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!
I believe we only know what life gives us: can sound bedescribed to the 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 theother, too many for me to consider and come through sane.
As I went home, I saw a man beating his slave. Theslave, who has had everything taken from him, is beingpunished publicly for an insignificant theft!
?
The situation is becoming impossible: Why has Charaxosdragged Alcaeus into our quarrel?
I found them hurling insults at one another, Alcaeus’house and servants in an uproar. I hurried into thelibrary and had to pound on the door.
“I can thank you for this!” shouted Charaxos, themoment he saw me.
“Leave, Sappho. I asked him to come and now I’ll havehim thrown out,” Alcaeus bawled, lunging across thetable.
“Our hero!” snorted Charaxos.
“Enough. Get out!”
“Suppose you and I have a private word elsewhere,” saidCharaxos to me, bitterly. “As for you, old battle ax,I’ll settle with you another time. I’m sick of yourtrouble-making. Maybe one exile was not enough...”
Quick as a flash, I slapped him. He eyed me grimly,then turned and left.
Naturally, Alcaeus refused to tell me what the visitwas about.
All this is contemptible.
I can not forget the scene of the angry men, thethreat.
Perhaps the next move had better be mine? Before myopponent makes it a “check” from which I can’tescape...as they say in the new Persian game.
?
My girls sense that I am troubled and try to distractme.
“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 a musty joke.
It is a healing tempo...I am grateful...
These are lazy, summer days, the hammocks full, dovescooing in the olives. I send my thoughts on a long trip:may they find Phaon and bring him back to me.
?
This is theatre season and the talk is of actors andacting. I like to familiarize myself with a play beforeattending its performance because I can appreciate itmuch more. I never miss a play if I can help it, whethercomedy or tragedy, though I prefer comedy. But I thinkthe “offstage” is interesting, too—that is, if one canremain a spectator there. It is when we become involvedthat we lose our theatre perspective.
Neglates, who used to be a leading actor in Athens,likes to sit with me. He is our best critic. He is alwaysurging me to write a play, “something about us,” he says.
“The theatre needs you. Why don’t you try? We need newblood.”
I suppose he is right. If we rely on the old writersaltogether, the stage will become stale. Perhaps I canthink of something for the religious festivals next year.
Theatre means meeting people I seldom see anywhereelse. I like the contacts.
People feel sorry for Scandia because he is the fatherof such a charming, marriageable daughter. White-faced,pinch-eyed, his neck twisted by a boyhood accident, onearm dangling—would they feel less sorry for him, if hisdaughter were ugly?
Andros is the next thing to a dwarf in size. He has theface of a twenty-year-old, although he must be well overfifty. He needs no one’s pity—only some money! He is thebest mask-maker our theatre has ever had.
?
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 Pittakoswho brought me the news.
“The mob killed him for causing trouble in Adelphi,” hesaid, his eyes 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 ita warning?
I stared at him, as he shambled beside me. Then, beforemy face could reveal too much, I lowered my veil andwalked away, trembling, my eyes unseeing.
I did not go home for a long time. I walked by theshore until the ball of fire sank wearily into the darkwater. The hills had a beaten look, the sea an oppressiveflatness. A gull’s cry wept in me. Alone...alone... I wasmuch more alone.
Alone in my library, I opened the box Aesop had givenme and removed his fox, lion, donkey, raven and frog. Hehad moulded them for me. Two were made of light-coloredclay, others of dark. They were as highly glazed asscarabs. I arranged them on a shelf above my desk andcould feel my friend’s presence, as though he were besideme.
But there would be no more letters.
No visit!
Lighting my lamp, I began my ode to “The Friend ofMan.”
?
I knew Alcaeus would be as disturbed as I.
I expected him to roar, “The mob!” Instead, he bowedhis head, his hands on his lap, and remained silent.Slowly, he clenched his fists and gouged them into histhighs. Muscles corded his arms and swelled as he stood.
“He should have come here, to us!”
“He was sick, Alcaeus.”
“Then I should have gone to him! Why was I doublyblind? I knew he was under attack for opposing thearistocrats.”
Round and round, back and forth, we talked: what mighthave been, what should have been:
“If he had gone to Athens, he would have been safe withSolon.”
“If only he could have stayed in Corinth...”
And remembering what a friend Aesop had been to us, hesaid:
“He knew I liked bread from that oven of Stexos... Hewas always bringing me my favorite wine.”
“He couldn’t do enough, that time I got so sick. Thebest doctors, he...”
“Wild boar, to help you get strong.”
We recounted the fables, their Persian origin, thecircumstances of their telling. How he loved travelers,especially from the East.
I see Aesop on his balcony, the wind making him blinkhis eyes; he has on dark blue trousers, yellow sash andgold blouse and carries his doll and is smiling andnodding.
Was it his profound understanding of life that madesuch a difference? He showed breadth of mind at alltimes. Revealing human character through animal traits,he taught us the comedy of our faults and aspirations.
Alcaeus has begun writing letters, to protest againstthis outrage in Adelphi, to alert friends, to cry out.
?
High on a hill, I sit and stare at my bare feet and tryto guess how many steps they have taken.
I peer at my legs and consider the color and texture ofmy skin. I rub my hands over my knees and ankles.
What of Phaon’s feet, the rigging they have climbed andthe decks they have walked?
Storms have crashed over him. He has held his ship tosun 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, theunloading at the dock, I keep remembering his brown face.
?
The rains have begun.
They flood across the mosaic floor of the courtyard, draining noisily.
I am weaving a scarf, very white, light in weight, my seat a st
rip of rawhide onfour pegs.
Around me the girls sit and chatter. Heptha and Myra weave together, work-ing at one loom, whispering. The rain and wind come together over the house.Laughing secretly, Atthis and Gyrinno dash off, padding through the rain, acrossthe 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 in mywhole 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 is nofriend of mine. Occasionally, I have had to repair or refinish a table, and a chairor picture, but were mama to return tomorrow she would feel at home.
I often think that I will meet her, as I go from one room to another, mamagliding softly, smiling, holding out her warm hands to me...we would sit andweave by the window, the sea beyond, our voices low. With our terra-cottalamps gleaming, we would talk until late, too sleepy to chat any longer.
I can’t remember my father, he died so young. His lineage, extending toAgamemnon, frightens me: That inheritance must carry into these thick wallsand the glazed tiles—a strong house.
Mama gave me his royal flute, said to be carved from a bull’s leg, but it hasbeen years since I have taken it from its silk-lined box. Its sickly color neverpleased me.
Its music comes to me sometimes: mountain vagaries, war music, sea songs,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, that sordidness and decayare lies. It is the hour when we cross the threshold of starlight.
Sometimes, before dropping asleep, I long to see Olympus, as part of thisgeneral 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 of this pastfortnight.
I had barely recovered from the shock of Aesop’s death, when word camethat 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 with them to Alcaeus,the boys distressing me with their fantasies.
I found Alcaeus in bed, severely bruised and cut, with Thasos in attendance.
“It was Charaxos,” Thasos said, quietly.
I must have gasped. I could not speak.
“I was alone...wandering,” Alcaeus explained, then turned his face to the wall.
And I dared to hope that Charaxos would come to his senses! I pressed mylips 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, anotherdoctor.
As the news spread through town, people gathered in the street in front ofAlcaeus’ house, angry townsmen, yelling about Charaxos, calling on Pittakos forjustice.
During the night, a mob threatened Charaxos’ home, and in the morning,they stoned the place, battering shutters, screaming and demanding justice.
Pittakos sent soldiers to maintain order but the soldiers sided with the mob,forcing the doors, smashing furniture and chasing away the servants.
Sometime during the day, Charaxos and Rhodopis fled in one of their wineboats, heading for the mainland. I understand there was a fracas in the square,some wanting to overtake the ship.
For two days, I did not leave Alcaeus’ home, taking turns at his side. In thatcircle of close friends, death pushed us hard, trying to break through.
Finally, Libus, more lean-faced and pallid than usual, from his sleepless nightsand 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 before Al-caeus was out of danger, and we cheered him on the road to recovery.
Pittakos and some of his officials visited him, expressing their regrets, sayinga committee had called, demanding Charaxos’ punishment. I kept out of theroom, leaving Alcaeus and Libus to handle the situation.
“Our tyrant sides with me!” Alcaeus chortled after they had gone. “I’vewon!”
It is a poor victory: we have not won back our years of exile. But, for the citi-zenry, this is something on the side of justice and worth talking about.
For my part, I suspect that Charaxos will return presently, unmolested. He istoo important to our local welfare, employing too many, to be brushed aside.When his boat anchors, Pittakos will fine him lightly. By then, sentiment willhave cooled.
Justice is rightly placed among the stars.
(
On my next visit to Alcaeus, I took my clay animals and placed them in hishands, describing each, one by one. He felt them carefully—too slowly—a sadexpression on his face.
“So Aesop made them?” he said. “It’s good you have them...proof that hisworld is still here. I wish I could remember his...his faith...”
Taking the figures from Alcaeus, I put them on a table between us: we threehad sat at a table like this, in exile, planning, planning: those worries swept backagain, distorted. Confused, I could feel myself trapped. I knew that in those eyesopposite me, death sat there, at least a part of death, the same death that was inthose 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, and handsme the poet’s advice to his brother.
How history repeats itself! Family problems haven’t changed: this is an earlierCharaxos, who bribed judges to deprive Hesiod of his inheritance.
If I did not know better, I could almost believe Charaxos had used this storyfor his model.
As time goes on, I feel the stigma of our relationship more and more. Howcan I be his sister?
Despite the liberality of our views, I am astonished that Alcaeus respects andtrusts me. I can’t shake my guilt: the fact that Charaxos has cheated and betrayedme does not exonerate me of blame. I am tired of all this. It is a confusion Ican’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 strewing flowers,hair streaming over her shoulders, face filled with joy, arms outspread.
I am like that girl.
(
I took Exekias. As oldest member of my household, I feel she is the bestchaperone. In her crumpled face there is more than Assyrian placidity: she hasknown me longest and is sympathetic and discreet: she says things the way mymother 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 horses and cattlehad passed. Birds sickled from the eaves, dogs and horses drank at a wateringtrough, nuzzling moss, rubbing gnats, their hairy comradeship obvious in roll ofeyes.
We had not been in the market long when I saw him, alongside a stall with asailor, both drinking coconuts, shaking them, holding them up, tipping them,draining the juice, laughing. They had on shorts and were brown, incredibleocean brown.
Then Phaon saw me. Hurriedly, he set down the coconut and left the stalland came toward me, smiling, wiping his fingers on his shorts. In the way hespoke, in the way he stood, I sensed how he had missed me, other tell-ta
les in hisvoice and hands. And I knew, as we talked, that he sensed my longing as well: itbrought us closer that we made no secret of our feelings.
A parrot jabbered atop its cage and a monkey squealed and battered at itsbronze ring, until its owner brought bananas. People crowded us, elbowing withbaskets of fruit and shrimp. Phaon and I walked under palm-ceilinged aisles, dustsifting around us, light finning through stalls, over herbs, nuts, wines andcheeses...the smells made me hungry. Together we ate Cappian cheese, tangy totongue 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; so wemoved, past the pottery lads, one of them glazing a bowl between his callousedknees, the color as bright as the sliced oranges beside him ready for eating.
“Do you suppose you and I can sail again?” he asked, as we watched, seeingourselves instead of the pottery boys. “There should be time...soon...when I’munloaded.”
I caught his half question, half statement.