Sappho (39 page)

“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “It is the heat of love. It is the goddess born of bleeding Sky, bittersweet, bringing pain. It is your flashing beauty, for as I put the rings on your toes I glimpsed the red pomegranate that tempts me so.”

“Is that all?” Atthis leaned back. “My fruit is all for you.”

But the precious folds of Atthis's body were almost like passion remembered. While her body quivered with what the girl gave, her mind said good-bye.

Muses, dwellers in the mansions of Olympus, help me, for you are in all places and all hearts. Her prayer was ever the same: Advise me, tell me what to do.

“Come to me tonight,” she whispered to Atthis.

*   *   *

When the girl came at the agreed hour, Sappho spoke sharply. “You are long in coming.” At once she repented. “If night could be held in the West, on the other side of day, then we could be together longer.” Sappho prolonged the moment of release. She will not leave me, she told herself, even when she learns about Anaktoria. She will not leave me. She will realize how much she needs me, and that no one else can bring her to this madness.

Sappho was frozen and burning, mad and sane, supremely confident and totally distraught. In this state of mind she made a plan. She would take her hetaerae to Lesbian Olympus. They would vacation high in hills of pine and groves of chestnut, where the sea looked small below and the flowers were of blue squill. The idea consumed her:

I would go anywhere

to take you in my arms

again, my darling

The hetaerae were delighted with Sappho's decision, which seemed both novel and exciting. They got their wardrobes together, and Sappho hurried the preparations. She did not want word of their activities to reach Gorgo. At least she would have the summer with no one whispering into Atthis's ear. The girl no longer spoke of Anaktoria and, by the words of her own mouth, no longer thought of her. By the end of summer, it might be true. In three months who knew what the gods would decree. In three months, she told herself, I might be dead.

All the cauldrons of the house were set boiling. Flesh was cooked, freshly prepared dainties readied, bread baked and placed in baskets, fruit picked, pressed wines stored in goatskins, while furs were heaped in piles against the cooler nights. They stowed lutes and lyres, flutes, drums, tambourines, castanets, cymbals, and a kithara of ancient make. The bells of their many sandals tinkled busily, and their carefree voices bubbling with laughter wafted to Heaven. Libation and scented sacrifice were duly made, and the journey promised to be auspicious.

Her hetaerae seated themselves on asses and clambered on carts pulled by mules, all so bedecked by primrose and lily that no vehicle or animal was readily discernible.

Can we climb beyond evil? Sappho wondered. And fear was upon her as she sang with the maidens.

They passed the undying forest where trees had been changed to rock by the will of Zeus, and arrived still in daylight. They paused to admire the view of mainland Aeolis lying at horizon's edge where shading blues of Sea met. Beyond that they had been told was the foreign land of Mysia. They could not be restrained but must dance before the beautiful temple of the Year Maiden. Its columns were of wood, only the tablatures being stone, so deeply carved that the patterns of sunlight fell partly in shade. The motive was floral, and the Argive priestesses made pilgrimages to keep it brightly painted. Recently the temple had been extended with Pentelix marble. The hillside, barren a month ago, blazed with color, for crocus grew everywhere. Persephone, radiant daughter, had passed this way.

The first instrument to sound was the sambyke; then pipes and flutes joined in as they erected woven tents before the temple. Wine from Lemnos was spilled to the gods and long-stemmed goblets passed about. Soon they had a fire going, presided over by a slave who fed it with cedar and sandalwood so that for the whole summer the odor would pervade their camp.

The girls found wild leek, onion, asparagus, and parsley. Atthis discovered a patch of mint. And as night came on, pots of tallow were kindled so that light blossomed everywhere like stars upon the ground.

Sacrifice was made and their first meal eaten. They grouped themselves about Sappho and asked for stories. She told them an Orphic mystery about a priestess who paid a visit to the underworld to recover a stolen soul. Then they would have the tale of the Minotaur, who, forcing intercourse upon a woman, caused her to give birth to the first bull.

Sappho surprised them with a new work. She bent to the lyre:

Around the glorious Moon

the bright beauty of the stars

is lost

when her silver radiance at its fullest

lights the world

Sappho's songs were the pleasantest kind of teaching. The girls took their turns at singing and of them all, Atthis sang best. A musical person is a gift, Sappho thought, as she listened to her uplifted voice. On her part, Atthis, aware that Sappho was moved by her song, had never sung sweeter. When arm in arm they went to their tent, Sappho whispered, telling her again she was

Far more sweet-singing than the lyre

“Know,” Sappho said, when they lay upon the couch of skin, “that Love, the limb-loosener, sweeps me away.”

There was a subtle difference in their lovemaking. Sappho was not at all times mistress of herself. Often she seemed a suppliant. And when she held the girl to her, she felt again how it was: “Bittersweet and bringing pain.” For the sleepless heart in her beat with constant fear.

When would Gorgo discover they had gone? And when discover where they were? If it were only the old sow Andromeda, she could deal with her—coins and jewels would do it. But how buy the silence of one who had in plenty the things she could give? O Muses, dwellers in these mountains, I yearn and I seek to bring about …

What?

Only the continuation of that which she had. Only Atthis's head cradled on her arm. But dissonance had entered her life. She could not enjoy what she had for the certainty of losing it.

She knew she held Atthis too closely. If the girl was a moment out of sight, she had to know where she was and with whom. Her thymos drove her; she was chained by her emotions without a will of her own. She took out her stele and polished it with pumice so that when the Muses spoke, she would be ready. But they were curiously quiet. They also waited.

All around her were busy. The girls made cloth from raw wool, carding, weaving, and dyeing it with precious purple from the shellfish of Tyre. Dexterous fingers imitated Milesian cloaks and blanket patterns. And Sappho kept them amused with stories, her own and those of other poets. She related Hesiod's account of Creation: The fair Earth bore Heaven, equal to herself, to cover her on all sides and to be a home forever for the blessed gods. And all the universe became alive with the life men know.

She made lyric dialogue between herself and the chorus, teaching the girls new rhythms and steps which she devised. But at night she cried out, declaring, Desire has no offspring and is void!

Atthis could follow none of this; Sappho's moods and words were contradictory and moved too fast for her. At last, one night she asked gently, “Sappho, is there anything that weighs on you or brings you sad thoughts?”

Sappho smiled at her and replied with the first poem that came to mind:

As a whirlwind

swoops on an oak

Love shakes my heart

Atthis kissed her. “That is lovely. And it means you love me. Yet it is a song I have heard many times, and not recently made. So I know something troubles your heart.”

“How you know me. And still are patient with me. Will you always be so? Tell me.”

Atthis's protestations did not satisfy her. At the gate of dreams she stood shivering and alone.

As summer inexorably slipped by, the hetaerae became restless. They had enough of the rough outdoor life, and were anxious to return to the opulent existence of the villa.

Sappho, sensing their mood, and indeed being told of it by Atthis and the bolder of the girls, withdrew from them. More and more she brooded in the eyries of wild places or in her tent alone. Images flowed past her; those she had loved seemed present. At times she replaced the name Atthis with that of Gongyla and did not notice. Then she sang directly to her: “Gongyla, come back in your white robe.”

Death is a misfortune.

Surely the gods think so

for they do not die

Why must love be destructive, and not as Aphrodite would have one believe? Did all things pass? Even those most intensely felt? And if the gods played such tricks, where was any truth? What about her love for her daughter? Had it changed? And to what? Was Kleis at this moment speaking with gods from a drugged stupor? Then she remembered she was no longer Kleis but someone unknown to her, even her name unknown. What had become of her golden-haired child? In her distress Sappho called to her mother, that other Kleis: “I cannot weave this mesh of mine.”

When Atthis came to tell her a happy day shone outside, she replied dully, for she had decided Atthis could no longer love her when she learned what she had done. Little Timas would have loved her, but Timas loved all alike and so her love was nullified. Erinna. Erinna would have understood, if not her love, at least her actions. But Erinna had not resisted Death when it came. Had life become too bitter? Did she feel what Sappho now dreaded to feel?

With love for a slender maiden I am overcome.

Always before it had been she, Sappho, who left lightly without looking back. But retributive Fate had found her in her high Olympic dwelling. Deciduous leaves were underfoot, autumn in the air, and she withdrew still more from her hetaerae. They sent Atthis to speak for them.

She entered the tent that was Sappho's retreat, and said with resolution, “Sappho, you must get up for our sakes. Take off your chain dress and bathe. From your boxes I have chosen a saffron lope and a purple peplos. Praxiona will roast us chestnuts, and you shall be crowned with flowers. For this very day, like a mother with her children, you will take us back to Mitylene.”

Sappho got up as Atthis demanded and allowed herself to be dressed for the journey.

“What have you been doing that you stayed so much in the tent alone?” Atthis asked curiously. “Have you made songs for our return?”

“One song only I have, and you shall hear it.”

“Now?”

Sappho picked up her lyre which lay ready for packing:

When I look at you, it seems to me that Hermione was

never such as you are,

and that it is right

to liken you to Helen herself

than to any mortal girl:

and I tell you

I render your beauty

the sacrifice of all my thoughts,

and worship you with all my senses

Atthis fell on her knees. “Such wonders are yours to bestow, great Sappho.”

“Only love me, Atthis,” Sappho begged, “no matter what you hear of me.”

“And what should I hear of you?”

“I do not know. My own brothers are my enemy, and my child. How can I know what is said against me?”

“But your Atthis loves you. Nothing can change that.”

“Swear.”

The girl laughed. “How many times already have you had me take an oath of love, O Sappho? I give you proof each night and in the days, too.”

“Yes, yes. I know I am at fault. And you must forgive me, Atthis. Some god plagues my mind and distorts everything with fancies. But you do promise me?”

This time Atthis only laughed.

The tents were struck amid jubilation, asses and carts laden. There was song on every lip. Sappho did not sing and walked like a shade among her hetaerae. She had gained her summer.

*   *   *

They were still settling in at the House of the Servants of the Muses when Atthis, without making a sound at her inner door, threw it open and confronted her. Her face, contorted with anger, made her a daughter of the Erinyes. “Look at me, Sappho, and tell me it is a lie, if you can.”

Sappho found the strength to answer calmly. “What has so disturbed your soul, Atthis? Speak, that I may know.”

“They say—”

Sappho stopped her. “No, that will not do. Who says?”

“Gorgo.”

Had Earth-Shaker heaved the world?

“Deny it, Sappho. That's all I want. Deny that you arranged for Anaktoria to be married, that during your visit to Samos you met there the young Sardian, and sang the praises of one above all your hetaerae, so that he fixed his heart on her. And this you did to separate us. For you knew I preferred Anaktoria to you, and would never love you if she remained.”

Sappho rose slowly and moistened her lips as though to speak, but did not.

“I hear no statement from your mouth. I hear only the silence of guilt. But by the gods, I will force you to say that you did this thing.”

“No need, Atthis. I am not ashamed of my love for you. It drives me so that each of my days is arranged around you. It was as Gorgo told you. But think, it was from love, so how can there be evil there? Is not Anaktoria first among the ladies of Lydia? And are you not my treasure, for whom I would plunge my arm into open flame, to the very shoulder? I am swift to satisfy every desire you express, each whim. If it is chestnuts to be roasted, so be it. If it is a lovelier necklace than you now possess, my black ships bring it.”

Atthis looked at her, her face no longer reflecting anger. Coldly, she said, “I do not love you anymore, Sappho.”

Sappho held herself without movement. “Let me remind you of what you have forgotten, how fond and beautiful was the life we led together.”

“You did the worst to me that one person can do to another. You schemed to send away the one I loved.”