Sappho (36 page)

That night Sappho made ablutions. Aphrodite had surely sent this young man. And she called for a white ewe to be perfumed and ordered chains of flowers around its woolly neck.

The same ardent young man sought her out at the first opportunity, and she spoke with seeming reluctance of the prize among her hetaerae. “One Anaktoria comes to mind. She is the most gifted, coming as she does from Miletus, that Isle of Thought where great Thales and Anaximander rule by intellect alone … but the sweet nature of Anaktoria I could not do without.” After a pause she conceded, “Of course, one so blessed in all her parts by the Kyprus-born herself cannot long remain a maid, and I know I must resign myself to losing her to some princely house.”

When she was alone, she smiled, recalling the lines of Hesiod:

I know how to speak many falsehoods

(even as you)

but I also know how to speak truth when I wish to

It was her wish now to return home, to see Atthis and be rid of Anaktoria. She made a prayer to Hera, patroness of women, to see her safely back across the sea.

*   *   *

When her feet stepped upon Lesbian shores Sappho cried in joy:

Come, Lady of Kyprus

to hand round in golden goblets

nectar

mixed with delicate good cheer

for these

my hetaerae and thine

At this greeting, her dear companions, who had gathered at the harbor, tied themselves, singing and laughing, to her chariot, lashing one another with ropes of flowers that broke, scattering their petals.

Her daughter stayed distant from her, Gongyla close. Nothing had changed since she had left. When she looked at Atthis and Anaktoria, her eyes were masked. She hailed both girls by name, and they, made happy by this attention, hugged each other.

During the gala homecoming festivities, during songs, dances, and the giving of thanks for a journey safely consummated, Sappho thought only of Atthis. The wanting in her created the opening line of a new ode:

Yet I could not expect

to touch heaven with my two arms …

Not yet. Not now.

But it was possible that in Sardis, Lydia, a princely family would soon inquire about a maid from Miletus who studied the art the gracious Muses had bestowed on Sappho of Lesbos. And if the young man spoke truly, a golden necklace heavy with rubies would accompany the inquiry. Then a parchment would come to Anaktoria from her parents. For it was a high connection their daughter would make.

While she waited for this to happen, Sappho stifled her impatience; she called on Eros, god of desire, most beautiful of the immortals, and begged him:

You are the charioteer

in charge of the steeds of lust and reason;

control them,

make them move in harmony

She needed a calm mind. But calm eluded her. Commissions for her work had accumulated in her absence; she did not attend to them. Her body was ready for love, while her girls thought her mad with music. Eros had not listened to her prayer, she was not in control of herself. She took a hyacinth from the water and threw it accurately and directly at Atthis.

Atthis looked at her in surprise.

Sappho laughed. “You did not expect it,” she said, “and so I could not resist.” But she must resist. She knew this.

Work.

Work rescued her. She busied herself with a wedding song:

And many are the golden curls

and the purple draperies

which are the breezes'

many-colored playthings;

and countless also

are the silver drinking cups and the ivory ornaments

That for others. For herself, she pressed not only into tablets but into her heart:

Now I know why Eros,

of all the progeny of

Earth and Heaven, has

been most dearly loved

Yet it was a torment. The constant sight of Atthis with Anaktoria increased both her misery and her longing. Why did the gods measure out time so slowly? In anger she strummed:

I dreamed that

you and I had

words, Kyprian

She woke to pray, to sleep again. What if there were no message from Miletus? What if the young man, on returning to his homeland of Lydia, found a charming girl who had suddenly grown up, and forgot the picture she had presented to him of feminine perfections? Sappho found herself unable to work.

Suppose treacherous waters had closed over the ship from Miletus, and a message would never come? Suppose her hopes lay at the bottom of the sea? She sang softly to banish these thoughts:

When love comes down from heaven

and throws off his purple cloak …

She couldn't finish. Would she ever sing these words to Atthis? Sappho knew day by day what Atthis wore, which flowers she braided in her hair, the color of the ribbons that floated from her thighs, the piece of jewelry she momentarily fancied. She recalled the story of the girdle on which is embroidered all wishes and wants. Oh, had she such a girdle, one name, one name alone she would repeatedly stitch.

In the morning she wrote:

An embroidered sandal was hiding

her feet,

a beautiful piece of Lydian work

And in the evening:

The very clothes you wear charm me!

“I do not know what to do,” she cried into her pillow. “My thoughts are double.” If she spoke to her, she would drive her away. She knew it. Yet she could no longer follow the path of reason. She must touch the web of cloth that enclosed Atthis—she must.

To overcome this compulsion Sappho climbed the path behind her house daily, from the height of which one could see the line of Attarmeor, the port of Pergam. She willed the ships on the horizon to put in at Mitylene's twin harbors. But they held fast to their preordained courses.

When the longed-for message arrived, Sappho was busy with a flute she had just purchased. It was Athene's instrument, used by her at her festivals. The one Sappho had chosen had an unusual tone but needed working. She shut herself in her room to coax a sweeter, purer, sound from it. Diligently she cleaned the inside with a soft rod and adjusted her breath across the five finger-holes. Better, but it could weave more magic still, and she blew from the other end in case some particle still adhered. A shadow fell across her and she looked up.

It was Anaktoria.

Without a word the girl handed her a missive. The breath seemed stopped in Sappho's nostrils. She took the parchment without comment and read. It was a greeting from Anaktoria's parents, by the hand of a scribe, in which they expressed their wish that Anaktoria, beloved daughter of their house, prepare to depart Lesbos, and in joy hasten on the next available ship for Lydia. The holdings of a princely house in Sardis were then described, its wealth listed, enumerated were slaves, gold, iron, and orchards. The eldest son of this family was of a mind to marry and he wished an accomplished wife. Knowing of the maidens the peerless poet Sappho gathered about her and instructed in sacred song and dance, as well as on musical instruments, he was minded to have such as had undergone this tutelage, and he heard from one who recently had been a guest-friend in the House of the Servants of the Muses that of all the lovely flowers, none compared to Anaktoria of Miletus.

Sappho looked up from the document. “But this is marvelous, a proposal of marriage. An alliance with a notable house of ancient lineage. It must be you made an impression on my brother Kharaxos or Alkaios the poet; I can think of none other who has recently been a guest here with us.”

Anaktoria held out to her a necklace wrought with rubies.

“What is this?” Sappho exclaimed. “He who is desirous of being your bridegroom has sent you a token? The chain is most dexterously made; with gems nestled into it as though they were birds. How rich, yet how tasteful. Your heart must contain great happiness that such a lot has befallen you.”

Sappho reached to press Anaktoria's hands, but the girl put them behind her.

“I do not wish to marry,” she said.

“Not wish?”

“No. I wish to stay here and continue as your hetaera. That is my greatest happiness.”

“But surely every maid hopes to marry?”

“You are not married.”

“But I was, and had a child. A woman is not complete without a husband and child.”

Suddenly Anaktoria was on her knees hiding her face in Sappho's lap. “Lady, dear patron, poet of the world, protect me. Do not let me be sent away! I would stay here always. Throw over me the mantle of your command. Say that you will not part with me. And from this time on you will be as a goddess to me. I will make hekatombs to you and pour out libation. Only lend me your name, your rank and reputation that I am not made against my will to become a wife in Lydia to a man I do not know, whose ways and customs I do not know. You yourself have often inveighed against this. Help me, sweet Sappho, help Anaktoria. I cannot bear to be parted from my life here.”

Sappho was touched by the sight of such distress in one so attractive. And it was true, she had often spoken against young girls being used as pawns in the acquisition of wealth and status. Now, however, she replied coolly, for she easily deciphered the girl's intent. She knew too well it was Atthis she could not bear to be parted from. And, like the living part of a shell, Sappho's nature closed over her pity. She had the girl sit beside her and patted her hand.

Anaktoria drew away. “I see you will not help me, Lady, and I must go to Sardis to dwell with strangers.”

The door was flung open and Atthis ran to throw herself at Sappho's feet and clasp and kiss them. “I stood outside, and heard. I know I should not have, but I had not the strength to walk away from your words. O noble Sappho, surely you with your great power can intervene and stop this? Anaktoria loves you well, and her voice has ever been uplifted in our songs, while her fingers are clever with all manner of instruments. Besides…”

“Besides?” Sappho asked, observing that Atthis's eyes were heavy from weeping and wiped tears left a mark upon her cheek. How adorable she seemed, and how vulnerable.

“I cannot live without my friend. We are never separated. Have you not seen how one is never without the other? I should die! I would not want my life if it meant I should not see my Anaktoria.”

“Peace, sweet one. Do not cry so. You must think of her whom you love. Would you fetter her with your affection? Stand in the way of a match that will bring her the joys of womanhood, a man of wealth, family, children? I know when you consider with a clear mind that you will not.”

Both girls left her attempting to restrain their tears, to be worthy hetaerae, to live up to Sappho's expectation, to do the right thing. They knew it was the right thing because it made them so miserable, and the gods, though themselves forever enjoying nectar, ambrosia, and love, set a course of suffering for humankind.

Sappho let several days pass and then sat down with Anaktoria and helped her compose the dutiful letter her parents were expecting, and the more formal letter to Sardis, in which she, professing herself unworthy of such an honor, yet gave thanks to Father Zeus, Aphrodite, and Hermes alike, for her good reputation which had traveled even into the land of Lydia. Her dearest hope, Sappho wrote for her, was to be a model of womanhood, both as wife and mother.

Tearfully Anaktoria signed both documents. Sappho ordered her own servants, Niobe at their head, to see to Anaktoria's woman's chest, to fold her garments in layers of crushed mint, and to include presents of value from herself and the other girls, particularly Atthis. In this cause she sought out the girl, who lay in a darkened chamber, hair unbrushed and no word for anyone.

Atthis tried to rouse herself when Sappho entered, but the heart had gone out of her. She could not be interested even in a parting gift. “Do you choose something appropriate, Lady.”

“Well, for a keepsake, what do you treasure that will have meaning for Anaktoria?”

There was a long pause. “Flowers,” Atthis said finally, “but they wilt.”

“Then let us find arm bracelets or earrings, or a rope of pearls that came on a time from Sea.”

Atthis roused a bit. “Once, lying on my breast, she commented on the perfume I use; it is a blend of attar of roses. I will slip that into her woman's chest that she remember the day.”

Sappho disliked the idea, but could think of no reason against it.

Love is

a weaver of fictions

and

a bringer of pain

She wrote this when she returned to her rooms. It was a torment to be close to Atthis and not touch even the shining hair of her head. Her women reported to her that Atthis cut a lock of this hair and laid it in Anaktoria's chest. This was the extremest grief. Anaktoria tied strands of her hair with Atthis's and so the friends separated.

Sappho composed a poem to Anaktoria and, armed with this, announced herself at Atthis's door.

She found the same listless and bedraggled girl. She longed to take her in her arms and comfort her. “Atthis, I have written down something that will make things easier. Will you listen?”

Atthis's head, heavy with tangled hair, bent slightly like a hyacinth on its stalk.

Sappho leaned across her lyre and chanted:

Some say cavalry and others claim

infantry or a fleet of long oars

is the supreme sight on the black earth.

I say it is

the one you love. And easily proved.

Didn't Helen—who far surpassed all