Sappho (27 page)

Sappho threw off her cover and sprang up from bed. Night had not ended, but she decreed an end to it. For its coldness seemed to burn more severely than the heat of noon. Sappho moved about the apartment collecting stylus and wax and the stele to hold impressions. Aphrodite, on her right hand, whispered that the proud Dika would require assurance of being first in her affections, that old loves must be forsworn. Dika would demand renunciation. After a struggle in which she reminded herself of Erinna's recent coldness, she wrote:

Manasdika is even lovelier

than the exquisite Erinna.

Never did I yet meet, my sweet one,

a more disdainful beauty

than you

She reached for the bell that brought her servant, then stayed her hand. Pale, delicate, intellectual Erinna. She would always love her, but her body no longer throbbed at the thought of her. A sister, that is what she was to her—so she rationalized, she who had never had a sister.

Sappho called her slaves from sleep to bathe, anoint, and dress her. “Go back to your rest,” she told them when they were through. And to herself whispered, “Golden-slippered Dawn has not yet come.” She went out clutching the poem.

She could not stop herself; Aphrodite herself compelled her. She hurried toward the building that housed Dika, knowing that the outcome was far from certain.

Sappho scratched tentatively at Dika's door. The girl slept on. Sappho opened it, arousing a slave whom she motioned to leave.

Dika slept deeply, her lips parted, her wonderful breasts exposed. Sappho knelt by her, drinking in her beauty. No facet of face or body escaped her. She waited without stirring until the girl woke.

Dika gasped at seeing her.

Sappho spoke softly, “Lovely Dika, I have brought you a morning gift.” And she laid the poem upon the bed between them.

Dika did not touch it. “Why are you here?”

“To bring you the gift.”

“A poem? Why not send it by a slave, as you did the other?”

“This morning I am the slave, your slave, Dika.”

“I do not understand you.”

“You understand.”

“You do not know me, Sappho. I am not second in anyone's affections.”

“Read, I pray you, the poem.”

Dika picked it up and read. “It is very pretty,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I did not bring it for a thank-you. Dika, you are too much for me. Pity me, for your beauty is too much. I am overcome like a warrior on the field. Let me touch your hand, let me kiss just the rings of your fingers.”

Dika hesitated. “Is it true, am I more pleasing to you than Erinna?”

“I swear it.” Her hand spanned the girl's ankle and the amulets tinkled.

“What of the others?” Dika asked.

“Only you.” Her hand insinuated itself along the calf and pressed the young thigh.

Dika removed herself from Sappho's touch. “What of Damophyla?”

“It is ended.”

“And Gorgo?”

“There has never been a Gorgo.”

“Timas?”

“Timas!” Sappho jumped back from her. “Would you take little Timas from me! Must I despise everyone but you?”

“Yes,” Dika said.

“Your words disturb my soul. Yet I must do as you say.” Sappho kissed the pretty foot and fondled it, but it, too, was withdrawn. “O Dika, what lies have you listened to against me? I think you do not know my heart at all.”

She became conscious of the slaves stirring in the compound. The household was awake. Hastily she said, “Tonight, Dika. I'll wait for you in my rooms tonight.”

Dika did not reply.

During the day the girl paired with other friends, and Sappho watched her covertly as she spoke to her hetaerae of the Heavens and the star charts Thales drew. As soon as possible, she retired to her rooms and threw knuckle bones to see if Dika would come.

Unable to settle to anything, Sappho finally snatched up her lyre and went to sit on the steps. If she sang from there, Dika might hear; even though it had grown late she might yet be persuaded.

In the morning there was a commotion among the girls, for it was discovered that Dika's cottage was empty; her toiletries, clothes, gems, and slaves had gone in the night. The hetaerae whispered among themselves and stole pitying looks at Sappho, who must bear it. Erinna's look, however, was not of pity but of reproach.

Did I deserve this? Sappho asked herself. Did she deserve the awful hollowness that spread through her whole body?

She went inside and beat herself with her fists and hit her head against the wall. “I drove her away,” she mourned. That little foot, that high-arching little foot—she had held it like a bird.

So the woman grieved.

Zeus does not give to all men

their heart's desire

So the poet spoke.

*   *   *

Shortly after the defection of Dika, Sappho's younger brothers came to see her. Sappho rushed to give greeting. She had seen them but rarely. The demands of her poetry and her teaching kept her from outside contact. But her welcoming words were checked as she encountered stiffness in their replies. Drawing back, she attempted to read their countenances. Young Larichos was grim, Eurygyos equally cold.

“There has been ill news?” Sappho cried. “Has the blue-haired brother of great Zeus not spared our brother? Tell me quickly, is it Khar?”

“Lead us to your villa that we may speak in private.”

Sappho immediately regained her composure. “It is no word of Khar that has brought you.” She took them without further speech into the gardens of her home. “Will you have wine or food?”

Larichos turned on her. His handsome lips writhed. “Whore!”

Eurygyos put out a hand to restrain him, but the boy was filled with bile that could not find release except in direct onslaught. “It is not my word,” Larichos said. “It is what I hear of you, and worse. ‘Slut' is too good, from what I hear. The House of the Servants of the Muses belongs on the street of women. Except no men are welcome here. You are the man here, and these your concubines, who serve you in every shameful way you can devise. ‘Husband-hating Sappho' is how you are called in town. By the gods, I cannot figure out what it is you do. But even in the great hall—where I have the honor, as you know, to be cupbearer—there is talk since Manasdika returned so unexpectedly.”

Dika? Had Dika spoken against her? What had she said? O Dika, belovedest of girls— A spasm of the heart caused her to bring her hand to her bosom.

“Of course, everything is innuendo,” Larichos said, “so that I cannot pick up a spear and challenge them. It is all obliquely put. But I believe it to be true.”

Eurygyos spoke to calm the situation. “We will have the wine you offered, Sister, and accept what refreshment you have, which we could not do if these vile reports, these calumnies which have so upset Larichos, had substance.”

Sappho put by the pain caused by Dika. She inspected her brothers. She had taught them to walk; they had taken their first steps to her, and babbled out first words. But now she said, “I fear you must go away from my house parched and hungry as you came.” She spoke with severity to hide the sick anger. Her brothers judged her as they would their wives. They did not recognize that she was Sappho.

Eurygyos could scarcely speak. “You are saying it is true? That you prostitute yourself here among your women?”

Sappho considered her words. “I make account to none. By self-made laws I rule myself. But since you are of my blood and brothers, I say—should I take a girl in love, she would be dearly held by me. There is no prostitution here.” Then with that maddening smile that bode no good for any, she asked gently, “Do you object to the love the gods set in the hearts of man and maid?”

“But you,” Larichos cried, “are neither one or the other! What do you use upon them? The pinecones of a Dionysos night?”

Sappho went pale. “This is a house dedicated to the Muses—no brutal thing happens here. The lyre sounds here, the high-arched feet of maidens beat out our ancient Aeolian dances. The poet Sappho composes verse, as does the poet Erinna. If Eros or the goddess born of foam finds a way to us, is this an evil? Is this a reason for breaking in on a sister with accusations unloving and unkind?”

Eurygyos said slowly, “We came, I from far Eresos and Larichos from Pittakos's hall, that you might deny the rumors that fly about. They are an embarrassment to us both, I in my business, Larichos among the leaders of men. We were prepared to defend you, for you are our sister.”

“Atlas in the West bears the pillars of Heaven and Earth upon his shoulder, and his home is in dark Cilician caverns. He is my brother … and Khar.”

“Then it's all true!” Larichos sounded as though he had been run through and disemboweled.

“It is true and it is not true. I have no way of making you understand.” The three looked at each other with great misery. “If I were a brother,” she asked them, “would you be here?”

“Of course not…” Larichos began, and stopped.

“Spit your venom on the ground!” Sappho could no longer yoke her anger. “Have I not knowledge of oboe players, Larichos? Such is not done here. And none is here except by her own will. Speak to any. Ask them to leave, beg them to leave.” She smiled into their faces. Though small, she was dangerous. Dangerous and willful.

Eurygyos shook his head. Larichos rent his clothes in a gesture of despair. They went away. They knew of old they could not change her.

After this visit, Sappho wrote:

Pain penetrates

me drop

by drop

Pain sewed a line between her eyes. Pain pierced her vitals as though she were spitted like some sacrificial beast.

She made an attempt to work. The work did not satisfy her. The distant strains of a waxed reed gave no pleasure. She recalled dread Circe and the prophetic dream. In her mind she made answer: Love, like poetry, cannot be an evil. Does not everything that has life sustain itself through some means?

And what did she have? Only love. Love sustained her art, and her art in turn sustained her. She needed to give and receive it. It was necessary to her. Still, it was impossible to reason away Dika's desertion, the rebuke of brothers, the shadow of a dream.

Let them censure her for her lovers. She had not changed from the child who
wanted,
the young girl who
desired.
Was there evil in this, when she gave herself completely, without stint, to each friend-lover? Poetry, knowledge, laughter, tears—she laid them at the feet of the loved one.

What account had Dika given of the House of the Servants of the Muses? And of herself? It could not, she thought, be as bad as her brothers made out. If so, the citizens of Mitylene would have ordered their daughters home. Neither Kydro, Atthis, Megara, nor Telesippa had been sent for, which meant her brothers listened to gossip that did not reflect the general esteem in which she was held. Surely it was her critics they should attack, not their sister. For they were Argive, even as she. Were they not to blame in lacking loyalty?

Another thought tormented her: Would Khar, had he been home from his voyage, have sided with them? Would she have read the same contempt in his eyes? She shuddered and put her arms about herself, as though they had been Khar's arms. She could not lose Khar.

And what of Larichos, the little boy who had run along the pier until exile took her from sight? How vitriolic he had been! Surely Hermes, that mischief-maker, inflamed his mind. Could any love she pursued in the three-tiered garden of her home damage his position or career? As the brother of Sappho the poet, he had won distinction. Was that what was behind it? Did he dislike owing anything to her?

As for Eurygyos, he had never understood her. It was his contention that she brought misfortune on herself.

Did she?

And Kleis? Since the episode in the garden, how much did her daughter know or guess? She thought of her as still a child, but …

On impulse, Sappho left her chamber. Taking a dusty footpath she set out for a statue that had always had special meaning for her. It was of a pretty girl-child of seven or eight who had, in days gone by, been sacrificed to the fiery torch of Artemis to bring honor upon her house. Recently the statue had troubled her. It reminded her of Kleis when Kleis had been all hers, in the Syracuse days when she braided flowers in her hair.

She came upon the marble figure surrounded by cyclamen and knelt to it, knelt to her own fears. For she realized, gazing into the marble face, that it no longer resembled Kleis. It seemed while she turned her head, Kleis had grown up. This grown Kleis no longer broke into hoydenish shrieks of laughter, no longer whispered confidences. This new grown Kleis made judgments and, like her uncles, rendered verdicts.

Clasping the feet of the statue, Sappho wept. Not only had she lost her brother, she was afraid she had lost her only child. Last night they had dined together. She had been at pains to have Kleis's favorite dishes prepared, each course served with flowers. But the old intimacy was gone.

Sitting at the foot of the statue, Sappho made a poem:

I am a little girl and voiceless,

and yet, if any ask,

I cry aloud with this voice at my feet

She put the poem by to finish it another time. The price for being a woman was too high. From this day on she would be not woman but poet only. Poetry shed radiance on her life, while love—all love—was a torment.

*   *   *

Gorgo waylaid her. “You are avoiding me, O Sappho.”

“Yes,” Sappho said briefly.

“But why? Have any spoken ill of me?”

“No one has spoken ill of you.”

“Then why? Surely Dika is not worth such sorrow?”

Sappho reacted angrily at any mention of Dika. By what right did Gorgo prod and question her? But because she was beset by many sorrows, she answered with restraint, “Have you never felt the need to be alone? I must have wide swaths of aloneness about me.”