And love sent Atthis and me along the beach, stretching_Voices from the Past

Produced by Al Haines

FROM THE COVER OF VOICES FROM THE PAST:

In Voices from the Past, a daring group of five independent novels,

acclaimed author Paul Alexander Bartlett accomplishes a tour de force

of historical fiction, allowing the reader to enter for the first time

into the private worlds of five remarkable people: Sappho of Lesbos,

the famous Greek poet; Jesus; Leonardo da Vinci; Shakespeare; and

Abraham Lincoln. Each novel appears here in its entirety within a

single unique volume of 644 pages beautifully illustrated by the

author-artist.

Bartlett’s writing has been praised by many leading authors,

reviewers, and critics, among them:

JAMES MICHENER, novelist: “I am much taken with Bartlett’s work and

commend it highly.”

CHARLES POORE in The New York Times: “...believable characters who

are stirred by intensely personal concerns.”

GRACE FLANDRAU, author and historian: “...Characters and scenes are

so right and living...it is so beautifully done, one finds

oneself feeling it is not fiction but actually experienced

fact.”

JAMES PURDY, novelist: “An important writer... I find great

pleasure in his work. Really beautiful and distinguished.”

ALICE S. MORRIS in Harper’s Bazaar: “He tells a haunting and

beautiful story and manages to telescope, in a brilliantly

leisurely way, a lifetime, a full and eventful lifetime.”

RUSSELL KIRK, novelist: “The scenes are drawn with power. Bartlett

is an accomplished writer.”

PAUL ENGLE in The Chicago Tribune: “...articulate, believable ...

charms with an expert knowledge of place and people.”

MICHAEL FRAENKEL, novelist and poet: “His is the authenticity of

the true and original creator. Bartlett is essentially a

writer of mood.”

WILLIS BARNSTONE, Sappho scholar and translator: “A mature artist,

Bartlett writes with ease and taste.”

J. DONALD ADAMS in The New York Times: “...the freshest, most

vital writing I have seen for some time.”

PEARL S. BUCK, Nobel Laureate in Literature: “He is an excellent

writer.”

HERBERT GORMAN, novelist and biographer: “He possesses a

sensitivity in description and an acuteness in the delineation

of character.”

FORD MADOX FORD, English novelist, about Bartlett: “...a writer of

very considerable merit.”

LON TINKLE in the Dallas Morning News: “Vivid, impressive, highly

pictorial.”

JOE KNOEFLER in the L.A. Times: “...an American writer gifted

with...perception and sensitivity.”

FRANK TANNENBAUM, historian: “...written with great sensibility”

Worchester Telegram: “Between realism and poetry...brilliant,

colorful.”



eaders of this book who would like to acquire the bound illustrated

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ISBN 978-0-6151-4120-6

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

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The press was established in 1975. Over the years Autograph Editions

has published a variety of distinguished and widely commended books of

fiction and poetry. Our most recent publication is the remarkable

quintet, Voices from the Past, by bestselling author Paul Alexander

Bartlett, whose novel, When the Owl Cries, has been widely acclaimed by

many authors, reviewers, and critics, among them James Michener, Pearl

S. Buck, Ford Madox Ford, Charles Poore, James Purdy, Russell Kirk,

Michael Fraenkel, and many others.

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VOICES FROM THE PAST

A Quintet:

SAPPHO’S JOURNAL

CHRIST’S JOURNAL

LEONARDO DA VINCI’S JOURNAL

SHAKESPEARE’S JOURNAL

LINCOLN’S JOURNAL

BOOKS BY

PAUL ALEXANDER BARTLETT

NOVELS

VOICES FROM THE PAST:

Sappho’s Journal  Christ’s Journal  Leonardo da Vinci’s

Journal

Shakespeare’s Journal  Lincoln’s Journal

When the Owl Cries

Adiós Mi México

Forward, Children!

POETRY

Wherehill

Spokes for Memory

NONFICTION

The Haciendas of Mexico: An Artist’s Record

VOICES FROM THE PAST

A Quintet:

SAPPHO’S JOURNAL

CHRIST’S JOURNAL

LEONARDO DA VINCI’S JOURNAL

SHAKESPEARE’S JOURNAL

LINCOLN’S JOURNAL

PAUL ALEXANDER BARTLETT

and

Illustrated by the Author

Edited by

STEVEN JAMES BARTLETT

AUTOGRAPH EDITIONS

Salem, Oregon

AUTOGRAPH EDITIONS

P. O. Box 6141  Salem, Oregon 97304

 Established 1975 

This book is protected by copyright. No part

may be reproduced in any manner without

written permission from the publisher.

First Edition

ISBN 978-0-6151-4120-6

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006030830

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Bartlett, Paul Alexander.

Voices from the past : a quintet : Sappho's journal,

Christ's journal, Leonardo

da Vinci's journal, Shakespeare's journal, Lincoln's

journal / by Paul Alexander

Bartlett and illustrated by the author ; edited by

Steven James Bartlett. -- 1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: "A collection of five historical novels

written in the form of

journals by the Greek poet Sappho of Lesbos, Christ,

Leonardo da Vinci,

Shakespeare, and Lincoln, integrating their thought,

writings, and the testimony

of others"--Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-6151-4120-6

1. Sappho--Diaries--Fiction. 2. Jesus Christ--

Diaries--Fiction. 3. Leonardo, da Vinci, 1452-1519--

Diaries--Fiction. 4. Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616--

Diaries--Fiction. 5. Lincoln, Abraham, 1809-1865--

Diaries--Fiction. I. Bartlett,

Steven J. II. Title.

PS3602.A8396V65 2006

813'.6--dc22

2006030830

VOICES FROM THE PAST

CONTENTS

PREFACE by Steven James Bartlett xiii

SAPPHO’S JOURNAL

FOREWORD by Willis Barnstone 3

SAPPHO’S JOURNAL 5

CHRIST’S JOURNAL 155

LEONARDO DA VINCI’S JOURNAL 221

SHAKESPEARE’S JOURNAL 343

LINCOLN’S JOURNAL 511

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 621

COLOPHON 625

PREFACE

Steven James Bartlett

Senior Research Professor of Philosophy, Oregon State

University

and

Visiting Scholar in Psychology & Philosophy, Willamette

University

oices from the Past is a quintet of novels that describe

the inner lives of five extraordinary people. Progressing

through time from the most distant to the most recent

they are: Sappho of Lesbos, the famous Greek poet; Jesus;

Leonardo da Vinci; Shakespeare; and Abraham Lincoln. For

the most part, little is known about the inward realities

of these people, about their personal thoughts,

reflections, and the quality and nature of their

feelings. For this reason they have become no more than

voices from the past: The contributions they have left us

remain, but little remains of each person, of his or her

personality, of the loves, fears, pleasures, hatreds,

beliefs, and thoughts each had.

Voices from the Past was written by Paul Alexander

Bartlett over a period of several decades. After his

death in an automobile accident in 1990, the manuscripts

of the five novels were discovered among his as yet

unpublished papers. He had been at work adding the

finishing touches to the manuscripts. Now, more than a

decade and a half after his death, the publication of

Voices from the Past is overdue.

Bartlett is known for his fiction, including When the

Owl Cries and Adiós Mi México, historical novels set

during the Mexican Revolution of 1910 and descriptive of

hacienda life, Forward, Children!, a powerful antiwar

novel, and numerous short stories. He was also the author

of books of poetry, including Spokes for Memory and

Wherehill, the nonfiction work, The Haciendas of Mexico:

An Artist’s Record, the first extensive artistic and

photographic study of haciendas throughout Mexico, and

numerous articles about the Mexican haciendas. Bartlett

was also an artist whose paintings, illustrations, and

drawings have been exhibited in more than 40 one-man

shows in leading museums in the U.S. and Mexico. Archives

of his work and literary correspondence have now been

established at the American Heritage Center of the

University of Wyoming, the Nettie Lee Benson Latin

American Collection of the University of Texas, and the

Rare Books Collection of the University of California,

Los Angeles.

Paul Alexander Bartlett’s life was lived with a single

value always central: a sustained dedication to beauty,

which he believed was the most vital value of living and

his reason for his life as a writer and an artist. Voices

from the Past reflects this commitment, for he believed

that these five voices, in their different ways, express

a passion for life, for the creative spirit, and

ultimately for beauty in a variety of its forms—poetic

and natural (Sappho), spiritual (Jesus), scientific and

artistic (da Vinci), literary (Shakespeare), and

humanitarian (Lincoln). In this work, he has sought, as

faithfully as possible, to relay across time a renewed

lyrical meaning of these remarkable individuals, lending

them his own voice, with a mood, simplicity, depth of

feeling, and love of beauty that were his, and, he be-

lieved, also theirs.

The journal form has been used only rarely in works of

fiction. Bartlett believed that as a form of literature

the journal offers the most effective way to bring back

to life the life-worlds of significant, unique, highly

individual, and important creators. In each of the novels

that make up Voices from the Past, his interest is to

portray the inner experience of exceptional and special

people, about whom there is scant knowledge on this

level. During the many years of research he devoted to a

study of the lives and thoughts of Sappho, Jesus, Leo-

nardo, Shakespeare, and Lincoln, he sought to base the

journals on what is known and what can be surmised about

the person behind each voice, and he wove into each

journal passages from their writings and the substance of

the testimony of others. Yet the five novels are fiction:

They re-express in an author’s creation lives now buried

by the passage of centuries.

I am deeply grateful to my wife, Karen Bartlett, for

her faithful, patient, and perceptive help with this long

project.

✧

For my father,

Paul Alexander Bartlett,

whose kindness, love of beauty and of place

will always be greatly missed.

SAPPHO’S JOURNAL

“Violet-haired, pure

honey-smiling Sappho”

– Alcaeus

FOREWORD

Willis Barnstone

Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Comparative

Literature

Indiana University

aul Alexander Bartlett’s journal of Sappho is a masterful

work. I had recently completed a translation of the

extant lines of Sappho and am familiar with his problems.

He was faced with the almost impossible task of

reconstructing the personality of Sappho and her

background in ancient Lesbos. To my happy surprise he did

so, in a work which is at once poetic, dramatic and

powerful. In Sappho’s Journal he does more than create a

vague illusion of the past. He conveys the character of

real people, their interior life and outer world. A

mature artist, he writes with ease and taste.

Sappho’s poetry, quoted in this novel, is

included with the translator’s permission.

The poems appeared in Sappho, Lyrics in the

Original Greek, with translations by Willis

Barnstone, Anchor Books, Doubleday, 1965.

For clarity, the calendar used by Sappho has

been translated into our modern calendar.

SAPPHO’S JOURNAL

Sappho, walking on her island beach,

pauses by a broken amphora:

With one foot, she nudges the terra cotta and

black jar,

its painted chariot, charioteer and horses:

The charioteer wears a laurel wreath.

Sappho, about 30 years old,

her hair braided around her head,

naked, sandaled, saunters along the

Mediterranean,

gulls and pelicans flying, surf and gull

sounds in early morning yellow.

Villa Poseidon, Mytilene

642 B.C.

he great storm beats across the island, rattling the

olive and the cypress, piling the surf on the beach,

hissing the rain across my roof. It is cold and the light

of my terra cotta lamp is cold. Some say that a storm

will wash away our island, but I do not believe it. Our

island will be here long after I have gone, and so will

our town, my dear Mytilene, so wrong, so right.

Alcaeus would revel in this gale and go out in it and

let the rain lash him and then he would come and take me

in his arms.

The storm will rage all night and the gutters spew, and

I will rage at my solitude, a solitude that grows and

grows.

Growl on, spew on, beat and tramp—tomorrow’s sun will

return and the sea’s eye will glitter and I will gaze

across the bay—and Alcaeus will not be here.

My feet are cold and the lamp is weak and the wax hard,

and I must go to bed.



Yesterday, the wine workers gathered at a nearby

vineyard, old men and girls, in tattered clothes, some

lazy, some hard-working, pressing the grapes, many of

them my friends. Spade-bearded Niko directed the

pressing, sitting at the base of an oak, wearing a

stained robe, his voice low. Women carried hampers of

grapes loaded with purple clusters, the women’s skirts

wet with dew, the grapes mottled with damp. Clouds made

the day cool. Someone toyed with a flute, the men

treading, emptying husks over sandy soil, now and then

pausing to talk under the oak, the circular press letting

out its red, everyone tasting. Many amphorae were broken,

before they were finally filled and capped.

I wanted to help. How sweet the smell flooding my nose.



Atthis has been my girl-child today and we have

strolled together up the long, long path to the outcrop,

beyond the temple. Atthis and tall white marble columns,

with their busy apricot-breasted swallows, have assuaged

my loneliness. How lonely we become, as we grow older,

even when there is someone to share. The key to self gets

lost; self-assurance diminishes. Once, it was only

necessary to dash around the garden or throw back one’s

head and laugh...

Yellow-headed Atthis, lazy-eyed, sitting on the steps

of the temple ruin, wove a flower wreath for me and I

wove one for her. Then, returning home, we bathed at our

fountain, splashing each other, the sun on us and the

slippery marble. Afterwards, we lay down and slept, and I

dreamed of a ship at sea, her mast broken, her tangled

sail and rigging dragging.

Will the war never end?



Fog, as grey as a shepherd’s cloak, ruffled the bay for

a day and a night. Then, stabbing us, came clarity, and

inside that clarity, centered in it, a brown intaglio, a

small wooden carving, first one ship and then another.

Our fleet had sailed back to us! I watched from the

terrace, unable to speak. Atthis ran up to me. Anaktoria

came. Gyrinno came. Boys yelled. Old men rushed past the

house. Dogs barked. Someone banged a drum. Such

clamoring!

But was it joyous news, I asked myself? Why were the

women in a knot at the corner? Why hadn’t fast rowers

raced to tell us? Had the fog tricked the fleet?

Changing my clothes, putting on new sandals, I walked

to the pier and the seagulls screamed and we waited and

waited. People surged all about, saying wild things,

shrieking—then, ominously, fell silent. Their shouts were

better than their silence. The ocean seemed too calm, as

if it had been smothered by the fog or dreaded the

arrival of our fleet.

I had pictured the ships as fast moving, bright on

bright water.

As the first one approached, I saw no happy faces, no

lifted hands, no raised shields, no plumed helmets at the

rail, no flags.

I heard an oar drag and in that sound I heard the rasp

of death. If Alcaeus is dead, I will take poison—and I

saw myself going to Xerxes, our Persian chemist, and

asking for the powder. We had agreed, years back, during

another crisis, that he would allow me this gift to free

myself, if I must. His yellow face vanished, as I watched

an anchor plunge slowly and saw the sail topple into the

water and heard a man cry some name.

Shouts went up.

A chorus began.

Voices caught our song, way out at sea, assuring us

that these were not phantoms.

Alcaeus?

Ten years ago, almost ten—ten years ago, he had left

Mytilene, the wars sweeping him away. Ten years we had

lived with fear creeping about our island. Ten years—how

my fingers trembled. I saw those years, there on the

wharf, saw them in the gulls’ wings, in the distraught

faces about me, my girls’, my friends’, my neighbors’. We

had all waited for this homecoming. And now, now our

fleet was gliding toward us, grey-hulked, no flags

raised, oars shuffling like sick crabs.

Was it defeat or half-victory? Who, among our men, was

lost, dead, or wounded? Gull on the masthead, apple at

the end of the bough, what can you tell us at such

crucial times? For an infinitude, the oars paced, a boat

swung, another boat anchoring alongside, the armor on

deck flashing, the waves gulping at the gulls.

I turned away, moved back.

And then I saw someone helping Alcaeus ashore—wounded

or ill—and old, old, I thought.

Beauty said to me: This is only change.

And I said: But what is change?

And I slipped away, not daring to meet him, hoping

someone would shout a name and confirm that this was

another, not Alcaeus. But no, I knew. A woman knows a man

she has loved, however battered he may be. I turned to

watch his blundering progress.

The chorus had dwindled—only those at sea, the far off

crews, still carried the hymn. I could not remain any

longer. I hurried home, past his house to mine, wondering

what kind of haven it could be, wondering what people

would say at my flight. Yet this was not flight; it was

merely a postponement, waiting for a sign, a chance to

prepare myself. Alcaeus...must I send someone to him?

What must I do? Go to his home? Shall I be there for him

when he arrives?

At my door I turned and retraced my steps to his house,

the laces of my sandals making a sound I had never heard

before, the gulls wailing, the sounds from the wharf

intermingling and incomprehensible.

And I was there when he came with his servant, an ugly

Parthian, helping him. Yes, I was there and put out my

hand to touch him, hearing his troubled breathing, seeing

his torn and disheveled clothes, his rank beard, and

knowing he was ill. I remembered the dream, the ship with

its broken sail. And I remembered our love and I said to

him:

“Alcaeus...it is I, Sappho...”

He squared his shoulders, his cloak slipping away. His

arms went out to me, then dropped to his side.

His eyes had the marble core of nothingness in them.

Appalled, I could scarcely stand. O God, what is this

that can happen to a man? Why has it happened? His arms

in bandages, his eyes forever bandaged by the dark.

“Alcaeus...”

He heard my whisper and shuffled backwards, bumping his

servant; he moved forward then and gripped me hard,

twisting my flesh, his great muscles rising in his hands.

“Take me to my room... You haven’t forgotten the way,

have you?”

I took his arm and the Parthian opened the door and

servants bowed about us; yes, I took his arm and silently

we climbed the stairs to his room, his clothes rough

against me, his sea smell around me. We passed his

library that held the books he had loved. We passed his

mother’s room, where she had died. We passed where light

fell around us, though no light entered his eyes.

“You are in your room,” I said.

“Where?”

“Beside your Egyptian chair.”

“Can I sit down on it?”

“Yes, it’s ready for you.”

Grasping the heavy frame, he lowered himself and the

taut leather squeaked. I placed a pillow behind him and

drew a fur across his knees, then sat next to him. The

door had shut itself and we were alone. We listened to

each other’s breathing and his hand sought mine and

climbed my robe to my face and the coarse fingers felt my

cheek and I felt them reach my heart, with the past

roaring around me like the recent storm.

I couldn’t speak. I felt that the war was forever

between us and I hated those years, those battles, the

lines on his face. My hate was there, between us. Then,

then, tears came to his eyes. Silently, he wept. And I

drew him to me.

I heard the wind cross over his house.

Voices shuffled below us in the courtyard, the excited

voices of the caretakers, the idle, the hangers-on. I

could imagine their leers, their whispers. I lifted his

face toward mine and kissed him, his heavy beard sticking

my mouth.

There was a sob—a broken gasp. How ill he looked, how

tired...

“You must lie down, Alcaeus. Come, I’ll help you.”

And when he was settled, I brought him water.

“Water...there hasn’t been much water these last few

days at sea...”



So he had come home, “homeward from earth’s far end,”

on the shield of blindness. I saw him next day and the

next, but he seemed strange, withdrawn. I found two of

his servants but he wasn’t interested.

I thought of him as old. But was he old? Age was in his

scars, in his streaked hair and beard, the hands lifting

and settling awkwardly.

Warm under the stars, the daphne fragrant, his sea

terrace tiles smooth underneath our feet, we sat alone,

some rooster vaguely saluting the night, the movement of

the surf faint, almost lost. I crushed some daphne in my

palm, remembering their four-pronged flowers,

remembering—remembering Alcaeus after his field games,

his javelin and discus throwing, his flushed face, his

eyes lit, his mouth hungry for mine. Remembering—was he

remembering, too?

“There was no daphne where I was,” he said, his voice

sullen. “It would have been better to have died there,

than come home like this.”

“It’s spring, Alcaeus, don’t talk like that,” I said,

and wondered what spring might signify to him.

He did not speak for a while, then quietly, as though

to himself, or from another world, he repeated lines we

had loved:

“The gods held me in Egypt, longing to sail for home,

for I had failed to seek their blessing with an

offering...”

His voice had not changed, I realized with a start.

Surcharged with new meaning, it entered my being, as he

went on about the galleys and the old men “deep in the

sea’s abyss.”

The phrase haunted me because it was he who lived in an

abyss.

As days passed, defeat was all that we heard in our

town, not outright defeat, but capitulation—retreat

combined with truce, truce necessitated by deception. Or

was it confusion? The soldiers I met, after their drunken

reunions, spoke of the war with bitterness. Ten years,

they said. Ten years, for what? And how many of us came

back? Those who had been away longest considered

themselves outcasts and those who had returned during the

war complained, unable to recognize their families.

Standing on the wharf, I familiarized myself with the

fleet, its remnants, anchored forlornly in the bay, boys

swimming around the hulls, the decks bone dry, hawsers

trailing, a door off its hinges, the cordage so rotten a

gull might topple a spar. Disgust in my mouth, I tasted

the waste of life, Alcaeus’, my own, my friends’.

What is life for, but love?

And love sent Atthis and me along the beach, stretching

our legs, running, dashing in and out of shallows,

finding periwinkles, the day even-tempered, goats

nibbling at wild celery, their bells lazy, a fisherman

waving at us as he cast his net, clouds over the

mountain. I noticed Atthis against the luminous water,

her fragile face trusting life. Her yellow ringlets in my

lap, she sang to me and then, eyes shut, fingers in the

sand, she seemed to steal away.

“What are you thinking about, darling?”

“You...”

“What about?”

“You and Alcaeus—you are so troubled for him.”

“Then you have seen him?”

“Yesterday. And I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because what is there left for him—and you?”

“I can’t answer you, Atthis. Time answers such

questions.”

I sense my old loneliness, a loneliness that was

distorted like a ship’s rib, tossed on the beach, warped

because of bad luck.

“His arms have been injured, too,” Atthis said.

“They will get better, in time...” And I heard time in

the receding wave and felt it in her ringlets and in her

hands.

“You’re so sweet,” she said and I saw myself mirrored

in her eyes. And it occurred to me that Alcaeus and I

would never again be able to exchange notes, those hasty,

affectionate scribbles. Would he ever again dictate his

bawdy poems, lampoon dictators and brag about war? Had

pen and desk become his enemies?

Many things occurred to me, there on the sand, as

Atthis and I talked softly.

Sappho’s garden, terraces of roses, shrubbery

and cypress,

has the ocean below: moonlit, she stands

white-robed

close to marble statuary:

a nude Hermes, a bust of Aphrodite,

a niobe, an athlete from Delphi.

Sappho sits down on a bench and fingers a

lyre.

Mytilene

onight, I have returned to my poetry, for the solace and

sound of my pen. Here in my library, time will be

defeated for a moment, at least. The sun’s last rays

stream in, so yellow, they might be made of acacia. The

cooling light covers my desk and bookshelves and

relinquishes its hold of my vase. A fragment clings to

the amphora Alcaeus gave me long ago. Its dancing,

singing men seem somehow out of focus; yet it seems I

hear the flute and lyre of the ceramic players.

I dreamed I talked with Cyprus-born...

No, that is a poor line.

Maybe this is a better theme for tonight:

But I, I love delicate living, and for me,

richness and beauty belong to the sun...



There was a symposium and Gyrinno danced for the guests

and afterwards brought me news about Alcaeus, how he left

the party and wandered to the beach. There he quarreled

with Charaxos, both armed with sticks and staggering

drunk. At first, Gyrinno garbled the news, mixing it with

the symposium’s talk of war, the defeat, the hatreds of

many kinds, including punishment and forfeit. It must

have been a sorry meeting, this reunion of our warriors.

Gyrinno reached me drenched with wine the men hard thrown

on her. Other girls had been treated the same.

Welcome home—men!

When I had soothed Gyrinno and bathed and perfumed and

powdered her, I went to the beach, thinking I might find

them. Yes, they were there, quarreling on the sand, my

lover and my brother, kicking their naked shins on

driftwood, their servants standing by, only half

interested and half awake.

“Charaxos,” I began.

“Ah...I rather expected you.”

“Sappho?” called Alcaeus.

“Get up, both of you.” I moved past the servants

indignantly.

“Just leave us alone,” growled Charaxos.

“Leave a blind man with you, when it is you who is

really blind?”

“Let’s not resume our quarrel,” said Charaxos.

“When have we stopped?”

“Please go away,” said Alcaeus, “I can take care of

him, myself.”

“I’ll not go! I intend to see you home!” And I ordered

the servants to separate them and leave me with Alcaeus.

Mumbling, he followed along the shore, walking

uncertainly, but keeping out of the way of the inrushing

water. Where rocks littered the beach, he allowed me to

help him, and was soon apologizing.

“I haven’t been home a month and already I act the

fool. What right have I to criticize anybody? So he

brought home a slave woman. Haven’t I had my share?”

I did not interrupt, preoccupied as I was with guiding

him. Besides, my anger with Charaxos was too old, too

deep-seated, too complex. It was not a subject to pursue

on the beach, with the wind carrying our words and the

breakers drowning them. This was, I preferred, a private

quarrel.

With Charaxos and his men following a distance apart,

we made a pretty picture, hiccoughing through Mytilene!

Its silent streets were topped by a new moon; Venus

seemed swallowed by a single window. Why were we in such

contrast?

Laughter and outworn songs...swaying and

shuffling...until the shutting of my door.

Alone, I sit beside my lamp to consider its flame, the

why and wherefore of its integrity, fragility. Shadows

are commonplace when we ignite a lamp. Yet, without a

light, there are profounder shadows.



I hear that Alcaeus goes out alone, forbidding his

servants to follow. Everyone has become uneasy.

Today, he dismissed his secretary. So poor Gogu has

sought me out to explain what happened.

“Someday he will do me in. He has threatened this often

enough!” He was trembling so hard, he could hardly speak.

It is no wonder Alcaeus calls him a “stick of driftwood.”

He has an abandoned air that begs to be found and picked

up.

“The least word, the least word upsets him. And you

know how Alcaeus can rant!”

“Yes, well...”

“He says our great fight at Sigeum was lost through

sheer carelessness. Of course, he blames the other

officers...”

But then, Gogu has never held anyone’s interest or

respect for long. Who but Alcaeus would have hired an

epileptic, in the first place? Almost everyone has

rescued Gogu, at one time or another, from the surf, the

wine shop, the brothel or the forum. How does this knobby

skeleton manage to survive and endure?

“You will speak to Alcaeus? You promise?”

I promised. The dread of having Gogu permanently

abandoned is worse than imploring Alcaeus to take him

back. Besides, his scholarship is often surprising, and

Alcaeus can use his help.

So later, I invited Alcaeus and some friends to supper.

We sat around the courtyard fountain and listened to the

harpists playing under the burning lamps. Libus, Nanno,

Suidas—they are good company for Alcaeus. He seemed more

like himself again, joking and talking. Again he

lampooned Mimnermos and mimicked “that strange-smelling

country poet from Smyrna.” But I detected a morbid note,

a self-hostility that cut him more than it did those he

scorned.

Will he ever write again?

He left early, insisting he would find his way home by

himself. A soldier, reduced to being treated like an

irresponsible infant—of course he resented it. But I know

he did not return home. Instead, he has rambled into the

hills again.

Now the others are gone. And I wonder, looking towards

the slope, what it is that Alcaeus hopes to find, a new

life?

I shall not be able to sleep indoors tonight. My bed

will have to be under the trees. Perhaps the wind can

bring me some special message.



The banquet honoring the warriors was held last night.

Alcaeus had his collection of war shields displayed on

his dining room walls. Of hide and metal, in various

shapes, they united the room and its glazing lamps and

candles. I felt myself the focal point of a painted eye

on a circular hide, as I sat by him. I could not recall

such an assembly in years: Scythian, Etruscan, Turkish,

Negro. Bowls of incense sent threads to the ceiling.

Wisps floated in front of me where a man in Egyptian

clothes, headband studded with rubies, sat beside his

courtesan.

Alcaeus made his way to the dais, when everyone was

seated, about fifty of us. Hands resting on a table, arms

healed and ringed with copper bands, he leaned forward,

waiting for silence. His hair had been freshly curled,

and his beard trimmed and brushed with oil. I was

troubled, thinking he might be impudent or truculent.

Instead he spoke gravely and it was difficult to believe

he could not see us. I thought he glanced straight at me.

“Tonight, friends, there will be no tirade, no poetry.

I wish to pay my respects, and offer my thanks for our

return to our island. I know how beautiful it is...”

There was a murmur of appreciation.

“Soldiers have a way of talking out of turn,” he went

on, reminding them of the gossip that had come to his

ears, shameful talk that made faces blush with guilt and

anger.

“It’s time for me, as their commander, to speak. Very

well, I will!” And his voice thundered across the room,

to make sure that none would miss or mistake its message.

Was this the Alcaeus who had joked and sported and sung

ribald songs, as the popular friend of young men who were

proud, rich, playful and naive? Here was someone speaking

out of experience...

“I assure you the truce was an honorable truce—and will

be respected.” An older, solemn Alcaeus...who reviewed

the war with wisdom.

“And now let us forget fear and enjoy life and see that

our people prosper.” It was an impressive speech, one

they would long remember.

Our personal servants, assisted by the usual naked

boys, waited on us, pouring the Chian wine. Gradually,

people began to move about, to talk and drink together.

Men long absent from such gatherings moved nervously or

waited glumly—alone or in knots of two or three, feeling

separate. How does one forget the battlefield? I heard

the burr of ancient Egyptian. Persian was spoken by men

from Ablas. Women gathered about the newly returned; some

were excited, some were beautifully dressed, their hair

piled in curls, their shoulders bare, wearing gold

sandals.

As the evening wore on, the old familiar sense of

freedom returned. Restraint dropped away. Voices and

laughter increased. Then applause broke out as a Negro

entertainer entered, carrying a smoking torch.

Under the edge of the portico, he freed a basket of

birds and juggled several wicker balls. I had never seen

this gaunt, ribbed giant, beautifully naked; some said he

had come on a wine ship as a crewman. He spun the cages

higher and higher and as they whirled in the torch light,

he tore open first one and then anther, to liberate the

birds. A magnificent performance.

The suggestion worried Pittakos and he pushed through

the crowd to take the floor. Pittakos, with his rasping

tongue and fish eyes—was there a more dishonest ruler?

How ironical that he should represent us! As he kept

folding and unfolding his robe, he spoke about our fleet,

how he would have the ships repaired and converted into

fishing boats for the use of the community...never

mentioning that our fleet was rotted!

Presently, the musicians and dancers wandered among us

and the party went on. After many songs and a lot of

wine, Alcaeus slipped his arm through mine and suggested

we go upstairs. It was all very obvious, of course—that

he was drunk and I unwilling, that times had changed and

everything with it. When was it we had dashed, hand in

hand, up his staircase, giggling and pushing one another?

How many years ago?

Ah, deception and illusion, do we dare recreate the

past and its former happiness? Only in memory is it done

successfully. Yet, here we were in his room.

Life is for love!

In the old days, when we had made love, we had closed

our eyes, to intensify sensations. Now he would not need

to shut his eyes. And his arms, hands, fingers—once young

and sure—what could they remember?

I could not keep back tears, tears he would never know,

as he stumbled, laughed, then sprawled over the fur cov-

ering of his bed. While the music filtered in to us, I

cushioned him in my lap and wiped the perspiration from

his face, hating the war and the years behind us. After

mumbling a few words, he turned over and fell into

profound sleep.

So, that was the resumption of our love...and, as I

leaned against a hillside olive, the salt air fresh about

me, I accepted defeat, aware that my loneliness would

appear again and again. There, on the hill, gazing

seaward, where fishing smacks moved, I rubbed the horny

bark, envying the tree’s longevity and its years ahead.

Would I trade places, to brood over Mytilene, for

centuries?

Alone?

Then Atthis circled me in her arms, creeping up behind

me and cupping my eyes. I recognized her by her laughter

and perfume.

“Atthis...”



Alcaeus’ home is much older than mine, with patina

walls, Parian marble floors, and a collection of rare

Athenian busts. His library has a Corinthian copy of

Homer and a collection of Periander’s maxims, while I

have been contented with some papyri, of choral lyrics

and dithyrambs.

As I stretch out in a leather chair in his library and

read to him, the honeysuckle makes its fragrance outside,

surely a woman’s flower, so fecund. I try to keep my

voice and thoughts within the room, beyond the reach of

its fragrance. The honeysuckle does not suit us or the

room. And Alcaeus knows this, too. His impassive features

grow stern, as though to reprimand me. Insatiable Sappho!

Yet how can I help it? I must love and be loved.

Laying down the book, I kneel and place my cheek

against his knee. His hands, gliding over my hair and

neck, are dead. His voice, out of its black, reproaches

me.

I want to cry: but I didn’t blind you!

The other day in the library, he said:

“I wanted to write something great... During the war, I

conceived of a series of island poems, bucolic,

legendary, praise of this life.” And he motioned toward

the ocean and our island.

“Dictate to me,” I said, hoping to rouse his impulse.

His silence, at first natural enough, went on, and I

became embarrassed by his stare at the bookshelves.

“I want to help you, Alcaeus.”

Again the silence. How was I to get through it?

Taking a volume of his poems, I read aloud several of

his favorites. Slowly, his face relaxed and he settled

deeper in his chair. After a while, he said:

“Read some of yours, Sappho.”

I opened a book, one of my earliest ones, and read

several passages. But I could not continue; I felt my

mind wrapped in fog; my hands became icy. I shut my eyes

and said to myself: See, this is what it’s like to be

blind. You’re blind, blind to love and life...

As I kissed him good-bye, I longed for our youth, its

freedom, its daring, its quarrels and fun.

Walking home, I told myself I should never return to

his house.



In looking back over the pages of my journal, I am

alarmed by the passage of time. When I was young, I

thought time was a philanthropist.

I remember so well that day mama took me to the ocean,

and the rain fell unexpectedly, lashing and soaking us.

We finally discovered a shepherd’s hut, but I got colder

and colder in its windowless gloom. Lying on the floor,

among stiff hides, with the rain sounding loud and the

hides smelling strong, I thought the storm would never

end. Toward dusk, a shepherd and his boy came, dripping

with wet and shivering, and my mother dried the boy and

made him lie down with me under the hides. Were we seven

or eight? Together, our bodies grew warm and we lay

still, listening to the wind and the rain thud across the

green roof, while the shepherd went about building a fire

and preparing supper. I have forgotten the boy’s name,

but not his face. Forever after, I thought of him as my

first lover. I doubt whether we spoke a word all that

delicious evening.

Now I find it hard to renew ties with the past. Not

only Alcaeus...but Dioscurides...Pylades...Milo...the

very names make me unhappy. All destroyed by war. What

special stupidity do men possess that they must involve

themselves in such a gamble, with loss inevitable,

anyhow?



The columns of the temple of Zeus, in Athens,

stand white against the moonlit sky.

A woman walks among columnar cypress,

her sandals scraping sand and gravel.

A hawk wheels above.

he masks I have on my bedroom walls seem less clever than

they appeared years ago. Our theatre, too, has changed

through the years, become more mediocre.

Yesterday, at the play, I sat closer than usual and was

delighted by the comic faces, so new and frightful that

children screamed and squealed. Good, I thought. Perhaps

the play may take on life.

...A man with a tambourine strutted about...an old

beggar, pack on back, pulled at his beard and mimicked

words sung by the chorus. He seemed to be one of us or a

Chian, maybe. It was pleasant enough to soak myself in

comedy for a while, for right after the play, Charaxos

found me and suggested we stroll in private. Obviously,

he had something on his mind!

He began by offering me an exquisite scarab, saying he

had purchased it for me, from a sailor who had touched

port.

“For me?” I became suspicious! I fingered the beetle-

shaped oval, unlike any I had seen. An amethyst was set

in the center with characters engraved around it.

“An Etruscan scarab should make a pretty keepsake,” he

said.

“Then I think you should keep it.”

“Why? Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“That it might bring bad luck.”

He laughed ironically, as he flipped and caught the

scarab, with a flick of his wrist.

“What is it you want?” I asked, coming directly to the

point.

“To be treated with respect, Rhodopis and I—not

criticized.”

“Do I say too much?”

“I don’t like your tongue.” He was scowling now.

“Nor I your woman’s!”

“Leave her out! I warn you—she’s no longer a slave!”

“It wasn’t that she was a slave that bothered me.”

“A courtesan, then!”

“No, you should know better than that. Oh, no...it was

your assumption that our family funds could be lifted,

without my consent and without my knowledge. Taken to buy

Rhodopis. You sold three or four wine ships to pay her

price, along with the money taken from me.”

“Can’t you forget...”

“Not conveniently. Nobody enjoys being robbed.”

“I have said I would repay you.”

“But that was nearly two years ago. And you go right on

selling wine and buying equipment. I have heard that you

added a ship last month. Wasn’t it convenient to pay me

then?”

His fist tightened over the scarab, and he bowed and

turned away, rejoining his wife who was strolling behind

us with her friends and servants.

Theatre!



Villa Poseidon

Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria and I went swimming in the

bay by the driftwood tree. It was late, the sun misty,

its eye sleepy, pelicans roosting, a dolphin or two

frolicking close to shore. I had been unable to forget my

meeting with Charaxos, until Anaktoria, who is the best

swimmer among us, grabbed me by the heels as I floated

by, and towed me to the bottom. That ended my anger and

irritation. I lit after her, snatching for her long hair.

Arms around her, I forced her to tow me toward shore,

making myself as heavy as possible.

As the four of us played on the beach, I thought: When

will this happen again? Something about the late

afternoon—its hammered out sun, its tempered air, its

windlessness, its smell of spring—seemed unreal even as

it happened. We tossed our blankets on the sand, dashed

back and forth to the water’s edge, splashed each other,

then arranged ourselves in a circle and began combing

each other’s hair. We sang and laughed, comparing, whose

was finest, whose was thickest.

Atthis, whose hair was shortest, bragged she could swim

the farthest. That started an argument.

“Who swam halfway round the island last year?” demanded

Gyrinno.

“Who was born at sea?” said Anaktoria.

“You can tell the best swimmer by the shape of her

buttocks,” said Atthis. “Look at mine, how flat they

are.” She jumped up, to show us.

“A boy’s buttocks,” laughed Gyrinno.

“Here. Measure. Mine are smaller,” said Anaktoria.

So we measured, laughing, fussing, pushing, our hair

streaming around us—a gull on the shore padding back and

forth, scolding. Atthis won, but Anaktoria had the

loveliest breasts, so round, almost transparent in that

evening light. I have rarely seen a girl of such grace,

not the childish grace of some, but the accomplished

grace of true femininity. As the others became aware of

my admiration, they became jealous and peevish, and tried

to shift the praise.

They talked about my smallness, my violet hair... “your

deep blue eyes”... “your melodious voice...”

But this was Anaktoria’s hour. She had been away,

visiting in Samnos, staying with her family, and I was

eager to hear the news.

“I thought I was homesick... But it is Mytilene I love

best... My brother has a girl now. He goes to her house

whenever he is not working. I saw very little of him...

Life there was very dull. Family visits from door to

door. The same cup of wine, the same paste of nuts and

fruit, the same questions, answers, family anecdotes and

jokes... How lonesome I was!”

Growing quiet, all of us responded to the evening, the

lingering sea-light, the arrival of the stars, the

whispering shingle, the breeze, carrying the scents and

sounds from Mytilene.

Anaktoria and I walked home together, feeling our bond

closer, stronger than before. I had missed her more than

I thought: I had missed her a dozen times a day.



I have been sick today and to amuse myself I have made

some jottings about my girls:

Atthis—lover of yellow ribbons, scared of the dark. To

avoid going out, will invent a headache, a toothache or a

stomachache. An orphan, she gets homesick for the home

she never had. Prefers women to men. Tells amusing jokes

and stories. Loves laughter. Mimics. Is made jealous

easily. Speaks slowly...ivory-skinned.

Gyrinno—the daughter of a wine merchant, can outdrink

most men. Worries about her figure, eats next to nothing.

Uses violet perfume. Our best dancer. Otherwise, is lazy,

careless of dress and makeup. Never reads. Wants to marry

someone wealthy and entertain lavishly. Snores.

Anaktoria—hair yellower than torchlight, soft-girl,

dabbler in poetry, dreamer, lovely singer. Plays lyre and

flute equally well. Adores games, trees, flowers,

swimming, archery. Wants to travel, be a priestess.

Then there are the new girls: Heptha, with copper

hair... Myra, who is Turkish... Helen, a scatterbrained

darling... Ah, but each is exquisite in her own way. No

two are alike. I love them all.

And yet, I am grieved, since my own daughter is jealous

of them. Dear, foolish Kleis, who pretends she has never

been a child and is yet so far from being a woman.



I have spent weeks over a poem, revising, revising.

I do my best writing in the morning, when the sea light

is sparking my room. How important the harmony is to me:

harmony in my house, on the island, in my heart.

Sometimes, I call my girls to let them hear what I have

written. Sometimes, in the evenings, I recite my poems

for friends. Sometimes, I go days, unable to write a

word. They are cold days.

Shall I use eleven syllables?

A poem does not grow like a leaf, but has to be shaped.

I often think of a lyric as an amphora; little by little

I must mold its lines on the wheel of my mind. It is the

structure, containing the song. It must be graceful,

strong, so that the words and the music can flow...

The wings of the swans have drawn you toward

the dark ground,

with yoke chariot bearing down from heaven...

Come to me...free me from trouble...



Today I received a letter from Aesop, written at

Adelphi. It is a joy to hear from him. I thought he had

forgotten me. What a good companion he was, all those

days in Corinth... Companion? He was more like a father!

His handwriting is the most perfect I have ever seen.

Each letter formed so patiently, each thought expressed

so beautifully. Does he strive for perfection because be

cannot forget his deformity?

I remember his eyes used to transfix me with their

brown hypnosis.

He must be fifty, I think.

He had his beard trimmed and his hair curled, every

morning. His robes, so elegant, so clean, were always

perfumed. I seldom saw him without his doll, that bull-

leaping doll of Cretan ivory, brightly painted! But his

apartment was simple, tastefully furnished, elegant as

his clothes. Each bath towel, I recall, bore a brilliant

red octopus.

When he looked after Alcaeus and me, we ate with him

every day at least one meal. Through all the years of our

exile, he remained our most faithful friend. His friends

were our friends. His house was ours. His servants. He

treated everyone with equal respect.

“I never forget that I was a slave,” he often said.