excuses. They can get along without me.

  I keep hoping and waiting someone else will come to inquire, will bring amessage. 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 toomuch swimming so I go about pampering her and nothingpleases her more.

  It has been some time since I brought her a tray, one Ifixed especially for her. I combed her hair tonight,cooled her skin with ointment, and teased her till shemade me promise a gift, a silver mirror from Serfo’sshop, one with suitably naughty figures on the back andhandle: “the convivialists,” Serfo has named it.

  To help pamper Gyrinno, we had musicians in thecourtyard. The air was so warm, so languid, nobody wishedto go to sleep. These were wandering musicians, fromneighboring islands, and their songs were mostly new tous. They repeated the ones we liked best, tender mountainairs.

  Kleis, who has a phenomenal memory, was able to jointhem the second or third time, harpist and flutistaccompany. It was an intimate evening, ending with a taleby one of the wanderers, of Pegasus winging over theocean on an errand of mercy for a lost lover.

  Toward dawn, I woke to find Atthis with me, her cheekagainst mine. More aware of my inner needs than others,she had come to comfort me, alleviate my longing. Herperfume, kisses and caresses were not the crude, malelove I wanted. However, I was half in my dreams and Iremembered the music and the tale and the moonlight, oursongs and voices, and everything blended into a patternof peace and goodness.

  There are times when our hearts are particularly opento beauty: this was one of those times. Everything, atthis moment, assumed perfection. And because we recognizeits illusory quality it is the more precious.

  Out of the night comes the word someone has tried tocommunicate, that we are plural, not single...notforgotten. Here, in this comparison, are strength andcourage.

  Yes, there are times when our hearts open.

  ?

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

  Under a cypress, above the sea, facing the sea, I askedmyself this question and found this answer:

  Certainly, the living is all: there is no life afterdeath: and since there is no other chance than thischance, it must be enough to have beauty and kindness andtime to enjoy them.

  Here, on this slope, earth’s form assures me this istrue. And at home, among my girls, I can find it so, eachgirl an affirmation.

  ?

  Why is Kleis involved in spats with Gyrinno, Helen,Myra? Why are the girls put out with her? Why can’t theyagree to do the same thing at the same time?

  Why is there so much unrest and dissatisfactioneverywhere? Corinth, Sparta, Argos, Sicyon...the newsreaches 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’sconfusion and gullibility.

  “Man is like a cricket. He sees the cricket’slimitations but not his own. The cricket can’t read orwrite or think scientifically. He can’t sail a boat orbuild a house. He potters away in his clod or field. Whatcan a cricket know about god?”

  That’s what man says, unable to see beyond his ownclod. He scoffs and sneers but what is he but a two-legged cricket, brown, yellow or black? I’m sure thecricket has his illusions, some of them as pat as ours.

  ?

  Charaxos has returned to Mytilene.

  Our meeting was unavoidable, of course. He had on thecommonplace mask of the man in the street and talkedabout his trip, the grinding poverty in Egypt, the badstate of our mercenaries there...

  No mention of settling his debts! Not a word aboutRhodopis! Evidently Kleis does not exist.

  “All of us are well, thank you,” I said. “Nothing haschanged for us here.”

  What is there between us? It is something deeper thanourselves. When I walked away, my eyes burned and mycheeks felt hot.

  Here is a passage from my first journal, written inchildish hand:

  Today is my birthday and mother gave me earrings andpapa gave me a brooch with a carnelian stone. We had aparty on the beach and papa burnt his fingers in the fireas we cooked the mutton meat. I don’t like mutton meat. Idon’t like smoky fires. Papa sings badly. My dog gotsick.

  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 andeveryone, myself as well.

  I went to a nearby fishing village. Necessity can beingenious. The fishermen have managed to build good boatsout of the battered wrecks that littered our shores. Theytell me that the exporting of sponges has becomeextensive.

  I wish I could sail with a sponge crew. I went with acrew 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 andstare down, then to the sponge shallows and swim down,down.

  ?

  My new book is ready.

  It was interesting to visit the Kamen house and checkthe copies.

  I stopped for a moment in the alley to gaze at the sunsymbol painted over the house door. More and more,geometric designs are giving way to more plastic ideas indecorating. Polychrome painting seems to grow moreimaginative. Our ceramics are becoming more forceful. Ithought of these things as I looked at the sun symbol,done in blue and gold.

  The Kamen brothers were, as always, mysterious, stiff,like Egyptian clay long dried by the sun. It is too badthey can’t apply some of their art to themselves. Theyare such emaciated creatures, I wonder what they eat?

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

  As for my book, it is excellently made. The brothersare perfectionists in their craft. To them, poetry isnothing. Do they read it at all? However, the librarieswill be pleased to receive these copies.

  I am sure this is my best work.

  ?

  Thousands of white herons flew over our island thismorning, making the sky a sky of motion. They flew almostall morning, flying toward the mainland. I watched themfrom a bridge in town, leaning against the cool stonerail, Anaktoria watching with me, perplexed. Not a birdfaltered. What directed them? Not a sound, as they flew.Some of the townsmen gathered to stare, dead silent. Intens and twenties, they flew over and onward, apparentlyat the same speed. Twice the flocks covered the sun andour town darkened, tiled roofs turning grey.

  There were murmurs...

  I remembered the herons as
I tried to rest, wings andmore wings, bearing me away.

  ?

  Sometimes, we troop to our old theatre, lost in itsbowl of cypress and overgrown with grass and weeds, seatsand benches crumbled. Laying aside our clothes, we tossrover reeds, have a try at archery, play catch. Or werace or go in for leap-frog or tug-of-war.

  Little boys like to pester us and poke fun. Littleboys—how delightful they can be.

  If the day is sultry, we loll. Usually, the complaintis “too much sun.” I used to think we needed lots of sunand exercise but now I’m not sure.

  Lying on a moss-topped stone, time seemed to pause: Ithink there is trouble brewing. I don’t put it pastRhodopis to concoct something. Even Kleis has been tooalarmed to return to Charaxos’ house. Mallia has told herto wait.

  There has been a to-do because the “right” people didnot attend the homecoming party for Charaxos. What apity! I know of no changes in the life of Mytilene thatrequired a unanimous celebration.

  “Why must there be bad feelings between their house andours?” Kleis has asked. “Of course I hate him for what hedid to me.”