Sappho (26 page)

With the exception of her brothers, with whom she occasionally dined, Sappho lived once again in a society without men. It was pleasant to see the maidens going arm in arm, hear their laughter, see their heads bend toward each other as they gave and received confidences. Sappho loved the sweet sound of their voices, calling, murmuring. How the gods had blessed her, for they made much of her Kleis, including her in all their sports and in their daily walks and baths.

Kydro of Lesbos was physically the most perfect of the young women. Her hair cascaded long and blond to her waist; her features were as though carved by a master sculptor. She was nicknamed “the Beautiful,” and this she accepted, for she thought so, too. Damophyla transferred her allegiance to the Beautiful, and Sappho was secretly glad. She had always found Damophyla lacking in refinement, but had not been able to withstand the onslaughts of her affection. As for Kydro, she was somewhat slow in learning steps and her memorization was faulty.

Sappho's glance fell often on Anaktoria, the sultry maid of Miletus, who had arrived at the same time as Atthis. Sappho had first seen Atthis as a small child clutching a bouquet of jonquils. She had dropped one and Sappho retrieved it for her. She remembered singing then, “What a dainty little girl!” And she still was. Sappho noticed that the two had become inseparable. They walked together, took their places beside each other, studied on the same instrument, and even sang as one. How lovely they are, Sappho thought, how they complement each other, like figures fired on a vase. Whenever they were near, she stopped and talked to them. Atthis was their spokeswoman—the clever one, Sappho judged.

Kleis, who was sometimes shy among so many older girls, was particularly fond of Gongyla, who had come from Kolophon. Round, soft, and white-skinned, she was called by the girls “the Dumpling.” When the name got back to her, Gongyla only smiled.

At eleven, Kleis was an accomplished child. Sappho was proud of her, especially of her beauty, which combined the best features of her own house with the chiseled look of Kerkolas. Recently, however, there had been an upset with Kleis. At first she complained that Sappho had favorites among the girls. “When lessons are finished, it is always Erinna and Timas you go off with.”

“Erinna has new songs, and I like to go over them with her.”

“Then why does Timas go with you? Why not me?”

“Darling, you know you haven't the patience for yet more lessons.”

“You might at least ask me sometimes,” Kleis said petulantly.

“I will, pretty one, I will.” And Sappho resolved to take her daughter on a picnic, just the two of them as in the old days. But she was busy and, before this could happen, a more serious incident occurred.

Kleis, not satisfied with her mother's explanation, feeling passed over and left out, followed her and removed a stone from the wall of Sappho's small private garden. There she saw not lessons or lute playing, but Timas swinging naked. Her mother and Erinna were naked also except for flowers in their hair.

The two made a game of sending Timas winging, and indicated, with whispered instructions, what places she was to kiss on their opponent. There was much laughter as she complied and, with a push, was sent off again with a fresh commission.

Kleis had seen enough. Clambering on top of the wall, she threw the stone into her mother's garden and ran away.

“Kleis!” Sappho cried in dismay, for she had sprung to the gate and opened it in time to see her daughter racing off.

Sappho did not know how to make up with her. Later that day she suggested they have their deferred picnic, but Kleis said she did not feel like it. Sappho next proposed they go down to the sand shore and search for agates. Kleis said it was too hot.

Sappho was glad when Gongyla was able to entice the child with promises of songs from her homeland. But rebellion simmered in Kleis and broke out during the daily lesson. Sappho was going over a theory of Anaximander. Kleis misquoted his words and Sappho rebuked her, but gently, saying, “You must listen with more attention, for this man's thoughts are caught in the curious current of creation itself. He has written and put together a book, not of poetry but prose. Therefore, be attentive when he tells us that the world is infinite and the nonlimited pervades all things.”

“If it can't be seen,” Kleis objected, “how do we know it's there?”

“Anaximander tells us while it itself can't be observed, yet it holds the world in balance and flows through all Nature.”

Kleis tossed her head. “I don't believe in things I can't see.”

“You believe in many things you can't see. You believe in love, for instance, and you can't see that. You should think into things a bit, Kleis, before making foolish remarks.”

Kleis flushed. “You're always finding fault with me. Because I am your daughter, I have to be perfect, better than anyone else. It isn't fair.”

Sappho was at a loss. “I don't understand you, Kleis. When I was your age, I was greedy to learn. I stretched out my two arms for knowledge.”

“I am not you, Mother.” Her tone implied, And I thank the gods that I'm not.

Sappho recognized that Kleis was passing through a difficult period, and that part of the blame was hers, but she refused to be judged by her own child. She is my daughter, she thought, and things are not easy for her. She supposed it was natural for children to pull away from parents and find their independent selves. In the meantime, with Gongyla and her many fair companions, Kleis need never be lonely or alone, except by her own wish.

*   *   *

Since Kleis had stumbled on their lighthearted games, they had all but stopped. The serious Erinna, she suspected, was secretly pleased, but Sappho had been awakened to mad, exciting ways that had been withdrawn. Although little Timas still danced for her and Erinna played her songs, Sappho was not entertained for long but restless and dissatisfied.

Niobe was dressing her hair with ivory pins when Sappho asked suddenly, “Do you have a husband? I inquire because I see you are pregnant again. You were pregnant last year, too, were you not?”

Niobe said quickly in apology, “I tied the stomach band as tightly as I could.”

Sappho laughed. “I don't mind. I just wondered what you did with them, your children, I mean.”

“I find them places with the priestesses.”

“How many have you?” It was odd, all these years she had not realized Niobe had children.

“Five.”

“Five! Boys and girls both, I suppose?”

Niobe nodded.

“And your husband, did he come with you from Syracuse?” For she knew a head slave had power and could arrange these things.

“I have no husband, Lady.”

“What, only children?”

“My oldest was born in high Pyrrha.”

“Pyrrha? As far back as then? I didn't know.” Unbidden, Leto was before her. Leto, whose hand she had held on the way to the washing springs. Leto, whose soft wide breasts she had outlined in exotic perfumes. Leto, a farmer's wife with a brood of children. Annoyed at this unbidden picture, she lifted her polished mirror and examined Niobe's work. “Tell me, Niobe, what do you think of men?”

“I put up with them. What else can I do? I am a woman.”

“Does it seem strange to you that I have no husband?”

“Sappho is Sappho” came the swift reply.

“I dreamed last night,” Sappho continued aloud, but to herself. “I dreamed of the city under the sea. I walked its streets. Broad, empty except for jeweled companies of fish. Its great columns, porticos, and entablatures lay in massive ruins at my feet.” Conscious again of her servant she asked, “What do you suppose such a dream portends?” But her attention was diverted. Someone was in her garden, her private, personal sanctuary. She got up to investigate and was amazed to see one of the hetaerae, Gorgo, the daughter of kings. She was even more amazed that she was twining the ropes of the swing with flowers and ivy.

Gorgo turned. “I had hoped to surprise you when it was all done,” she said.

Sappho was put off by the girl's bold assumption that she was free to trespass. “How did you know there was a swing in my garden?”

“Kleis told me.”

What else, she wondered, had Kleis told her? Aloud she said, “This garden is my retreat, Gorgo. I come here to be alone.”

“Then who pushes you in your swing?”

“I push myself.”

Gorgo laughed. Her teeth were sharp little seed pearls. “I heard otherwise. And I've come, O esteemed Sappho, to join in your games.”

Sappho caught her breath sharply. “No games are played here.”

“But I heard that little Timas…”

“I can't help what you heard.”

Gorgo's dusky cheeks deepened in hue. “I thought to please you by decorating your swing.” And, as Sappho said nothing, she continued with more assurance, “The girls say that among us you have special friends. I want to be such a friend.”

Sappho regarded the girl appraisingly. She had a premonition about Gorgo. The other hetaerae complained of her, saying she was proud and arrogant, with a tendency to show off her fine possessions. At one time Sappho had reprimanded her, “Do not be so conceited over a ring.” And while she did not want to quarrel with her, Sappho felt she must be dealt with firmly. “In my position, Gorgo, I must be careful to appear evenhanded and not rouse the serpents of envy.”

Gorgo, being of royal descent, made no effort to hide her displeasure at Sappho's reply. “You are my teacher, O Sappho, yet you yourself must learn how to receive gifts. You have ruined mine.” She threw the flowers and the ivy into the dust. “Would you have my friendship lie there too?” And she left with her anger.

It was not finished with Gorgo. Several days later there came a scratching at the door, and the girl burst in, her attractive face flushed and distorted. “There is a thief among us! I have been robbed of my Egyptian necklace, the one of polished onyx set in gold filigree.”

Sappho held up her hand. “Certain it is that there is no thief in the House of the Servants of the Muses. Think a moment—not the lowest slave would take such a costly ornament. Where could she wear it? How display it?”

Gorgo's finely arched brows drew together. “I had it yesterday.”

“Then it is mislaid behind some pillow or other.”

“I tell you it is gone. And it was my grandmother who gave it to me.”

“It will be found,” Sappho said firmly, and called Niobe to bring her jewel case.

Niobe obeyed and, kneeling, held the casket out to her mistress, but Sappho shook her head, indicating it was to Gorgo she should present it. Gorgo looked questioningly at Sappho.

“Take something that pleases you from my box.”

Gorgo drew herself up. “Sappho is generous; there are beautiful pieces here. But you did not accept
my
present.”

Silently Sappho asked whatever god was near to help her hold on to her patience. But she was tried further, for it was apparent that the necklace was a pretext. Gorgo had come with a purpose, which, as she spoke, became plain. “My bungalow lies so far from yours, O Sappho. If I were closer, I would feel more at ease about my jewels.”

“As you know, the bungalows are all occupied.”

“But a word from you and someone would trade with me.”

“I cannot give such a word. The assignment of bungalows was made long ago.”

“But you could change it, esteemed Sappho.”

“Perhaps, but I have no intention of doing so.”

*   *   *

It was morning and Sappho brought together her hetaerae. They sang with handheld drums, experimenting with rhythms and meters. Erinna was again absent. Many days she kept to her quarters with some indisposition or another. Sappho sent a slave with flowers to inquire after her. In the midst of these lovely girls, she felt lonely. She was uncomfortable around Gorgo and purposely did not go near her.

Her eyes, wandering the pretty group, came to rest on Manasdika, whom they called Dika. An imperious girl of fine family, although not royal. Her dress of Lydian work blended in an array of colors harmonizing with her tawny hair.

As for me

I am conscious

of this …

That morning Dika had chosen hyacinths to wear, the flower Sappho loved better than any other. Did Dika know this when she wove them together with anise? Did her preference guide the girl's choice?

It came to her that she had never properly assessed Dika's loveliness. How could she have failed to notice the perfection of her profile, the delicate modeling of her lips? She was charming.

Dika became conscious of Sappho's gaze and turned her head away. Sappho set her hetaerae to discovering new chords. Later in the day she looked for Dika and could not find her. Had word of her wild affairs come to the girl's ears? Did her hetaerae know that she had taken lovers from among them? She didn't think they would care, but their parents might if word of such doings were to get out. Worry jumped on her like a cat from a tree.

Work, she decided, would cure her mood.

What came to her? The following:

But you, Dika, plait with your delicate fingers a

wreath of sprigs

of anise

upon your lovely hair;

for very sure it is that the blessed Graces

are inclined to look

with favor

on anything decked with pretty flowers

and to turn away from all that come to them

ungarlanded

The gods had shown her what course to set. She sent the poem by the hand of a slave to Dika's bungalow.

She waited.

She poured wine.

She dined.

There was no response from Dika. Sappho spent a night of fragmented dreams. Dika invaded her sleep. Dika in her many-hued gown, Dika
on
her many-hued gown.