Voices from the Past (2024)

In Voices from the Past, a daring group of fiveindependent novels, acclaimed author Paul Alexander Bartlett accomplishes a tourde force of historical fiction, allowing the reader to enter for the firsttime into the private worlds of five remarkable people: Sappho of Lesbos, thefamous Greek poet; Jesus; Leonardo da Vinci; Shakespeare; and Abraham Lincoln.Each novel appears here in its entirety within a single unique volume of 644pages beautifully illustrated by the author-artist.

Bartlett’s writing hasbeen praised by many leading authors, reviewers, and critics, among them:

James Michener, novelist: “I am muchtaken 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 importantwriter... I find great pleasure in his work. Really beautiful anddistinguished.”

Alice S. Morris in Harper’s Bazaar:“He tells a haunting and beautiful story and manages to telescope, in abrilliantly leisurely way, a lifetime, a full and eventful lifetime.”

Russell Kirk, novelist: “The scenes are drawn with power. Bartlett is anaccomplished 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 isessentially a writer of mood.”

Willis Barnstone, Sappho scholar andtranslator: “A mature artist, Bartlett writes with ease and taste.”

J. Donald Adams in The New York Times: “...thefreshest, most vital writing I have seen for some time.”

Pearl S. Buck, Nobel Laureate inLiterature: “He is an excellent writer.”

Herbert Gorman, novelist andbiographer: “He possesses a sensitivity in description and an acuteness in thedelineation of character.”

Ford Madox Ford, English novelist,about Bartlett: “...a writer of very considerable merit.”

Lon Tinkle in the Dallas MorningNews: “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”

WorchesterTelegram: “Between realism and poetry...brilliant, colorful.”

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ISBN 978-0-6151-4120-6

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Autograph Editions is committed to bringing readers someof the best of fine quality contemporary literature in unique, beautifullydesigned books, many of them illustrated with original art specially createdfor each book. Each of our books aspires to be a work of art in itself—in bothits content and its design.

The press was established in 1975. Over the years AutographEditions has published a variety of distinguished and widely commended books offiction and poetry. Our most recent publication is the remarkable quintet, Voicesfrom the Past, by bestselling author Paul Alexander Bartlett, whose novel, Whenthe Owl Cries, has been widely acclaimed by many authors, reviewers, andcritics, among them James Michener, Pearl S. Buck, Ford Madox Ford, CharlesPoore, James Purdy, Russell Kirk, Michael Fraenkel, and many others.

naddition to this book’s availability in a printed edition, the copyright holderhas chosen to issue this work as an eBook through Project Gutenberg as a freeopen access publication under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivslicense, which allows anyone to distribute this work without changes to itscontent, provided that both the author and the original URL from which thiswork was obtained are mentioned, that the contents of this work are not usedfor commercial purposes or profit, and that this work will not be used withoutthe copyright holder’s written permission in derivative works (i.e., you maynot alter, transform, or build upon this work without such permission). Thefull legal statement of this license may be found at

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Voices from the Past

A Quintet:

Sappho’sJournal

Christ’sJournal

Leonardoda Vinci’s Journal

Shakespeare’sJournal

Lincoln’sJournal

Books by

PAUL ALEXANDER BARTLETT

Novels

Voicesfrom 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

Spokesfor Memory

Nonfiction

The Haciendas of Mexico:An Artist’s Record

Voices from the Past

A Quintet:

Sappho’sJournal

Christ’sJournal

Leonardoda Vinci’s Journal

Shakespeare’sJournal

Lincoln’sJournal

by

Paul Alexander Bartlett

and

Illustrated by the Author

Editedby

Steven James Bartlett

AUTOGRAPH EDITIONS

Salem, Oregon

AUTOGRAPH EDITIONS

P. O.Box 6141 Salem, Oregon 97304

Î Established1975 Ó

This book is protected bycopyright. No part

may be reproduced in anymanner without

written permission from thepublisher.

Copyright © 2007 by Steven James Bartlett

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, PaulAlexander.

Voices from the past : aquintet : Sappho's journal, Christ's journal, Leonardo
da Vinci's journal, Shakespeare's journal, Lincoln's journal / by PaulAlexander
Bartlett and illustrated by the author ; edited by Steven James Bartlett. --1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: "Acollection 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 thetestimony
of others"--Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-6151-4120-6

1. Sappho--Diaries--Fiction. 2. JesusChrist--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.A8396V652006

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 ofPhilosophy, Oregon State University

and

Visiting Scholar in Psychology& Philosophy, Willamette University

oices from the Past is aquintet 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 inwardrealities of these people, about their personal thoughts, reflections, and thequal­ity and nature of their feelings. For this reason they have become no morethan voices from the past: The contributions they have left us remain, butlittle 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 AlexanderBartlett over a period of several decades. After his death in an automobileaccident in 1990, the manu­scripts of the five novels were discovered among hisas yet unpublished papers. He had been at work adding the finishing touches tothe manuscripts. Now, more than a decade and a half after his death, thepublication of Voices from the Past is overdue.

Bartlett is known for his fiction, including When the OwlCries and Adiós Mi México, historical novels set during the MexicanRevolution of 1910 and descrip­tive of hacienda life, Forward, Children!,a powerful antiwar novel, and numerous short stories. He was also the author ofbooks of poetry, including Spokes for Memory and Wherehill, thenonfiction work, The Haciendas of Mexico: An Artist’s Record, thefirst extensive artistic and photographic study of haciendas through­outMexico, and numerous articles about the Mexican haciendas. Bartlett was also anartist whose paintings, illustrations, and drawings have been exhibited in morethan 40 one-man shows in leading museums in the U.S. and Mexico. Archives ofhis work and literary correspondence have now been established at the AmericanHeritage Center of the University of Wyoming, the Nettie Lee Benson LatinAmerican Collection of the University of Texas, and the Rare Books Collectionof the University of California, Los Angeles.

Paul Alexander Bartlett’s life was lived with a single valuealways central: a sustained dedication to beauty, which he believed was themost vital value of living and his reason for his life as a writer and anartist. Voices from the Past re­flects this commitment, for he believedthat these five voices, in their different ways, express a passion for life,for the creative spirit, and ultimately for beauty in a variety of itsforms—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 lyri­calmeaning of these remarkable individuals, lending them his own voice, with amood, simplicity, depth of feeling, and love of beauty that were his, and, hebe­lieved, also theirs.

The journal form has been used only rarely in works offiction. Bartlett be­lieved that as a form of literature the journal offers themost effective way to bring back to life the life-worlds of significant,unique, highly individual, and important creators. In each of the novels thatmake up Voices from the Past, his interest is to portray the innerexperience of exceptional and special people, about whom there is scantknowledge on this level. During the many years of research he devoted to astudy of the lives and thoughts of Sappho, Jesus, Leo­nardo, Shakespeare, andLincoln, he sought to base the journals on what is known and what can besurmised about the person behind each voice, and he wove into each journalpassages from their writings and the substance of the testimony of others. Yetthe five novels are fiction: They re-express in an author’s creation lives nowburied by the passage of centuries.

I am deeply grateful to my wife, Karen Bartlett, for herfaithful, patient, and perceptive help with this long project.

✧

Formy father,

PaulAlexander Bartlett,

whosekindness, love of beauty and of place

willalways be greatly missed.

Sappho’s Journal

“Violet-haired, pure

honey-smiling Sappho”

– Alcaeus

FOREWORD

Willis Barnstone

Distinguished ProfessorEmeritus of Comparative Literature

Indiana University

aul Alexander Bartlett’s journal ofSappho is a masterful work. I had recently completed a translation of theextant lines of Sappho and am familiar with his problems. He was faced with thealmost impossible task of reconstructing the personality of Sappho and herbackground in ancient Lesbos. To my happy surprise he did so, in a work whichis at once poetic, dramatic and powerful. In Sappho’s Journal hedoes more than create a vague illusion of the past. He conveys the character ofreal people, their interior life and outer world. A mature artist, he writeswith ease and taste.

Sappho’s poetry, quotedin this novel, is included with the translator’s permission. The poems appearedin Sappho, Lyrics in the Original Greek, with translations by WillisBarnstone, Anchor Books, Doubleday, 1965.

For clarity, thecalendar 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 morningyellow.

VillaPoseidon, Mytilene

642 B.C.

he great storm beats across theisland, 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 cottalamp is cold. Some say that a storm will wash away our island, but I do notbelieve it. Our island will be here long after I have gone, and so will ourtown, my dear Mytilene, so wrong, so right.

Alcaeus would revel in this gale and go out in it and letthe 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 Iwill rage at my soli­tude, a solitude that grows and grows.

Growl on, spew on, beat and tramp—tomorrow’s sun will returnand the sea’s eye will glitter and I will gaze across the bay—and Alcaeus willnot be here.

My feet are cold and the lamp is weak and the wax hard, andI must go to bed.

P

Yesterday, the wine workers gathered at a nearby vineyard,old men and girls, in tattered clothes, some lazy, some hard-working, pressingthe 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 carriedhampers 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 aflute, the men treading, emptying husks over sandy soil, now and then pausingto talk under the oak, the circular press letting out its red, everyonetasting. Many amphorae were broken, before they were finally filled and capped.

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

P

Atthis has been my girl-child today and we have strolledtogether up the long, long path to the outcrop, beyond the temple. Atthis andtall white marble col­umns, with their busy apricot-breasted swallows, haveassuaged my loneliness. How lonely we become, as we grow older, even when thereis 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 headand laugh...

Yellow-headed Atthis, lazy-eyed, sitting on the steps of thetemple 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 usand the slippery mar­ble. Afterwards, we lay down and slept, and I dreamed of aship at sea, her mast broken, her tangled sail and rigging dragging.

Will the war never end?

P

Fog, as grey as a shepherd’s cloak, ruffled the bay for a dayand a night. Then, stabbing us, came clarity, and inside that clarity, centeredin it, a brown intaglio, a small wooden carving, first one ship and thenanother. Our fleet had sailed back to us! I watched from the terrace, unable tospeak. Atthis ran up to me. Anak­toria came. Gyrinno came. Boys yelled. Old menrushed past the house. Dogs barked. Someone banged a drum. Such clamoring!

But was it joyous news, I asked myself? Why were the womenin a knot at the corner? Why hadn’t fast rowers raced to tell us? Had the fogtricked the fleet?

Changing my clothes, putting on new sandals, I walked to thepier and the seagulls screamed and we waited and waited. People surged allabout, saying wild things, shrieking—then, ominously, fell silent. Their shoutswere better than their silence. The ocean seemed too calm, as if it had beensmothered by the fog or dreaded the arrival of our fleet.

I had pictured the ships as fast moving, bright on brightwater.

As the first one approached, I saw no happy faces, no liftedhands, no raised shields, no plumed helmets at the rail, no flags.

I heard an oar drag and in that sound I heard the rasp ofdeath. 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 Imust. His yellow face vanished, as I watched an anchor plunge slowly and saw thesail 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 thatthese were not phantoms.

Alcaeus?

Ten years ago, almost ten—ten years ago, he had leftMytilene, the wars sweeping him away. Ten years we had lived with fear creepingabout our island. Ten years—how my fingers trembled. I saw those years, thereon 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 canyou tell us at such crucial times? For an infinitude, the oars paced, a boatswung, another boat anchoring alongside, the armor on deck flashing, the wavesgulping at the gulls.

I turned away, moved back.

And then I saw someone helping Alcaeus ashore—wounded orill—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 someonewould shout a name and confirm that this was another, not Alcaeus. But no, Iknew. A woman knows a man she has loved, however battered he may be. I turnedto watch his blundering progress.

The chorus had dwindled—only those at sea, the far offcrews, still carried the hymn. I could not remain any longer. I hurried home, pasthis house to mine, wondering what kind of haven it could be, wondering whatpeople would say at my flight. Yet this was not flight; it was merely apostponement, waiting for a sign, a chance to prepare myself. Alcaeus...must Isend someone to him? What must I do? Go to his home? Shall I be there for himwhen he arrives?

At my door I turned and retraced my steps to his house, thelaces of my san­dals making a sound I had never heard before, the gullswailing, the sounds from the wharf intermingling and incomprehensible.

And I was there when he came with his servant, an uglyParthian, helping him. Yes, I was there and put out my hand to touch him,hearing his troubled breathing, seeing his torn and disheveled clothes, hisrank beard, and knowing he was ill. I remembered the dream, the ship with itsbroken 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 armswent 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 thatcan happen to a man? Why has it happened? His arms in bandages, his eyesforever bandaged by the dark.

“Alcaeus...”

He heard my whisper and shuffled backwards, bumping hisservant; he moved forward then and gripped me hard, twisting my flesh, hisgreat muscles rising in his hands.

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

I took his arm and the Parthian opened the door and servantsbowed about us; yes, I took his arm and silently we climbed the stairs to hisroom, his clothes rough against me, his sea smell around me. We passed hislibrary that held the books he had loved. We passed his mother’s room, whereshe had died. We passed where light fell around us, though no light entered hiseyes.

“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 tautleather 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 listenedto each other’s breathing and his hand sought mine and climbed my robe to myface and the coarse fingers felt my cheek and I felt them reach my heart, withthe past roaring around me like the recent storm.

I couldn’t speak. I felt that the war was forever between usand I hated those years, those battles, the lines on his face. My hate wasthere, between us. Then, then, tears came to his eyes. Silently, he wept. And Idrew him to me.

I heard the wind cross over his house.

Voices shuffled below us in the courtyard, the excitedvoices of the caretakers, the idle, the hangers-on. I could imagine theirleers, their whispers. I lifted his face toward mine and kissed him, his heavybeard sticking my mouth.

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

“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 atsea...”

P

So he had come home, “homeward from earth’s far end,” on theshield 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 hisscars, in his streaked hair and beard, the hands lifting and settlingawkwardly.

Warm under the stars, the daphne fragrant, his sea terracetiles smooth un­derneath our feet, we sat alone, some rooster vaguely salutingthe night, the movement of the surf faint, almost lost. I crushed some daphnein my palm, remembering their four-pronged flowers, remembering—rememberingAlcaeus after his field games, his javelin and discus throwing, his flushedface, his eyes lit, his mouth hungry for mine. Remembering—was he remembering,too?

“There was no daphne where I was,” he said, his voicesullen. “It would have been better to have died there, than come home likethis.”

“It’s spring, Alcaeus, don’t talk like that,” I said, andwondered what spring might signify to him.

He did not speak for a while, then quietly, as though tohimself, or from an­other world, he repeated lines we had loved:

“The gods held me in Egypt, longing to sail for home, for Ihad 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 thegalleys and the old men “deep in the sea’s abyss.”

The phrase haunted me because it was he who lived in anabyss.

As days passed, defeat was all that we heard in our town,not outright defeat, but capitulation—retreat combined with truce, trucenecessitated by deception. Or was it confusion? The soldiers I met, after theirdrunken reunions, spoke of the war with bitterness. Ten years, they said. Tenyears, for what? And how many of us came back? Those who had been away longestconsidered themselves out­casts and those who had returned during the warcomplained, 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 sorotten a gull might topple a spar. Disgust in my mouth, I tasted the waste oflife, Alcaeus’, my own, my friends’.

What is life for, but love?

And love sent Atthis and me along the beach, stretching ourlegs, running, dashing in and out of shallows, finding periwinkles, the dayeven-tempered, goats nibbling at wild celery, their bells lazy, a fishermanwaving at us as he cast his net, clouds over the mountain. I noticed Atthisagainst the luminous water, her fragile face trusting life. Her yellow ringletsin my lap, she sang to me and then, eyes shut, fingers in the sand, she seemedto 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 distortedlike 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 thereceding wave and felt it in her ringlets and in her hands.

“You’re so sweet,” she said and I saw myself mirrored in hereyes. And it oc­curred to me that Alcaeus and I would never again be able toexchange notes, those hasty, affectionate scribbles. Would he ever againdictate his bawdy poems, lampoon dictators and brag about war? Had pen and deskbecome his enemies?

Many things occurred to me, there on the sand, as Atthis andI 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 mypoetry, for the solace and sound of my pen. Here in my library, time will bedefeated for a moment, at least. The sun’s last rays stream in, so yellow, theymight be made of acacia. The cooling light covers my desk and bookshelves andrelinquishes its hold of my vase. A fragment clings to the amphora Alcaeus gaveme long ago. Its dancing, singing men seem somehow out of focus; yet it seems Ihear 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...

P

There was a symposium and Gyrinno danced for the guests andafterwards brought me news about Alcaeus, how he left the party and wandered tothe beach. There he quarreled with Charaxos, both armed with sticks andstaggering drunk. At first, Gyrinno garbled the news, mixing it with thesymposium’s talk of war, the defeat, the hatreds of many kinds, includingpunishment and forfeit. It must have been a sorry meeting, this reunion of ourwarriors. 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 andpowdered her, I went to the beach, thinking I might find them. Yes, they werethere, quarreling on the sand, my lover and my brother, kicking their nakedshins on driftwood, their servants standing by, only half interested and halfawake.

“Charaxos,” I began.

“Ah...I rather expected you.”

“Sappho?” called Alcaeus.

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

“Just leave us alone,” growled Charaxos.

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

“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 theservants 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 thebeach, 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. Itwas not a subject to pursue on the beach, with the wind carrying our words andthe breakers drown­ing them. This was, I preferred, a private quarrel.

With Charaxos and his men following a distance apart, wemade a pretty picture, hiccoughing through Mytilene! Its silent streets weretopped by a new moon; Venus seemed swallowed by a single window. Why were we insuch con­trast?

Laughter and outworn songs...swaying and shuffling...untilthe shutting of my door.

Alone, I sit beside my lamp to consider its flame, the whyand wherefore of its integrity, fragility. Shadows are commonplace when weignite a lamp. Yet, without a light, there are profounder shadows.

P

I hear that Alcaeus goes out alone, forbidding his servantsto follow. Every­one has become uneasy.

Today, he dismissed his secretary. So poor Gogu has soughtme out to ex­plain what happened.

“Someday he will do me in. He has threatened this oftenenough!” He was trembling so hard, he could hardly speak. It is no wonderAlcaeus calls him a “stick of driftwood.” He has an abandoned air that begs tobe found and picked up.

“The least word, the least word upsets him. And you know howAlcaeus can rant!”

“Yes, well...”

“He says our great fight at Sigeum was lost through sheercarelessness. Of course, he blames the other officers...”

But then, Gogu has never held anyone’s interest or respectfor 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, thewine shop, the brothel or the forum. How does this knobby skeleton manage tosurvive and endure?

“You will speak to Alcaeus? You promise?”

I promised. The dread of having Gogu permanently abandonedis worse than imploring Alcaeus to take him back. Besides, his scholarship isoften surprising, and Alcaeus can use his help.

So later, I invited Alcaeus and some friends to supper. Wesat around the courtyard fountain and listened to the harpists playing underthe burning lamps. Libus, Nanno, Suidas—they are good company for Alcaeus. Heseemed more like himself again, joking and talking. Again he lampoonedMimnermos and mimicked “that strange-smelling country poet from Smyrna.” But Idetected a morbid note, a self-hostility that cut him more than it did those hescorned.

Will he ever write again?

He left early, insisting he would find his way home byhimself. A soldier, re­duced to being treated like an irresponsible infant—ofcourse he resented it. But I know he did not return home. Instead, he hasrambled into the hills again.

Now the others are gone. And I wonder, looking towards theslope, what it is that Alcaeus hopes to find, a new life?

I shall not be able to sleep indoors tonight. My bed willhave to be under the trees. Perhaps the wind can bring me some special message.

P

The banquet honoring the warriors was held last night.

Alcaeus had his collection of war shields displayed on hisdining room walls. Of hide and metal, in various shapes, they united the roomand its glazing lamps and candles. I felt myself the focal point of a paintedeye on a circular hide, as I sat by him. I could not recall such an assembly inyears: Scythian, Etruscan, Turkish, Negro. Bowls of incense sent threads to theceiling. Wisps floated in front of me where a man in Egyptian clothes, headbandstudded 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 copperbands, he leaned forward, waiting for silence. His hair had been freshlycurled, and his beard trimmed and brushed with oil. I was troubled, thinking hemight be impu­dent or truculent. Instead he spoke gravely and it was difficultto believe he could not see us. I thought he glanced straight at me.

“Tonight, friends, there will be no tirade, no poetry. Iwish to pay my re­spects, and offer my thanks for our return to our island. Iknow 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 madefaces 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 wouldmiss or mistake its message. Was this the Alcaeus who had joked and sported andsung 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 berespected.” An older, solemn Alcaeus...who reviewed the war with wisdom.

“And now let us forget fear and enjoy life and see that ourpeople 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 movednervously 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 freedomreturned. Restraint dropped away. Voices and laughter increased. Then applausebroke out as a Ne­gro entertainer entered, carrying a smoking torch.

Under the edge of the portico, he freed a basket of birdsand 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 spunthe cages higher and higher and as they whirled in the torch light, he toreopen first one and then anther, to liberate the birds. A magnificentperformance.

The suggestion worried Pittakos and he pushed through thecrowd to take the floor. Pittakos, with his rasping tongue and fish eyes—wasthere a more dishonest ruler? How ironical that he should represent us! As hekept folding and unfolding his robe, he spoke about our fleet, how he wouldhave the ships repaired and converted into fishing boats for the use of thecommunity...never mentioning that our fleet was rotted!

Presently, the musicians and dancers wandered among us andthe party went on. After many songs and a lot of wine, Alcaeus slipped his armthrough mine and suggested we go upstairs. It was all very obvious, ofcourse—that he was drunk and I unwilling, that times had changed and everythingwith it. When was it we had dashed, hand in hand, up his staircase, gigglingand pushing one an­other? How many years ago?

Ah, deception and illusion, do we dare recreate the past andits former hap­piness? Only in memory is it done successfully. Yet, here wewere in his room.

Lifeis for love!

In the old days, when we had made love, we had closed oureyes, to intensify sensations. Now he would not need to shut his eyes. And hisarms, hands, fin­gers—once young and sure—what could they remember?

I could not keep back tears, tears he would never know, ashe stumbled, laughed, then sprawled over the fur cov­ering of his bed. Whilethe music filtered in to us, I cushioned him in my lap and wiped theperspiration from his face, hating the war and the years behind us. Aftermumbling a few words, he turned over and fell into profound sleep.

So, that was the resumption of our love...and, as I leanedagainst a hillside olive, the salt air fresh about me, I accepted defeat, awarethat my loneliness would appear again and again. There, on the hill, gazingseaward, where fishing smacks moved, I rubbed the horny bark, envying thetree’s longevity and its years ahead. Would I trade places, to brood overMytilene, for centuries?

Alone?

Then Atthis circled me in her arms, creeping up behind me andcupping my eyes. I recognized her by her laughter and perfume.

“Atthis...”

P

Alcaeus’ home is much older than mine, with patina walls,Parian marble floors, and a collection of rare Athenian busts. His library hasa Corinthian copy of Homer and a collection of Periander’s maxims, while I havebeen contented with some papyri, of choral lyrics and dithyrambs.

As I stretch out in a leather chair in his library and readto 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 thereach of its fragrance. The honeysuckle does not suit us or the room. AndAlcaeus knows this, too. His impassive features grow stern, as though toreprimand me. Insatiable Sappho! Yet how can I help it? I must love and beloved.

Laying down the book, I kneel and place my cheek against hisknee. His hands, gliding over my hair and neck, are dead. His voice, out of itsblack, 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, Iconceived of a series of island poems, bucolic, legendary, praise of thislife.” 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 becameembarrassed 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 hisfavorites. Slowly, his face relaxed and he settled deeper in his chair. After awhile, he said:

“Read some of yours, Sappho.”

I opened a book, one of my earliest ones, and read severalpassages. But I could not continue; I felt my mind wrapped in fog; my hands becameicy. I shut my eyes and said to myself: See, this is what it’s like to beblind. You’re blind, blind to love and life...

As I kissed him good-bye, I longed for our youth, itsfreedom, its daring, its quarrels and fun.

Walking home, I told myself I should never return to hishouse.

P

In looking back over the pages of my journal, I am alarmedby 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, andthe rain fell unexpectedly, lashing and soaking us. We finally discovered ashepherd’s hut, but I got colder and colder in its windowless gloom. Lying onthe floor, among stiff hides, with the rain sounding loud and the hidessmelling strong, I thought the storm would never end. Toward dusk, a shepherdand his boy came, dripping with wet and shivering, and my mother dried the boyand 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 therain thud across the green roof, while the shepherd went about building a fireand 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 aword all that delicious evening.

Now I find it hard to renew ties with the past. Not onlyAlcaeus...but Dio­scurides...Pylades...Milo...the very names make me unhappy.All destroyed by war. What special stupidity do men possess that they mustinvolve themselves in such a gamble, with loss inevitable, anyhow?

P

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 bedroomwalls seem less clever than they appeared years ago. Our theatre, too, haschanged through the years, become more mediocre.

Yesterday, at the play, I sat closer than usual and wasdelighted by the comic faces, so new and frightful that children screamed andsquealed. 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. Heseemed to be one of us or a Chian, maybe. It was pleasant enough to soak myselfin comedy for a while, for right after the play, Charaxos found me andsuggested we stroll in private. Obviously, he had something on his mind!

He began by offering me an exquisite scarab, saying he hadpurchased it for me, from a sailor who had touched port.

“For me?” I became suspicious! I fingered the beetle-shapedoval, unlike any I had seen. An amethyst was set in the center with charactersengraved 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 thepoint.

“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 yourassumption that our family funds could be lifted, without my consent andwithout my knowledge. Taken to buy Rhodopis. You sold three or four wine shipsto 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 onselling wine and buying equipment. I have heard that you added a ship lastmonth. Wasn’t it con­venient to pay me then?”

His fist tightened over the scarab, and he bowed and turnedaway, rejoining his wife who was strolling behind us with her friends andservants.

Theatre!

P

Villa Poseidon

Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria and I went swimming in the bay bythe driftwood tree. It was late, the sun misty, its eye sleepy, pelicansroosting, a dolphin or two frolicking close to shore. I had been unable toforget my meeting with Charaxos, until Anaktoria, who is the best swimmer amongus, grabbed me by the heels as I floated by, and towed me to the bottom. Thatended 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 aspossible.

As the four of us played on the beach, I thought: When willthis happen again? Something about the late afternoon—its hammered out sun, itstempered air, its windlessness, its smell of spring—seemed unreal even as ithappened. We tossed our blankets on the sand, dashed back and forth to thewater’s edge, splashed each other, then arranged ourselves in a circle andbegan combing each other’s hair. We sang and laughed, comparing, whose wasfinest, whose was thickest.

Atthis, whose hair was shortest, bragged she could swim thefarthest. That started an argument.

“Who swam halfway round the island last year?” demandedGyrinno.

“Who was born at sea?” said Anaktoria.

“You can tell the best swimmer by the shape of herbuttocks,” said Atthis. “Look at mine, how flat they are.” She jumped up, toshow us.

“A boy’s buttocks,” laughed Gyrinno.

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

So we measured, laughing, fussing, pushing, our hairstreaming around us—a gull on the shore padding back and forth, scolding.Atthis won, but Anaktoria had the loveliest breasts, so round, almosttransparent in that evening light. I have rarely seen a girl of such grace, notthe childish grace of some, but the ac­complished grace of true femininity. Asthe others became aware of my admira­tion, they became jealous and peevish, andtried to shift the praise.

They talked about my smallness, my violet hair... “your deepblue eyes”... “your melodious voice...”

But this was Anaktoria’s hour. She had been away, visitingin Samnos, staying with her family, and I was eager to hear the news.

“I thought I was homesick... But it is Mytilene I lovebest... My brother has a girl now. He goes to her house whenever he is notworking. I saw very little of him... Life there was very dull. Family visitsfrom door to door. The same cup of wine, the same paste of nuts and fruit, thesame questions, answers, family anec­dotes and jokes... How lonesome I was!”

Growing quiet, all of us responded to the evening, thelingering sea-light, the arrival of the stars, the whispering shingle, thebreeze, carrying the scents and sounds from Mytilene.

Anaktoria and I walked home together, feeling our bondcloser, stronger than before. I had missed her more than I thought: I hadmissed her a dozen times a day.

P

I have been sick today and to amuse myself I have made somejottings about my girls:

Atthis—lover of yellow ribbons, scared of the dark. To avoidgoing out, will invent a headache, a toothache or a stomachache. An orphan, shegets homesick for the home she never had. Prefers women to men. Tells amusingjokes and stories. Loves laughter. Mimics. Is made jealous easily. Speaksslowly...ivory-skinned.

Gyrinno—the daughter of a wine merchant, can outdrink mostmen. Worries about her figure, eats next to nothing. Uses violet perfume. Ourbest 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, dabblerin poetry, dreamer, lovely singer. Plays lyre and flute equally well. Adoresgames, 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 isexquisite in her own way. No two are alike. I love them all.

And yet, I am grieved, since my own daughter is jealous ofthem. Dear, fool­ish Kleis, who pretends she has never been a child and is yetso far from being a woman.

P

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

I do my best writing in the morning, when the sea light issparking my room. How important the harmony is to me: harmony in my house, onthe island, in my heart.

Sometimes, I call my girls to let them hear what I havewritten. 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. Ioften think of a lyric as an amphora; little by little I must mold its lines onthe wheel of my mind. It is the structure, containing the song. It must begraceful, 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...

P

Today I received a letter from Aesop, written at Adelphi. Itis a joy to hear from him. I thought he had forgotten me. What a good companionhe was, all those days in Corinth... Companion? He was more like a father!

His handwriting is the most perfect I have ever seen. Eachletter formed so patiently, each thought expressed so beautifully. Does hestrive for perfection because be cannot forget his deformity?

I remember his eyes used to transfix me with their brownhypnosis.

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 withouthis doll, that bull-leaping doll of Cretan ivory, brightly painted! But hisapartment was simple, tastefully furnished, elegant as his clothes. Each bathtowel, I recall, bore a bril­liant red octopus.

When he looked after Alcaeus and me, we ate with him everyday at least one meal. Through all the years of our exile, he remained our mostfaithful friend. His friends were our friends. His house was ours. Hisservants. He treated eve­ryone with equal respect.

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

He was much sought after, not only for his humor, but forhis wisdom. His reddish whiskers and black brows gave him a comic look. But hesensed his pro­fundity, as he guided me about Corinth and sat beside me at thetemple of Apollo, watching the people and the boats and the sea birds, andhearing the choral virgins sing.

Evenings, he would lay aside his doll and tell me fables. Hehad learned many from his father, a Persian, and he was constantly visitingorientals to pick up their stories and jokes. I hear his smooth, somnolentvoice...an effortless story- teller!

“I will certainly come and visit you,” he writes. “I amtired of Adelphi. The people make me uncomfortable. I want to roam over Lesbos,to be with you and Alcaeus. I want to see your home.”

Will he come? I hope he can. His letter has taken weeks toreach me. I sup­pose he could be on his way, by this time.

P

It must have been almost dawn, when Alcaeus and a group ofrevelers came banging at my door, shouting, laughing. We let them in and theydemanded breakfast, some of the more intoxicated trying to seduce my girls, whowere quite amused.

When the others were gone, Alcaeus drew me aside to speak inearnest.

“Do you know that Kleis goes to Charaxos’ house?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That she visits your brother’s house frequently.”

“Do you know this...or is it gossip?”

“We just went by his place. She’s there now. I would knowher voice anywhere.”

“Yes, of course...”

“I don’t like his slaves, as you know, and I don’t thinkthey are fit company for Kleis.”

“No, no, certainly, I shall speak to her...”

“It will take more than that, I’m afraid.”

“Why, Alcaeus, she’s a mere child...”

“Oh come now, Kleis must be fourteen or more. If she were mydaughter, a pretty girl...” He held up a warning finger, then left.

P

Fourteen? No doubt he meant well, was sincere, but Iresented the implica­tion.

Have I really been lax? Is my little girl in need ofdirection? It seems she was ten or eleven only yesterday. Fourteen, indeed!

Kleis never knew her father. He is one of a thousand dead,because of the wars. If he were here, she would not think of slipping off atnight. She looks much like him. I remember his face, the candid eyes and lips.

I remember the ivory gleam of his body. Ah, if he werehere...

How am I to forbid Kleis?

Where is my frivolity? Where is my enthusiasm?

The sun’s color whitened my shutters and I threw them openon the sea and the light burnished the tiles and splashed the masks and my bedand I stared into its eye, to surprise its oracle.

P

I am criticized for my simple dress, my tastes. Thetownspeople say I should not be aloof. They say I am too aristocratic. They saymy parties are too gay and exclusive. They say my wealth is insufficient. Theysay...Yes, I could go on with this pettiness. But why should I?

I have my work and I must live to see beyond the moment, belowthe sur­face; I must interpret the whole heart. For I know too well theinexorability of time, the disappointments that nibble one’s heels. I mustoffset the pain, the loss. There is no one to take my arm, there is no one tolean on. There is only my work—and my girls.

P

All day in the fragrant lemon forest, fallen fruitunderneath the trees...all day alone. I have hated loneliness and yet I must beable to rest and get away from responsibilities, to welcome the gods of treesand ocean and those long dead, whose marble shrines dot a corner of this wood.There are so many dead. How­ever, life must be better than death or the godswould have chosen to die. Life must be day-by-day and hour-by-hour. And I talkto myself and totally convince myself and then the mew of a gull shatters myconviction.

P

Our spring revel saw us high on the mountain, the oceanmisty blue, our erotic flutes wailing the dawn. Kleis and I danced together, mygirls joining us one by one, the deepest notes growing in volume, the slight notesdropping away. How the wet grass slid our feet!

I closed myeyes, remembering nothing, letting the song have me; then, eyes open, I went onforgetting, forget­ting where I was, what this was: I was simply dancing,flashing with someone, alone, dancing for myself and the on­coming sun, dancingbecause I love to dance, dancing because I love life and time is dead. Yes, timeis dead at our spring festival and the flowers never spill from our hair.

Girls bared their breasts and arms to the light. Men clappedin unison. The music sped up and the faster pace widened our circle of dancers.Our bare feet kicked blossoms thrown by boys. We ate and danced, drank anddanced again. Kleis, it seemed to me, danced more beautifully than anyone.

Beauty, I said: We are here again, help us to find life’smeaning.

Beauty said: There is always meaning, look for it.

The step and re-step, circle and re-circle, gulp of air,ache of chest, ache of legs and arms, sullen eyes, eyes longing forembrace...longing... longing...isn’t that what life is?

Our tumbled-down temple rose behind us, whitish pillars,roofless phalli, our gowns, arms and faces, circling.

Through my blur of happiness, I saw Anaktoria, Libus, Gorgo,Nano, old friends, fishermen, villagers. Old women went about hawking oranges.Old men drank and talked.

In the afternoon, resting under trees, I became aware thatthe crowd had scattered into small groups. How hungry we were! How thirsty!Then more dancing and, with tiny fires in the twilight, food cooking, pots bubbling,love-making, songs. It was the dusk I love. And it was easy to growsentimental, to talk of Alcaeus and miss him, to remember our fun at otherfestivals. Crickets bubbled like little pots. Frogs burped. A bat flutteredover our fires. Below, somewhere on the bay, a ship winked and made me feelthat the sky had gotten below us.

A warm wind and some scarves, that was all I needed tosleep, a sleep some­what troubled because Kleis was not with me. But during thenight she appeared and slipped into my arms, where she began to cry. Icomforted her and slept and thought no more about her girlish tears tillmorning, when she whispered about Charaxos, his heavy drinking, then thedarkness and torches, the wild games and dances higher up the mountain...

“I shouldn’t have gone with him! I should have stayed withthe other boys and girls right here. This time, he has changed me. I’ll neverbe the same! And I can’t bear the sight of him!”

...A journal is for solace, for strength.

I write in my library, the rain falling, Kleis in her room,asleep. How sad when youth is tricked! One speaks of treachery, stupidity, ugliness.One thinks of family honor. And then I realize that Charaxos has no sense ofhonor, that my code is incomprehensible to him. So, I’ll not show my distress—ourdistress.

Life is for the strong, they say.

How strong must a person be?

P

I feel like dry smoke. And smoke twists and turns inside,not knowing which way to go. Nothing is hotter than the heat of anger.

Charaxos—how the name burns my tongue, sears my tablet. Itis impossible to concentrate!

It wasn’t enough for us to quarrel over money! You, withyour scarab, your Egyptian clothes, your obelisks, your slaves, your woman!

Perhaps Kleis is mistaken. Children are given toexaggeration.

I don’t know what to believe.

P

Today, an earthquake shook our island, sloshing water fromour courtyard fountain, making birds cry out. As the walls of the housetrembled, I shut my eyes, thinking: No, not yet...there’s still so much.

And I made up my mind to go out more, to get about more.With Kleis. We need more time together.

P

How tall she is! With golden hair and mint eyes, she growsmore like her fa­ther each day. I detect a restlessness in her nature. Is itbecause of what hap­pened, or because she is with me? Or do I imagine it?

Her shoulders stoop, her face is sad. When I speak to herabout it, she straightens and gazes far off, her eyes worried. Perhaps we makea strange pair.

P

Gems:

A horseman on a gold agate,

a Nike on chalcedony,

a nude girl on jasper,

a fighting lion on rock crystal...

Sappho is enjoying her collection:

the sun, in her bedroom, is all white.

She is all white.

The gems flash:

We see Sappho’s face in her hand mirror,

the faces of her girls around her,

girls singing.

Mytilene

ne of my girls has had a birthday.It should have been a happy day. There were garlands, songs, dances... Then,someone came to me, brimming with the amusing story: Kleis has been heard tosay that she doesn’t know how old she is!

“I’ve had so many double birthdays, I’ve lost count,” werethe words re­peated to me.

Why do we wish to be older, younger, always in protest? Whyare we never satisfied?

I wish there were no birthdays.

P

For several days, Kleis and I have sailed, our boat a goodfishing boat, cap­tained by a young man named Phaon.

It was our first excursion around the whole island, inyears. We sailed past Malea Point to Eresos, to Antiss, then Methymn, and roundour island, back to Mytilene. I have never seen the water so calm. Probablybecause of the recent hot spell, the captain said.

What a peaceful island, our Lesbos... We saw Mt. Ida, olivegroves, cypress, temples, bouldered shores, goatherds, date palms, sailboats,dolphins... We thought of Odysseus, trying to identify ourselves with thatheroic past, we—only islanders enjoying a holiday!

A striped awning sheltered us during the hot hours of theday. Nights were cool and comfortable. Our handsome captain was attentive. Ithought he was particularly agreeable. Our food was tasty. How time driftedalong.

Of course it was our being together, lulled by the sea, thatmade the trip so happy for Kleis and me. It was our shared regrets, our resolvefor the future, that brought us close. It was the little things we did for oneanother, the sleeping together...the voiceless communication.

P

How wonderful it is to get out of bed and stand by thewindow and take in the sea and breathe deeply.

How good it is to dream a little.

Phaeon...it is such a beautiful name.

P

There are days when my girls seem utterly listless. Theiractivities have no meaning to them. Nothing pleases them. I hear them arguingamong themselves, apart. It is as though a stranger had come to be with them.

And Kleis seems more withdrawn. Does she resent the othersor do they re­sent her? A curious unease creeps about the place.

Sometimes, I wonder whether it is I who lacks.

P

I do not feel well.

Time is slipping by...

I don’t know what to do about Kleis: she goes off byherself, and does not tell me where she goes. I can’t very well send someone tocheck on her. That’s an ugly thing to do.

I think she isn’t visiting Charaxos’ house, because he hassailed for Egypt on one of his wine ships. Of course she could be seeingsomeone else.

Is it possible that she is interested in Phaon...how shall Ifind out?

P

I met him on the pier, the wind blowing, the water choppyunder grey skies. He left off caulking his boat with a cheery “Hello” andclimbed onto the pier. How pleased he was to see me! Was I planning anothertrip?

Sitting on piles of rope, he told me of an underwater cityhe had seen, with a great bronze statue of Poseidon by a temple...

“The water was like glass, not a seaweed moving, not acurrent...” His hand swept sideways, spread flat. “Oh yes, coral...and plentyof fish, big ones. I swam halfway down to the city, but there was no air in meto swim deeper. A fish watched me, from one side of Poseidon, its body curvingbehind the statue. Poseidon’s eyes were made of jewels...”

Phaon is a handsome young man: I think a man is a man whenhe is handsome all over. I measured him with my eyes, as he talked to me. Imeasured his feet, hands, thighs, shoulders—the symmetry is unusual. His skinis the color of oakum and his muscles glide perceptibly under his skin. He smellsof the sea.

I stayed a long while, talking on the piles of rope,exciting talk. What would it be like to swim with him? To dive deep with him?

We talked and talked. He never mentioned Kleis. And I forgotwhy I came.

P

I went to Alcaeus, to tell him about the submerged city.

“You mean Helike?” he asked. “A quake tore apart the coastand it went un­der,” he said, and described something of what I had heard.

“Phaon says the city is visible when the water’s clear, andstill,” I said.

“Phaon?”

“Yes, you remember, the captain who took me on a trip aroundthe island...”

“He fixed his sightless eyes on me and I felt stunned, asone hypnotized. I trembled. Then his expression altered and he changed thesubject as quickly as a man might draw a sword during battle.

“I never thought I’d be blind. I never memorized any faces.My home, our bay, the ships—I can’t recall things at will, with certainty.There’s so little differ­ence now between sleeping and waking. Anything maycome to mind.

“A soldier stares at his hand, slashed by a spear. He can’tbelieve he’s wounded. It’s not his blood spattering the rocks...

“A man lies beside his shield, a hole in his side. He can’tbelieve he sees what he sees...”

P

Mytilene

For several days, I have been working with Alcaeus in his library.He has taken heart, at last, and is pouring out words, political invective. Isit, amazed. Even his dead eyes have gathered light. He jabs out phrase afterphrase, juggling his agate paperweight from hand to hand, steadily, slowly. Ibarely have time to write. He breathes deeply, his voice sonorous.

Facing the sea, afternoon light on his face, he could be myold Alcaeus.

Thasos brought us wine.

And we worked still late, our lamps guttering in the wind,the air rough from the mainland, tasting of salt. Shutters groaned.

“To strike a balance between common sense and law, this isthe cause to which we must pledge ourselves. Our local tyrants must go. Theyrealize there isn’t enough corn. Poverty, we must grind against poverty. If ourestablished life and prosperity can’t be made to serve, they, too, will go...”

Walking home, I was hardly aware that a gale had sprung up.Exekias, carry­ing my cloak, seemed surprised at my singing.

P

A note from Rhodopis—naturally, I was astonished. Her noteconcerned Kleis: could we talk together?

It was hard to order my thoughts. Rhodopis writing to me,especially with Charaxos gone...

I fixed an hour and we met at a discreet distance from thesquare, a bench in the rear of a small temple.

Despite the extravagant clothes, the careful makeup, howhard the eyes, the mouth. And I wondered how I looked to her, in my simpledress. But Rhodopis knows the sister of Charaxos is not naive.

It was a brief meeting, cold, the matter quickly attendedto.

After waving her servants to stand apart, she faced me withunveiled scorn:

“You daughter’s visits are making my household a difficultone,” she said.

I flushed.

“So the plaintiff has become the accused? An interestingreversal,” I mur­mured.

“I will expect thanks,” she said, with a mocking smile,twisting her parasol into the sand, “for sparing you public embarrassment.”

I knew she was sharpening her wits, and paused. She lifted ascented hand­kerchief to her mouth and took a slow breath.

“I have waited a long time for this, but I’m more charitablethan you think. I won’t keep you waiting. It is Mallia—a servant boy, who hascaught Kleis’ fancy...”

Vaguely, I had the flash of an image: a fair, slim, countryboy, not one of the slaves.

“And what is it you want?” I said, in the same level voice.

The parasol twirled.

“Oh, things could be arranged...”

I did not doubt this. But not knowing the relationshipbetween Kleis and Mallia, remained silent. My silence seemed to exasperateRhodopis.

“Of course, you could send Kleis to a thiase inAndros,” she exclaimed. I re­fused to flinch. Sending one’s daughter to schoolelsewhere was to admit one’s own school had failed. Rhodopis knew this, as wellas I.

“Or, I could dismiss Mallia, but then, where would thelovers meet? And if he took her home with him...”

I still waited. Somewhere there was a trap. Rhodopis had notwritten, then met me, without a purpose.

“Perhaps you have given too much thought to family honor,Sappho. So critical of Charaxos...of me.” Her voice had grown confidential.

“If Kleis has done anything foolish, I am willing to acceptthe responsibility,” I said.

“And the consequence, too...with my husband?”

I stood up, brushing off the bench dust.

The interview was over: obviously, further discussion wasuseless. Why let Rhodopis press her advantage? I nodded and left, with thesound of her laughter behind me.

P

Why?

It is a question I must answer: it is a multiple question.

Has Rhodopis done this to spite me, wound me, shame me?

Is Kleis doing this to assert herself, to prove that she is nota child? In pro­test, against me, my house? To estrange us farther?

Did Kleis tell the whole truth about that day at thespring-revel? If I knew what happened...

She seemed so happy on our ocean trip. Or was it I who washappy? Perhaps I teased her too much before Phaon. Did she think I had no rightto be attracted to him? Do I make her out to be more sensitive than she reallyis?

Love is a jealous companion.

Right now, all I can see clearly is that perfumedhandkerchief and twirling parasol.

P

I have never been afraid of consequences attached to my ownactions. Must one learn to be braver than that? Or is this a matter ofimpersonal wisdom?

P

I have sent for Kleis...

It is true she is fond of Mallia, the boy acting as guardianto her in the house of Charaxos, protecting her from Charaxos.

It was Mallia who served as wine boy at the spring festival.

Curiously, it is Rhodopis who has sided with them inopposing and blocking Charaxos. Yet, that is not so curious, either.

“You’re wrong to distrust Rhodopis,” says Kleis.

But my doubts persist and I consider her a foolish child.For why would she make a confidante of Rhodopis?

“I wish you could be happier with me,” I said.

Our talk seemed to unlock her heart and she burst into tearsand I learned how much of a child she is. For it is still filial jealousy thatmakes her difficult. She cannot bear to share me with my girls, my friends,even my work.

Poor, darling Kleis, how hard it is for some of us to growup, to learn to walk gracefully alone. I kissed and comforted her as best Icould, assuring her of my love.

“There’s a place for you here, Kleis. Please try to find it.I know the girls are eager to help you, if you’ll let them.”

She promised, but the far-away look remained in her eyes.

A thiase in Andros—the thought saddens me, for thenshe would be far away.

P

I have hurled myself into work. During long silences, whileI am thinking, composing, I hear the water clock outside my door. Drop afterdrop, it fastens itself to my memory.

The wind has continued for days on end, the sun hazy, thesurf magnificent in its wildness, all craft beached, no gulls anywhere, a senseof abandonment throughout our town, people scurrying to get indoors.

Only in the garden is there shelter, near the fountain. Anangle of the house shuts off the strongest blasts.

I have ordered everyone to work. At least they appear busy.

While the wind howled, a tempest rose in me.

I woke during the night to fight it. Yet, there it was, thatperfect symmetry, stripped to the waist, brown caulking material in his hands.I did not need to light a lamp. I had memorized his body. We were moving towardthe submerged city; I saw myself swimming beside him; in the water, he wasabove me, then below me; then we were one, diving together.

I have fought other storms in my blood, and yet this one,with the wind howling, the surf beating, threatens to overcome me. I have neverfelt more deserted. Death and blindness have made my bed sterile.

Beauty, stay with me! I said.

Beauty said: Don’t be afraid.

How shall I cope with this whirlwind? What does it know ofsurfeit, satiety?

I’m too old, compared to his twenty or twenty-two. He mayhave a woman of his own, a country girl, a young, simple, laughing slip of athing who satisfies him.

In my dream I saw him at the prow of his boat, talking withKleis.

I should send her to Andros.

I need to go to Andros, myself!

I must seek Alcaeus...he must help me...

I see Phaon in his bed, his young arms, his young legs, hisclose-cropped hair, blue eyes, smooth face.

Like a storm punishing the olives, love shakes me.

I must go to sleep.

Forget!

P

Another letter has reached me from Aesop. Still in Adelphi,he writes he has been sick with fever.

“My consolation is that I am sick for good reasons. I amsick of men being mistreated. I am sick of injustice.

“As you know, I have been more than a fly on a chariotwheel. I have spoken out publicly and this has raised dust and stones. Peoplestare at me on the streets.

“I am sick of the aristocrats. I am sick of prejudice andignorance. There must be a better life.

“A free society...this is the most fabulous joke of alltime. The ones who rant loudest about it would run the farthest, were it tohappen.

“I may have to flee soon, back to Corinth, it seems. Theserulers here have friends. They know how to apply pressure.

“Write me, Sappho. I need your sense of the gracious. Beautyforemost—I wish I could think as you think.

“Tell Alcaeus I send him my best, that I miss him...”

I took my letter to Alcaeus and read it aloud in hislibrary.

“I’m afraid it is serious this time,” I said.

“It is always serious, when we speak out,” said Alcaeus,laying his palms flat on the desk.

“He says it is dangerous for him to come here.”

“He must learn restraint!”

“And you, Alcaeus, do you think you have learned restraint?”

There was silence and then he said:

“Those of us who are free must speak, or there will be nofreedom, no free men left to restrain those who think in terms of chains.”

P

Sitting in the square the other day, I listened to Alcaeusspeaking, excited be­cause he had taken cudgel in hand. Blind though he is, hestrikes an imposing figure, even majestic. Leaning on his cane, staring overthe townsmen who crowd the forum, he looks a pillar, his head shaggy, beardglistening with oil, clothes immaculate.

Something about the day had a timeless quality, as thoughnone of it was old, the exorbitant taxes, the stringent laws, the situation ofthe veteran—and the sea rolling, the gulls crying, the sun shining.

Pittakos has not shown any noticeable objection. Perhaps heremembers the youthful champion, before the exile. Then, it was not easy toignore the charges against those in office, the outcries against “drunkards,thieves, bastards!” Now Pittakos nods and walks on his way, aware that a blindman may be an excellent orator but no longer a soldier.

P

And recalling the years in exile, I knew how bitter Alcaeuswas. If there is less vehemence in his voice than before, there is also greaterconviction.

P

Aegean shells, beach shells,

shells in a woman’s hands,

shells in a child’s hands.

Underwater, fish glide

through a sunken ship,

passing huge wine jars,

a young Hermes,

sponges...coral...kelp...sharks.

lcaeus has taken back his formersecretary. I am glad for all our sakes: Alcaeus’, Gogu’s, mine. I hear they areworking hard. Now, when Thasos inquires at my door, I make excuses. They canget along without me.

I keep hoping and waiting someone else will come to inquire,will bring a message. Since he never looks for me, I must not look for him.

I will walk by the sea until I am too tired to move.

P

My pretty Gyrinno is sick with too much sun and too muchswimming so I go about pampering her and nothing pleases her more.

It has been some time since I brought her a tray, one Ifixed especially for her. I combed her hair tonight, cooled her skin withointment, and teased her till she made me promise a gift, a silver mirror fromSerfo’s shop, one with suitably naughty figures on the back and handle: “theconvivialists,” Serfo has named it.

To help pamper Gyrinno, we had musicians in the courtyard.The air was so warm, so languid, nobody wished to go to sleep. These werewandering musi­cians, from neighboring islands, and their songs were mostly newto us. They repeated the ones we liked best, tender mountain airs.

Kleis, who has a phenomenal memory, was able to join themthe second or third time, harpist and flutist accompany. It was an intimateevening, ending with a tale by one of the wanderers, of Pegasus winging overthe ocean on an errand of mercy for a lost lover.

Toward dawn, I woke to find Atthis with me, her cheekagainst mine. More aware of my inner needs than others, she had come to comfortme, alleviate my longing. Her perfume, kisses and caresses were not the crude,male love I wanted. However, I was half in my dreams and I remembered the musicand the tale and the moonlight, our songs and voices, and everything blendedinto a pattern of peace and goodness.

There are times when our hearts are particularly open tobeauty: this was one of those times. Everything, at this moment, assumedperfection. And because we recognize its illusory quality it is the moreprecious.

Out of the night comes the word someone has tried tocommunicate, that we are plural, not single...not forgotten. Here, in thiscomparison, are strength and courage.

Yes, there are times when our hearts open.

P

There is more to life than wandering over an island. Thereis more to life than happiness. There is more to life than work. There is moreto life than hope. What is it?

Under a cypress, above the sea, facing the sea, I askedmyself this question and found this answer:

Certainly, the living is all: there is no life after death:and since there is no other chance than this chance, it must be enough to havebeauty and kindness and time to enjoy them.

Here, on this slope, earth’s form assures me this is true.And at home, among my girls, I can find it so, each girl an affirmation.

P

Why is Kleis involved in spats with Gyrinno, Helen, Myra?Why are the girls put out with her? Why can’t they agree to do the same thingat the same time?

Why is there so much unrest and dissatisfaction everywhere?Corinth, Sparta, Argos, Sicyon...the news reaches us by boat.

Why is Phaon far at sea, headed for Byzantium?

It seems to be a world of questions.

P

When I think how many gods exist, I am shocked by man’sconfusion and gullibility.

“Man is like a cricket. He sees the cricket’s limitationsbut not his own. The cricket can’t read or write or think scientifically. Hecan’t sail a boat or build a house. He potters away in his clod or field. Whatcan a cricket know about god?”

That’s what man says, unable to see beyond his own clod. Hescoffs and sneers but what is he but a two-legged cricket, brown, yellow orblack? I’m sure the cricket has his illusions, some of them as pat as ours.

P

Charaxos has returned to Mytilene.

Our meeting was unavoidable, of course. He had on thecommonplace mask of the man in the street and talked about his trip, thegrinding poverty in Egypt, the bad state of our mercenaries there...

No mention of settling his debts! Not a word about Rhodopis!Evidently Kleis does not exist.

“All of us are well, thank you,” I said. “Nothing haschanged for us here.”

What is there between us? It is something deeper thanourselves. When I walked away, my eyes burned and my cheeks felt hot.

Here is a passage from my first journal, written in childishhand:

Today is my birthday and mother gave me earrings and papagave me a brooch with a carnelian stone. We had a party on the beach and papaburnt his fingers in the fire as we cooked the mutton meat. I don’t like muttonmeat. I don’t like smoky fires. Papa sings badly. My dog got sick.

I suppose all that was very important to me.

Is our life important to anyone else?

P

No word from Aesop.

P

Sometimes I have to get away from everything and everyone,myself as well.

I went to a nearby fishing village. Necessity can beingenious. The fishermen have managed to build good boats out of the batteredwrecks that littered our shores. They tell me that the exporting of sponges hasbecome extensive.

I wish I could sail with a sponge crew. I went with a crewonce. Glued inside my decorum, I can’t believe I wasfree...wild...bold...headstrong...long ago.

Yes, I would like to cruise into deep blue water and staredown, then to the sponge shallows and swim down, down.

P

My new book is ready.

It was interesting to visit the Kamen house and check thecopies.

I stopped for a moment in the alley to gaze at the sunsymbol painted over the house door. More and more, geometric designs are givingway to more plas­tic ideas in decorating. Polychrome painting seems to growmore imaginative. Our ceramics are becoming more forceful. I thought of thesethings as I looked at the sun symbol, done in blue and gold.

The Kamen brothers were, as always, mysterious, stiff, likeEgyptian clay long dried by the sun. It is too bad they can’t apply some oftheir art to themselves. They are such emaciated creatures, I wonder what theyeat?

Each waits for the other to speak; each scrapes, bows, triesto efface himself. Tall, nut brown, with hair tied behind their necks, deerskin aprons over faded clothes, they make me feel like an intruder.

As for my book, it is excellently made. The brothers areperfectionists in their craft. To them, poetry is nothing. Do they read it atall? However, the libraries will be pleased to receive these copies.

I am sure this is my best work.

P

Thousands of white herons flew over our island this morning,making the sky a sky of motion. They flew almost all morning, flying toward themainland. I watched them from a bridge in town, leaning against the cool stonerail, Anak­toria watching with me, perplexed. Not a bird faltered. Whatdirected them? Not a sound, as they flew. Some of the townsmen gathered to stare,dead silent. In tens and twenties, they flew over and onward, apparently at thesame speed. Twice the flocks covered the sun and our town darkened, tiled roofsturning grey.

There were murmurs...

I remembered the herons as I tried to rest, wings and morewings, bearing me away.

P

Sometimes, we troop to our old theatre, lost in its bowl ofcypress and over­grown with grass and weeds, seats and benches crumbled. Layingaside our clothes, we toss rover reeds, have a try at archery, play catch. Orwe race or go in for leap-frog or tug-of-war.

Little boys like to pester us and poke fun. Little boys—howdelightful they can be.

If the day is sultry, we loll. Usually, the complaint is“too much sun.” I used to think we needed lots of sun and exercise but now I’m notsure.

Lying on a moss-topped stone, time seemed to pause: I thinkthere is trouble brewing. I don’t put it past Rhodopis to concoct something.Even Kleis has been too alarmed to return to Charaxos’ house. Mallia has toldher to wait.

There has been a to-do because the “right” people did notattend the home­coming party for Charaxos. What a pity! I know of no changes inthe life of Mytilene that required a unanimous celebration.

“Why must there be bad feelings between their house andours?” Kleis has asked. “Of course I hate him for what he did to me.”

My knees trembled.

How explain life to one who has not lived it!

“You could help me, if you wanted to,” she said.

Just like that!

I believe we only know what life gives us: can sound bedescribed to the deaf?

“After all, Charaxos is your brother,” she reminded me.

I wanted to say: He was, before all, not after all.

I can barely check my anger, angers, one on top the other,too many for me to consider and come through sane.

As I went home, I saw a man beating his slave. The slave,who has had eve­rything taken from him, is being punished publicly for aninsignificant theft!

P

The situation is becoming impossible: Why has Charaxosdragged Alcaeus into our quarrel?

I found them hurling insults at one another, Alcaeus’ houseand servants in an uproar. I hurried into the library and had to pound on thedoor.

“I can thank you for this!” shouted Charaxos, the moment hesaw me.

“Leave, Sappho. I asked him to come and now I’ll have himthrown out,” Al­caeus bawled, lunging across the table.

“Our hero!” snorted Charaxos.

“Enough. Get out!”

“Suppose you and I have a private word elsewhere,” saidCharaxos to me, bitterly. “As for you, old battle ax, I’ll settle with youanother time. I’m sick of your trouble-making. Maybe one exile was notenough...”

Quick as a flash, I slapped him. He eyed me grimly, thenturned and left.

Naturally, Alcaeus refused to tell me what the visit wasabout.

All this is contemptible.

I can not forget the scene of the angry men, the threat.

Perhaps the next move had better be mine? Before my opponentmakes it a “check” from which I can’t escape...as they say in the new Persiangame.

P

My girls sense that I am troubled and try to distract me.

“No work today!” cries Gyrinno.

“Let’s hunt flowers in the woods.”

Heptha bothers the cook to prepare me special delights.

Anaktoria dresses up a song, Helen and Gyrinno dance, Atthistries a musty joke.

It is a healing tempo...I am grateful...

These are lazy, summer days, the hammocks full, doves cooingin the olives. I send my thoughts on a long trip: may they find Phaon and bringhim back to me.

P

This is theatre season and the talk is of actors and acting.I like to familiarize myself with a play before attending its performancebecause I can appreciate it much more. I never miss a play if I can help it,whether comedy or tragedy, though I prefer comedy. But I think the “offstage”is interesting, too—that is, if one can remain a spectator there. It is when webecome involved that we lose our theatre perspective.

Neglates, who used to be a leading actor in Athens, likes tosit with me. He is our best critic. He is always urging me to write a play,“something about us,” he says.

“The theatre needs you. Why don’t you try? We need newblood.”

I suppose he is right. If we rely on the old writersaltogether, the stage will become stale. Perhaps I can think of something forthe religious festivals next year.

Theatre means meeting people I seldom see anywhere else. Ilike the con­tacts.

People feel sorry for Scandia because he is the father ofsuch a charming, marriageable daughter. White-faced, pinch-eyed, his necktwisted by a boyhood accident, one arm dangling—would they feel less sorry forhim, if his daughter were ugly?

Andros is the next thing to a dwarf in size. He has the faceof a twenty-year-old, although he must be well over fifty. He needs no one’spity—only some money! He is the best mask-maker our theatre has ever had.

P

Moonlight: Hand in hand,

Sappho and her daughter, Kleis,

walk along a path through hillside

olive groves, the ocean white below,

the murmur of waves part of their leisure and

sad conversation about Aesop.

Mytilene

642 B.C.

y heart is heavy... Aesop, myfriend, is dead.

He could have had a kinder messenger—it was Pittakos whobrought me the news.

“The mob killed him for causing trouble in Adelphi,” hesaid, his eyes cruelly cold. He had met me on the street, after a performanceof “The Martyrs.”

Did he think this the right time to let me know? Was it awarning?

I stared at him, as he shambled beside me. Then, before myface could reveal too much, I lowered my veil and walked away, trembling, myeyes unseeing.

I did not go home for a long time. I walked by the shoreuntil the ball of fire sank wearily into the dark water. The hills had a beatenlook, the sea an oppres­sive flatness. A gull’s cry wept in me.Alone...alone... I was much more alone.

Alone in my library, I opened the box Aesop had given me andremoved his fox, lion, donkey, raven and frog. He had moulded them for me. Twowere made of light-colored clay, others of dark. They were as highly glazed asscarabs. I arranged them on a shelf above my desk and could feel my friend’spresence, as though he were beside me.

But there would be no more letters.

No visit!

Lighting my lamp, I began my ode to “The Friend of Man.”

P

I knew Alcaeus would be as disturbed as I.

I expected him to roar, “The mob!” Instead, he bowed hishead, his hands on his lap, and remained silent. Slowly, he clenched his fistsand gouged them into his thighs. Muscles corded his arms and swelled as hestood.

“He should have come here, to us!”

“He was sick, Alcaeus.”

“Then I should have gone to him! Why was I doubly blind? Iknew he was under attack for opposing the aristocrats.”

Round and round, back and forth, we talked: what might havebeen, what should have been:

“If he had gone to Athens, he would have been safe withSolon.”

“If only he could have stayed in Corinth...”

And remembering what a friend Aesop had been to us, he said:

“He knew I liked bread from that oven of Stexos... He wasalways bringing me my favorite wine.”

“He couldn’t do enough, that time I got so sick. The bestdoctors, he...”

“Wild boar, to help you get strong.”

We recounted the fables, their Persian origin, thecirc*mstances of their tell­ing. How he loved travelers, especially from theEast.

I see Aesop on his balcony, the wind making him blink hiseyes; he has on dark blue trousers, yellow sash and gold blouse and carries hisdoll and is smiling and nodding.

Was it his profound understanding of life that made such adifference? He showed breadth of mind at all times. Revealing human characterthrough animal traits, he taught us the comedy of our faults and aspirations.

Alcaeus has begun writing letters, to protest against thisoutrage in Adelphi, to alert friends, to cry out.

P

High on a hill, I sit and stare at my bare feet and try toguess how many steps they have taken.

I peer at my legs and consider the color and texture of myskin. I rub my hands over my knees and ankles.

What of Phaon’s feet, the rigging they have climbed and thedecks they have walked?

Storms have crashed over him. He has held his ship to sunand stars, legs spread wide, feet on the planking.

Does the sea mean so much to him? Is it his woman?

As I watch the arrival of boats in the bay, the unloading atthe dock, I keep remembering his brown face.

P

The rains have begun.

They flood across the mosaic floor of the courtyard,draining noisily.

I am weaving a scarf, very white, light in weight, my seat astrip of rawhide on four pegs.

Around me the girls sit and chatter. Heptha and Myra weavetogether, work­ing at one loom, whispering. The rain and wind come togetherover the house. Laughing secretly, Atthis and Gyrinno dash off, padding throughthe rain, across the court.

Kleis unwinds my ball of thread and keeps paying it outslowly, rhythmically, her hands in time to a song she is humming to herself.

The white wool is restful. I can weave nothingness or I canweave in my whole past, the sea, my house, the cliffs, the trees.

My fingers are Phaon’s.

P

I have not changed my mother’s house since she died becausechange is no friend of mine. Occasionally, I have had to repair or refinish atable, and a chair or picture, but were mama to return tomorrow she would feelat home.

I often think that I will meet her, as I go from one room toanother, mama gliding softly, smiling, holding out her warm hands to me...wewould sit and weave by the window, the sea beyond, our voices low. With ourterra-cotta lamps gleaming, we would talk until late, too sleepy to chat anylonger.

I can’t remember my father, he died so young. His lineage,extending to Agamemnon, frightens me: That inheritance must carry into thesethick walls and the glazed tiles—a strong house.

Mama gave me his royal flute, said to be carved from abull’s leg, but it has been years since I have taken it from its silk-linedbox. Its sickly color never pleased me.

Its music comes to me sometimes: mountain vagaries, warmusic, sea songs, fragments of a day I can never know.

A bat coasts through my open windows.

Is there a better hour than dusk?

I feel that life is infinitely precious at such an hour,that sordidness and decay are lies. It is the hour when we cross the thresholdof starlight.

Sometimes, before dropping asleep, I long to see Olympus, aspart of this general dream:

Never is it swept by the winds nor touched by snow,

a purer air surrounds it, a white clarity envelops it,

and the gods there taste of happiness that lasts forever...

P

It has been a dreadful ordeal. I can hardly describe theevents of this past fortnight.

I had barely recovered from the shock of Aesop’s death, whenword came that Alcaeus had been attacked.

I had gone to a friend’s home and we had been chatting onthe sea-terrace, when children burst in with the alarming news. I hurried withthem to Alcaeus, the boys distressing me with their fantasies.

I found Alcaeus in bed, severely bruised and cut, withThasos in attendance.

“It was Charaxos,” Thasos said, quietly.

I must have gasped. I could not speak.

“I was alone...wandering,” Alcaeus explained, then turnedhis face to the wall.

And I dared to hope that Charaxos would come to his senses!I pressed my lips to Alcaeus’ hand.

“I’ll get Libus,” I said.

“Someone has already gone for him,” said Thasos.

Libus, too, was shocked: he ordered the servants to bringTheodorus, another doctor.

As the news spread through town, people gathered in thestreet in front of Alcaeus’ house, angry townsmen, yelling about Charaxos,calling on Pittakos for justice.

During the night, a mob threatened Charaxos’ home, and inthe morning, they stoned the place, battering shutters, screaming and demandingjustice.

Pittakos sent soldiers to maintain order but the soldierssided with the mob, forcing the doors, smashing furniture and chasing away theservants.

Sometime during the day, Charaxos and Rhodopis fled in oneof their wine boats, heading for the mainland. I understand there was a fracasin the square, some wanting to overtake the ship.

For two days, I did not leave Alcaeus’ home, taking turns athis side. In that circle of close friends, death pushed us hard, trying tobreak through.

Finally, Libus, more lean-faced and pallid than usual, fromhis sleepless nights and responsibility, drew me aside:

“He’s going to pull through. You can go home and rest. Trustme...”

I slept and dreamed and came back and the days went likethat before Al­caeus was out of danger, and we cheered him on the road torecovery.

Pittakos and some of his officials visited him, expressingtheir regrets, saying a committee had called, demanding Charaxos’ punishment. Ikept out of the room, leaving Alcaeus and Libus to handle the situation.

“Our tyrant sides with me!” Alcaeus chortled after they hadgone. “I’ve won!”

It is a poor victory: we have not won back our years ofexile. But, for the citi­zenry, this is something on the side of justice andworth talking about.

For my part, I suspect that Charaxos will return presently,unmolested. He is too important to our local welfare, employing too many, to bebrushed aside. When his boat anchors, Pittakos will fine him lightly. By then,sentiment will have cooled.

Justice is rightly placed among the stars.

P

On my next visit to Alcaeus, I took my clay animals andplaced them in his hands, describing each, one by one. He felt themcarefully—too slowly—a sad expression on his face.

“So Aesop made them?” he said. “It’s good you havethem...proof that his world is still here. I wish I could remember his...hisfaith...”

Taking the figures from Alcaeus, I put them on a tablebetween us: we three had sat at a table like this, in exile, planning,planning: those worries swept back again, distorted. Confused, I could feelmyself trapped. I knew that in those eyes opposite me, death sat there, atleast a part of death, the same death that was in those clay animals.

Our hands met across the table.

P

Villa Poseidon

It is useless to cross-examine Alcaeus. He will not discussCharaxos.

“Here, do me a favor, read me something from Hesiod,” hesays, and hands me the poet’s advice to his brother.

How history repeats itself! Family problems haven’t changed:this is an earlier Charaxos, who bribed judges to deprive Hesiod of hisinheritance.

If I did not know better, I could almost believe Charaxoshad used this story for his model.

As time goes on, I feel the stigma of our relationship moreand more. How can I be his sister?

Despite the liberality of our views, I am astonished thatAlcaeus respects and trusts me. I can’t shake my guilt: the fact that Charaxoshas cheated and betrayed me does not exonerate me of blame. I am tired of allthis. It is a confusion I can’t accept indefinitely.

P

Phaon’s ship has anchored in the harbor.

I have remained in my room throughout the day.

I have enjoyed the detail from my fresco—Etruscan girlstrewing flowers, hair streaming over her shoulders, face filled with joy, armsoutspread.

I am like that girl.

P

I took Exekias. As oldest member of my household, I feel sheis the best chaperone. In her crumpled face there is more than Assyrian placidity:she has known me longest and is sympathetic and discreet: she says things theway my mother said them, so warmly I can’t forget.

We left the house early, our scarves about our heads, womensweeping doorways and steps, sprinkling the dusty street, cleaning where horsesand cattle had passed. Birds sickled from the eaves, dogs and horses drank at awatering trough, nuzzling moss, rubbing gnats, their hairy comradeship obviousin roll of eyes.

We had not been in the market long when I saw him, alongsidea stall with a sailor, both drinking coconuts, shaking them, holding them up,tipping them, draining the juice, laughing. They had on shorts and were brown,incredible ocean brown.

Then Phaon saw me. Hurriedly, he set down the coconut andleft the stall and came toward me, smiling, wiping his fingers on his shorts.In the way he spoke, in the way he stood, I sensed how he had missed me, othertell-tales in his voice and hands. And I knew, as we talked, that he sensed mylonging as well: it brought us closer that we made no secret of our feelings.

A parrot jabbered atop its cage and a monkey squealed andbattered at its bronze ring, until its owner brought bananas. People crowdedus, elbowing with baskets of fruit and shrimp. Phaon and I walked underpalm-ceilinged aisles, dust sifting around us, light finning through stalls,over herbs, nuts, wines and cheeses...the smells made me hungry. Together weate Cappian cheese, tangy to tongue and nose.

“It never tasted better out at sea,” he said.

“I hope everything tastes better now.”

“It does...yes, I’m home again!”

Exekias ghosted behind me, face alert, her hands pushing mealong; so we moved, past the pottery lads, one of them glazing a bowl betweenhis calloused knees, the color as bright as the sliced oranges beside him readyfor eating.

“Do you suppose you and I can sail again?” he asked, as wewatched, seeing ourselves instead of the pottery boys. “There should betime...soon...when I’m unloaded.”

I caught his half question, half statement.

“If I were invited, I’d consider.”

My teasing brought a flash from him and laughter and hemoved back a little, nodding agreeably.

As I walked home, I felt that my mind had been invaded byeverything around me. I tried to hurry, thinking I’d remember all, the pricesof the traders, the baskets of starfish, the white parrot; I’ll remember hisvoice, his feet in the dust, his smiles.

Exekias babbled dully about food and flagrant cheating, herbasket bumping my hip. I wondered how I could wait, through the days ahead, howcould I oc­cupy myself, until Phaon and I sailed? It was a question for waterclocks and gulls, spindrift and wind, thought unfolding in my room, scuddingacross the floor to the window, stopping there, leaping out, to other lands,other times, backlashing with the net that contains yesterday...flames in acruse...Atthis, slip­ping her perfumed hands over my eyes...

P

My lips burn, my hands are moist, I feel faint... Is that myvoice, the sound of my laughter? Am I walking over these tiles?

Did I have supper last night? Drink? Rehearse a song?

My girls realize I am lost—wandering. I can’t look intotheir eyes for long. When I see Kleis cross the room a trickle of ice slipsdown my back.

What if he finds me too old, what if my love doesn’t pleasehim...if he mocks me, or stands in awe, or wants to amuse himself?

Phaon...

I see you against every wall, against the sky, in the dark,in the sun under the trees. My flesh aches, my arms melt. Never has passionfermented so strongly in me.

Yet no messenger comes.

I can’t bear the nights, to lie alone, to feel my breath onmy pillow, feel the cool sheet.

In the morning, I ask Exekias questions, just to hear hervoice, not listening, for how can she know whether he has forgotten me or isafraid or sick?

He is busy with his boat and port affairs. He has gone tovisit his sister, with no thought of returning soon. He has sailed. He talkswith his men—coarse talks. He eats, drinks, works, sleeps, snores.

No—he is fixing our boat for our trip.

No, he has many sweethearts, dark, tall, frivolous, lusty,daring—all young.

Why do I punish myself?

I hurt with weariness and desire. I will simply face thebedroom wall and shut out the light. No, I will concentrate on my work. Whatshall I write about?

P

Where is the sea that we sailed?

Was it a long trip?

Was our sail grey or brown?

Was the water rough?

The answers mean so little. Born of the sea, where is lovemore beautiful than on the sea? Like water, light, warm, swaying, theindispensable ingredient, the transformations, the necessities, the luxury,with the whites of the waves whiter than salt, with gulls flashing in the sun,with the bow of the boat swing­ing.

We swam, dove, played, laughed. There was bread soaked inhoney and nuts dipped in wine and fruit, whose peelings we tossed to the birds.There was the creaking of the sail for our silences, the long brown tiller armreaching to the sun, his hands on my shoulders.

He padded the bottom of the boat and we lay there, the windheeling us briefly, the water sucking and his mouth sucking mine and the hungerof his body—the hunger I knew no sea could satisfy. Cradled, we talked softly:

“Was your trip good?”

“We had good weather for several days, then storms... It’slike that, you know, most every trip. I try to keep far away from the coast, toavoid shifting winds. I keep farther away than most sailors. It shortens thetrip...”

“You’re not afraid?”

“No.”

“When will you be leaving?”

“I have no cargo.”

“Stay...Phaon...”

We had supper and I hated the food that kept us from ourlove-making.

A sponge lay on the floor and he dipped water over me as thesun washed over us, sinking rapidly. Why couldn’t it stay for us? I saw him asCretan, as Babylonian, as Persian, inventing his lineage. His atavistic handsmoved certainly, oarsman’s hands, netman’s hands, the sea’s...mine.

Nothing’s more rhythmic than love with waves for bed,rocking, sucking, soothing. I lay there in his arms, thinking of the plantsbelow, the glassy window of the water, the fish, coral, ruined cities...thelovers of other days, the mother of us all, love, pulsing in the rigging, inthe pull of his legs, the hasp of his fingers. The rollers were kind to us,never too violent yet tingling the blood. The backs of waves looked at us. Thespray spilled salt on our skin, gulls screaming.

We made love again, better than before, this time under themoon, our bod­ies wet from swimming, the summer night blowing over us, bringingus closer to shore where the surf boomed. Moonlight ignited inside the waterand phospho­rescence added to the brilliance. Flying fish sprang free. His bodywas so dark, mine so white...la, the rough of him!

Were any other lovers as happy that day?

As we stretched side by side, he said, with sleepy tongue:

“I remember an evening like this, a night ofphosphorescence. I was lying on the deck, almost asleep. A flash tore the sky,silver light...it came streaking nearer and nearer. I woke some of my sailors.My helmsman shouted. We pointed and argued. The light hit the water and sent upboiling steam. We smelled something. Stripping, I swam where the light had hitthe water. We were becalmed and I thought I had seen something white but foundonly dead fish, their bellies shin­ing. The largest one filled my arms and Iswam back to the boat and hauled it aboard. It had a brand across one side. Weargued, and threw it back.”

“What was it that fell?” I asked.

“Some said it was a star,” he said.

P

“I was born in Pyrgos,” Phaon tells me, his head on my lap.“I was born in a terrible thunderstorm, in my father’s hut. He was a veryclever fisherman but there were times when we got very hungry and on one ofthose times we waded out to sea, he and I, to throw a net...we were hungry. Iwasn’t helping much but I was there, small, perhaps learning something. Ah,that little island was barren and poor. And there I was in the water, the suncoming out of the sea, blinding me. And then my father screamed and I saw himfall. I tried to reach him. I splashed. I ran. I fell. I shouted. We werealone, we two. My father was thrashing about. It seems he had fallen into apool, a rock pool, you know what they are. Maybe he forgot it was there, ordidn’t know. I can’t say. But he had been hit by a shark and was bleeding. So Ihelped him, as best I could, both of us splashing, falling, the surf risingaround us, big. He fell on the beach and I ran for help but before I could findhelp and come to him he had bled to death, on the sand, his hands on his wound,the wound from the shark.”

P

We went up the mountain, to the outcrop and the temple,spent all day alone, the sheep tinkling their bells, the heat steady. He knewof a spring unknown to me and a hollow olive where bees had a hive. Only deepin the olive grove was it cooler and we buried ourselves under the trees.

The watery brown of his body was mine. I found his voicedeeper than I had thought. I found his mouth. Discoveries went on, nothingrepetitive, the wind, no, the olive shade, or the moss and mushrooms. Crushinga mushroom he rubbed it against his thighs. The smell of mushroom in the cool, darkplace! His smell and mine; the smell of earth: life was a vortex of fragrances,peace on the fringes, then a shepherd’s bell!

“I’ve wanted to be a shepherd,” I said.

“It would be too lonely for me,” he said. “It’s lonelyenough at sea. I look for a sign of land, a strip of floating bark, land birdor turtle. I look...there at the bow I’m always looking...now it will be you,ahead, in the sea. At sea I have my crew...no, I couldn’t be a shepherd. Butyou?”

“For me, I’d have more time to think, to write, to gatherthe world of still­ness. I could weave it into a pattern we’d recognize asimportant: succor, inspi­ration, hope. There is a cliff...you know it... theLeucadian cliff... I’d go there with my flock and dream as they fed about me,the sea below us, the murmur of antiquity around us.

P

It wasn’t easy to visit Alcaeus and hear him talk, as hereclined at supper, his hands close to a lighted lamp, restless fingers,perturbed in a blunted way: the tensility of the battlefield gone from them:moving, they move in on themselves.

“Sometimes, I want to see a face...your face, Sappho. I wantto see many faces, the faces of my men. I’d like to see a helmet and plume, thescarlet horse­hair plume...color...what a great thing...

“My house has no window or door. Who wants a house that way?

“What of other blind men and their darkness! What good canthat darkness do them?

“When my father was small he was scared of the dark. I neverwas. But this dark has become fear...words can’t break it. Only sleep breaksit. When I’m lying in bed, on the verge of waking, I think, remembering the oldlight, I think, the sun’s up. But where’s the sun!”

Someone had dusted his shields and spears on the wall: Inoticed the black point of an Egyptian lance, the cold grey pennons on a Persianhide: perhaps they had decorated the sand outside his tent.

This contrast troubled me and yet I longed to share myhappiness: the child in me wanted to discountenance reason: the brown shouldersand rolling sea never left me as we talked and I tried to comfort, remindinghim of days when it was fun to climb the hills and explore the beaches, fun allday: he admitted there had been time without pain and wondered why we wereeventually cheated?

Fog leaned against the house and I described it and he askedme to walk with him. As we followed the shore, he talked of warriors he hadknow, “strategists,” he called them; he boomed his words, excited by memoriesand the walk and the fog, which he could feel on his face and hands. His canecracked against drift­wood and I restrained him, to find his hands trembling.

P

The blue of the Aegean is reflected

in the faces of the 50 rowers of the trireme

as they chant and pull;

the blue is reflected on the ship’s hull

and the banks of oars.

haon and I were offshore in hisrowboat, the small sail furled, the surf near by, doubling into smooth green,sunset brazing the hori­zon. We had been gay, drifting, oar dragging, takingchances with the surf. Upright at the stern, Phaon looked about idly: we hadbeen talking about going for a swim. Suddenly, he faced me and shouted:

“Over there...see them...pirate boats!”

“What?”

“Over there, the other way...those three boats...see the redshields at the bow...Turkish pirates...they’re attacking Mytilene. I’ll row forthe beach. Hang on.”

His oar splashed and the boat pitched; pulling with all hisstrength, he drove us toward the shore, the surf rising, the bow high. Ithought we would capsize but before I could make out the pirate ships hebeached us and we scrambled ashore, drenched and shoeless. Together, we racedfor the square, shouting at everyone we met. Together, we dashed for Alcaeus’house, and threw open his door.

Men in gold, red and blue uniforms stormed our dock andinvaded the town. I hung on, behind shutters, unable to tear myself away as thearmed gang rushed past the house, forty or more, most of them yelling, one ofthem, in silver tur­ban, whistling through his fingers, brandishing a scimitar.My mother had de­scribed such an attack...I could hear her and see her painedface...a terrible story I had never quite believed.

Phaon yanked shields and spears off the wall and armedThasos and another man I scarcely knew, a visitor. Women and children holleredand scuttled inside, making for the rear of the house. Something crashedagainst our street door and men bellowed wildly at us. I saw wood rip the door.Thasos moved in front of me, urging me to hide. Phaon, with shield and sword,his clothes still sopping, threw open the door and beat off a Turkish spear.Catching two men by surprise, he wounded one in the neck and both fled, theuninjured man, a youngster, helping the other one, his shoulder turning red,their short swords rapping their legs as they ran. The injured man lost histurban as they rounded a corner...

“What happened...What’s going on?” bellowed Alcaeus, behindThasos.

“Turks,” Phaon shouted, checking the damage to the door,swinging it on its hinges, his hairy shield high on his arm.

Long after dusk, men scouted the streets, all the Turkishboats at sea: the town buzzed with shouts and whistles: a drum throbbed: theraiders had killed two and injured several and plundered a winery and mill,removing flour and filling goat skins with fresh water at several fountains. Ipiloted Alcaeus about for a while, until my girls discovered me and begged mehome, dreading a repetition, though by now armed soldiers had set up guards.

Stars shone brilliantly.

The bay, mirror-smooth, seemed utterly innocent of piracyand death. It ac­cused us of our own folly.

Alone in my room, I reviewed the raid, our flounderingashore, our dash to Alcaeus’ house, the brilliant uniforms, wild faces, wildcries, Phaon at the door, Thasos wanting me to hide, children whimpering.

The drummers were signaling each other, the surf sullen, thewind rising.

In a room near me, someone was sobbing. Peace would notreturn to my house or Mytilene for a while: how long, I wondered? Peace, howfrail it is, how carefully it must be protected.

I realized I should comfort my girls and not sit and watchthe ocean. It was hard to go to them, harder still to listen to their fears andaccusations. When they questioned me I felt that what I described had neverhappened or happened to someone else. Atthis, holding a puppy in her arms, saidshe wanted someone to protect her and burst into tears, realizing howunprotected she had been.

Why hadn’t I come with Phaon? What if the Turks had climbedthe hill?

“You forgot all about us, you just left us here! Oh,Sappho!”

P

Next day, with my house quieted, I had time to write:

Accomplishments require sacrifice of mind and body; forsome, accomplish­ment will be slow as the sea eating sand. I prefer the swiftattainment—it is most inspiring. Death, because it is an incessant threat,retards progress, inhibiting our will to succeed, seeping under us atunexpected moments.

Surely, if we are to conspire against death, if we are toget the most of life, we must be clever, relying on intuition and knowledge, toreach any goal. Surely, the most important element in life is the humane, thekindly, the uncorrupted, tying together little things into something worthwhile, that will have significance now and later.

P

Poseidon

641 B.C.

Then, what is love? Isn’t it sharing a personality neverencountered before? I think it is this kind of interchange and it is exploringsomeone’s thinking, with and without words. With Phaon, it is sharing the sea,the oarsman’s hands, the swimmer’s legs, yarns on the beach in the firelight.With Alcaeus, it has been our friends, our families, our town, our writing, ourexile—years of knowing each other. The differences between Phaon and Alcaeusare so many it would be foolish to try to list them. Comparison gets menowhere.

I suspect that love is too subtle for any analysis: love isso subtle it escapes while we look. Being in love is rather like being someoneelse, laughing some­one’s laughter, tasting someone’s wine, dreaming someone’sdreams. I feel that close to Phaon. Together, we share the fire, the fire thatwakes us in the night, that flies into our eyes, the fire that makes my mouthtremble, that makes me laugh in my mirror, that makes me test my perfumebottles and sends my girls for new powder.

I steal to him—with dignity. I crush him to me, dignitygone. I lose, I gain. I cringe, I lunge. Phaon, you are my body, in me, wantingyou, wanting... We are the wanters, haters of nights that keep us apart, hatersof time.

Its roaring deafens me: I, I didn’t hear you. I, I waswrapped in thought. I was making love...I was reliving the sea, I was in theboat. I was planning our next meeting...I was singing... Darling, I was saying.

P

Riding donkeys, Phaon and I set out across the island, tovisit his sister, riding all day in slow stages, to reach her hut and sleepthere. I thought we would never find it, but that was my thinking. Phaon led usthrough a jumble of hillside rocks, through little valleys, right to her door,a hut of rocks and straw, her shepherd’s crook beside the door.

Kleis is so unlike my Kleis.

She seems able to speak without words, perhaps because wordsare not very useful to her since she lives alone. She nods and smiles, hersmile serene. Small, dark, light-boned, she appears out of the past, no sisterof Phaon, unrelated to our island. I had not expected her to be so unlike us.Using her particular mys­tery, she made us comfortable, made us feel at home, agesture now and then, a word, some roasted seeds, another word, as we talked.Her delight in having us was obvious, coming from deep inside. She haswonderful wind-swept sight, from the rapture of lonely skies, her communions.She is priestess of self-contained youth. She shared her food and we sharedthings we had brought. Phaon talked of his sea trip, the Mytilene raid, hisvoice in accord with her qual­ity.

As our relationship deepens, I am more and more aware of hisquality. It is best seen in his slow, slow gesture. Or in a spontaneous grinending in a chuckle. It is in his carriage—his calculating look. His qualitiesare older than mine, sea­soned by the primordial: his speech is older, invocabulary, accent, intonation.

Kleis and I sang after supper, the supper fire burning.

Her sheep were near us, muffled, shuffling contentedly.

Venus hung over us.

How unlike my Kleis, in her singing and her songs: her songsare songs mother knew: they made me tremble and I wanted to clasp her to me:Phaon had forgotten most of them but joined us sometimes. We sang of lovers andwanderers.

She, the daily wanderer, was less a wanderer than any of us:her natural re­sources were always at her spiritual command.

Kissing me good night, she said:

“I love you for coming.”

Going back home, we poked along, talking and resting atlikely places. We stopped in an orange grove to eat, water rippling by us in anirrigation ditch. Cross-legged we ate cheese and dates and drank wine Kleis hadgiven us, the summer smells around us, flowers, so many kinds of flowers inthis place. Lying beside me, Phaon told me more about his life:

“...We met a storm off the Egyptian coast, the wind rushingus, tearing our sail. I was at the rudder when the sail split. I ordered my mento huddle in the lee and mend the sail. How we shipped water. The bow crashed.All of us thought we’d go down but they kept on with the mending, folding thefabric, squeezing out the water, wiping rain and spray from their faces. I’venever heard a fiercer wind, raging off starboard...

“When we had the sail mended I had someone take the rudderand helped hoist. A wave bowled us over. It was nearly dark and the rainslanted toward me. Out of the side of my eyes, I thought I saw something on thesea, a man, a tall man. I said nothing but worked hard: I couldn’t talk or yellin that sea. Part way up the mast, I looked down. Nothing. In spite of wind andrain, we hung our sail and swung out of the troughs. Back at the rudder, I sawhim, saw him moving, white, tall, through the whipped tops of the rollers.”

P

Villa Poseidon

641 B.C.

My girls still carry on about the pirate raid.

Gyrinno found a short sword and brought it to me.

“Look, I showed it to Archidemus and he says it’s from theTurks. Those are rubies on the hilt, he says. Feel them. See...see...”

Her fingers tremble with excitement.

Her breath catches:

“What if they’d broken into our house? It would have beenawful. Aren’t you proud of Phaon?”

The whole misadventure leaves me cold. I think of the burialof our dead. I see the blood rushing down the neck of the wounded man. Therewas blood on Phaon’s sword. He and Alcaeus had bellowed over their victory.Victory?

I pushed away the pirate’s sword, and said: “It would bebetter if there were no pirates.”

Gyrinno is disgusted.

What is wrong with man? Is man’s piratical weakness aninstinct? Women don’t go in for piracy. We know the value of living andappreciate life’s perilous­ness. We give birth to kindness...each baby iskindness itself.

Ihave forbidden Gyrinno to keep the sword: she must get rid of it, give it away,throw it away, I don’t care.

P

Rain, rain, rain.

The girls appreciate my happiness since a sense of graceenvelops me.

We weave and the rain falls, so gently, our looms frontingthe windows and sea. I am weaving a white scarf, quite blemishless.

Weaving has always been the most delightful pastime: I sitand weave and the wool goes in and out: I can see nothing in front of me or Ican see my whole past, or tomorrow, or Phaon, the ocean, my house, the faces ofmy girls...

I work silently sometimes, planning, composing. The art ofweaving thoughts must have begun with the loom. The rain falls, and weaves itssounds. Atthis and Anaktoria sit on either side of me, Anaktoria singing toherself. She is dressed in white and Atthis wears blue.

Across the sea a wedge of rain scuds, slowly approaching ourisland. Shep­herds are in their huts. Seamen are ashore. It is a time for allto rest.

P

At the bridge in town where I had watched the migratoryflight of herons, I met Alcaeus. He was perched on the rail, cane crossed overhis legs, waiting for Thasos. Glad to see me, he pulled his beard, fragrant andcarefully oiled. I found him cheerful. He talked about a Carthaginian ship, inharbor because of broken oars, after sideswiping another boat in a thick fog.As I listened his face altered: it was as if he were in pain or rememberedsomething tragic. Interrupting my comment, he asked:

“What’s he like? Is he tall, this Phaon?”

I described him, touching his arm to lessen his resentment.

“So...he’s not the soldier type!”

“Must he be?”

“No...a sailor, then!”

“Alcaeus!”

“I know...I know...the changes that have overcome me. I knowthem better than you.”

“And I know my changes.”

“Must our friendship end?”

“Alcaeus, let’s not go on like this. We understand eachother.”

“Yes...yes...of course. I apologize... I should have scornedthe war. Why was I bellicose?

“I could have kept to my books. I understand it takesinfinite time to probe, time to evaluate, time to mature. I have always wantedskill—like yours, working, as you work, through intuition and knowledge of thepast. By probing I could have come closer to freedom.”

“You have found your freedom,” I said.

“Where?”

“Attacking Pittakos, and his sort.”

“That’s another kind.”

“I realize that.”

As we strolled home, Thasos with us, he kept thinking,elaborating. Some­thing hurt in me. Wasn’t I deluding him? Was there freedom?When he stum­bled, I stumbled.

He had been my Phaon. I thought of his encouragement, yearsago, when each of us was desperate. That encouragement, that will to help,buoyed me and, talking swiftly, I promised him help, promised closerfriendship.

Standing at his door, leaning on his cane, eyelids closed,he recited something heroic and it was my turn to change: my expression musthave altered as quickly as his: his sincerity was an answer to mine: I knew hecould not see and yet hid my face in my arm. Walking on, I felt he was still inhis doorway, trying to see me, trying to understand.

A boy, with a yo-yo, asked me to stop and watch him performtricks:

“Sappho...I can make it do things,” he cried, dangling hisyo-yo over my san­dal, climbing it up my robe.

Sparkling eyes laughed and I bent and kissed him.

P

Yesterday, Anaktoria and I walked to a vineyard above thebay, a yard of crumbling walls, twisted, neglected vines, where bees hummed andswallows flicked apricot bellies. It was unduly warm and we threw off ourclothes and lay on old leaves, in the shadow of a wall, the waves grumblingbehind the stones, coming up, as it were, through masonry and ground.

I noticed her hand in the grass. I noticed my own. It seemedanother’s hand. The grass altered its identity. I felt my naked knee, pressinga stone: it seemed another knee although I felt the stone. I thought: naturetries to claim us before we are aware, before we are willing to let her. Swift,she likes to confuse, pre­paratory to that eternal grasp of hers.

Crickets piped under the wall, asking for cooler weather.Abruptly, they stopped, perhaps to listen to Anaktoria’s singing. She sanguntil I fell asleep, to wake and find her sleeping, hands cupped over herbreasts, afraid the bees might sting them. The wall’s shadow had lengthened andbirds were quarreling. Sum­mer’s integrity stretched from vineyard to horizon.

I thought about the two of us, our fragility, neither of usmarred: sometimes, when someone is loving me, I am especially glad I have anunblemished body: I know my lover will have something to remember.

The ring Libus gave her glistens on her little finger.

P

Deeper, deeper—our love goes deeper, taking us completely;the early lamps sputter out; the stars gleam in the windows; there is talk ofleaving, another trip to sea. But we shake off impending loss with each other’shunger; he says, your perfume stays on me; I say, the smell of you stays on me.He says, come closer, farther under. I say, I can’t, I’m stifled, I’msubmerged. Oh, impetuous lips. The depth of having someone your own, the depthof being the heart for someone. Phaon...the name, the body, the breath on myneck, special ways, his weight underneath me, supporting me, the sea comingthrough the windows.

There is nothing better than love.

O Beauty, you know I love him because he is the way I wanthim to be, you know he is kind...care for him!

P

A man speaks before the Acropolis in the moonlight:

“Stranger, you have come to the most beautiful place on earth,

the land of swift horses, where the nightingale sings

its melodies among the sacred foliage,

sheltered from the sun’s fire and the winter’s cold.

Here Bacchus wanders with his nymphs, his divine maidens;

and under the heavenly dew forever flourishes the narcissus,

the crown of great goddesses...”

Mytilene

have not seen Phaon for days andI feel eaten by rust, the rust that consumes bronze. I feel myself flakebetween my own fingers. Nothing distracts me. I tell myself I have no right tosuch feelings; it is wrong: be aware of the beauty around you, I say.

I have always believed that those who live beside the oceanshould know more about beauty than others. Their minds should be richer, theirfaces kinder, their stride freer. Rhythm should be their secret.

I know this is false but I must evoke beauty. I must capturethe magnificence of the sea and use its power. I must trap changes andrepetitions, the storm’s core and summer’s laziness. There is superiority inthese things, to help us through life.

But, with Phaon away, few things come alive: I am seaweedafter the gale. Husk, why trouble others? So, I sulk. Or, when my girls insist,I revive briefly.

When will the atavistic fingers come and when will I smellthe cabin’s wick and the nets? Oh, drown me, Egyptian lion, Etruscancharioteer, lunge and shield: yours is the tyranny.

Surely feminine love is kinder, less responsible, gracedwith evasions. Mascu­line love is a beginning, an intensity that goes on.Masculine love pushes into the future, asking roots, a thread of continuity.

. . .

Last night, Phaon took me among terra-cotta lamps, theirwicks flaming coldly. Perspiration glowed on our bodies. A cat jumped on ourbed and Phaon pushed it away: wind rustled: leaves shook: flames swayed: thiswas the love I had wanted and I accepted it and made it live: no little girl’slove, mine was glo­rious, damning all loneliness, knowing he would be goneagain.

P

A dried flying fish revolved on a string above Phaon’s cabindoor. His boat rose on a gradual swell, seemed unwilling to glide down.

“Let me sail with you when you sail next time,” I said.

“How could I take care of you?”

“Right in this cabin.”

“Would you sleep on the floor?”

“Why not?”

“What about food? Food goes bad...our cheese spoils...ourmeat...our water. Sometimes we can’t land a fish.”

A smile wrinkled his face, as he hulked against the cabinwall, his smile vaguely reassuring.

“What about the heat and cold?” he went on.

“I was hungry and cold in exile.”

“That was...years ago.”

The flying fish spun, and I thought about time. Had so manyyears lapsed? I said no more. He had silenced me effectively for I could notendure those pro­longed trials and no doubt the sea voyage was impossible:luxury had softened me. The spinning fish would have horrified Atthis. And wasI very different?

But we sailed along our coast, hugging it, unloading fruit,getting away from the windless heat of Mytilene, selling dates, lemons andlimes. As we sailed in a faint wind, the crew sang. Lolling under an awning, Iheard stories of catches at the deeps just beyond us, deeps where the watershimmered flatly, as if of rock. One crewman, not much bigger than a monkey,dove for shells while we crept through shallows. Pink shell in hand, treading awave nakedly, he offered me his prize, as I leaned over the side. Kelp floatedaround him and tiny blue fish darted in and out, under his legs and arms, angelfish lower down, perhaps frightened.

While the monkey-man dove for shells, youngsters swam fromsmall boats, hailing us, boarding us, some bringing fish as gifts. A blond, huskybody, his shoulders thickly oiled, shared an orange with a girl who had hisoval face and fair skin: twins, I thought, and went to the stern to talk tothem, comparing their arms and legs, their features and hair. The flock ofyoungsters cluttering our desk found us amusing and laughed at us.

The twins talked about a wrecked ship, “from a strangeland...you can see her at dawn, when the water’s quiet...she has a sunken deck,a huge rudder turned by chains. A great red and gold beast is carved over the stern...”

As we shared our oranges, juice trickled between herbreasts.

Someone shouted and there was more laughter, and, as ifprearranged, the youngsters abandoned us, dove overboard and swam shoreward,splashing, call­ing, wishing us luck.

I wish I were that young, I told myself.

That night, heat lightning brushed the sky, formingkelp-shaped ropes of yellow. Huge clouds massed about a thin moon and Phaonprophesied rain.

My head on his lap, we drifted, watching, listening to asinger, invisible man at the bow. His words made me uneasy as he sang of loverslost at sea. Our sail had enough wind to fill it and yet we appeared immobile.

I drew Phaon’s face to mine and his mouth tasted of oranges.

Above us, behind us, his flying fish rocked.

The lightning played among the stars and wet the sail andour helmsman bent sleepily over the rudder: it was a night for love and whenthe cabin had cooled, Phaon and I sought each other: he placed an orange in myhand, the singing went on, the sea sobbed, the orange fell.

“Phaon?”

“What is it?”

Keep me, wait, go on, love me, don’t...I wanted to say somuch.

I caressed him, breathed him in, the sanctity, the favor,the graciousness, the ephemeral. I wandered through caves. I dove to the wreckof the red-gold ship. I...

Later, we divided the orange and its sweet dribbled over usand he pressed his mouth there and we laughed, thinking with body.

I woke to see the moon sink below the ocean, to see howbeautiful he was, his ship and fish swaying as a fresh wind clattered the sail.

Noon found us back in Mytilene.

P

Phaon

He is god in my eyes...

my tongue is broken;

a thin flame runs under

my skin; seeing nothing,

hearing only my own ears

drumming, I drip with sweat;

trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than

dry grass. At such times

death isn’t far off.

P

Anaktoria’s flesh seems almost transparent—a sensuoussoftness coming from inside. When my girls are dancing on the terrace or in thegarden, I wonder who is most beautiful.

Kleis spins. Atthis bends, arms upflung. I see agrape-tinted breast, fragile ankles. Yellow hair flies over shoulders.Gyrinno’s throat is perfect. Malva’s thighs. Look, Atthis and Anaktoria aredancing together. For an instant, their lips meet.

Tiles are blue underfoot.

Our wonderful harpist, an old woman, watches with burning,lidless eyes, remembering her naked days, playing them back again.

Cypress are drenched with sun.

P

Winter has come and Alcaeus has changed.

Winter—Libus and Alcaeus sit in my cold room, waiting. Theyhave been waiting a long time for me; they were here when I returned from mybirthday trip.

Alcaeus’ face is deeper lined: it has been lined for yearsbut something has happened abruptly, pain has pinched the flesh into new, tiny,angry wrinkles.

Friends have reported that he is drinking again and yet thisis more than drink because I realize it is inner debauchery: the eyes cannotconfess: instead, the voice tells.

We huddle in our warm robes, the wind howling, and he says,in this new voice:

“What has kept you? We’ve been waiting a long time.”

Libus says:

“We haven’t forgotten.”

“Or isn’t this the day?” Alcaeus asks peevishly.

“Of course it’s her day,” Libus says.

Alcaeus chuckles.

When was it, I kissed that face, admiring its masculinity?His hands never trembled.

Wind shakes the house.

Mind travels to other days when we struggled in exile, when Alcaeus,badly dressed, kept us in food, stealing, conniving. Often there seemed no wayto get by. I sat, waiting, blind to life. That sort of blindness was weaknesson my part, or acceptance or hope. Listening, while we drank, I asked what hopehe had? He was deriving some satisfaction from his relationship with Libus.There seemed nothing else. Little by little, he forgot why he had come to seeme: happy birth­day became grimaces, guffawing, vituperations over battles. Heand Libus grew excited, enacting scenes with their hands, shuffling their feet.

“This is how I beat off his genitals...”

Alcaeus roared, hand on his beard.

“I beat open his helmet...”

Yes, the war...

And in my room, I found relief listening to the wind, rememberingthe boat’s passage to Limnos, my friends there, the festival in the vineyard, fluteand drum, carom of bodies, laughter: Was it Felerian who laughed that lowpitched melodi­ous laugh? Was it Marcus who hurled his spear through thetarget? I erased Al­caeus: so much of life demands voluntary forgetfulness!

My girls had clambered about me at the dock, detaining me.Why does their love soften me? So often there are petty squabbles but, atreunions, they dis­solve: the moment becomes a moment of accord, making lifeworthier: Gyrinno insists on carrying my basket, another smooths my scarf,another offers flowers. Kisses. They buzz into a flurry of plans.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go up the mountain...”

“Tomorrow, we’ll...”

Ah-hah-who, ah hah-who, the quails cry, as night comes.

I light mama’s lamp, so smooth to the fingers after allthese years, like ala­baster. The wick struggles into flame, as if reluctant toleave the past.

My Etruscan wall girl comes alive.

“Ah-hah-who.”

I take off my chain and pearl cluster and lay them in theirscented box, paus­ing, sensing, dreaming.

Perhaps Phaon will be back soon—unexpectedly. I could notremain longer in Limnos, thinking he might return—tonight. I long for hismouth, the jerk of his legs, his obelisko’s tyranny.

Hunger—let me sleep tonight, tired after the voyage.

P

No sooner have I returned than I am upset. Life isconstricted... I stand among Charaxos’ Egyptian treasures, confronting him: atwisted, gilded serpent god sneers at me: fragments of gold leaf blink: mellowgold is underfoot: I sway, as I talk, my parasol clenched across my belly.

“Now, I know,” I say to him.

“You know what?”

“That you schemed with Pittakos, to have me exiled, withAlcaeus.”

“What?”

“After all these years I’ve found out. Stop lying. You triedto get our home, that’s why you wanted me exiled. What a brother you’ve been!What a fool I’ve been!”

For once he shut his mouth.

“During the war years you made many trips, to sell yourwines...refusing to help me financially...yours is a debt you won’t pay...andyou don’t care. I’ve dedi­cated my life to writing...I live no lie. I work tomake life significant.

“And now, why have I come? To quarrel? No, to tell you thetruth. I’ve nothing more to say. I want you to know that I know. It’s asatisfaction...”

I could have talked on, but I left, snapping open myparasol, clutching Eze­kias’ arm, walking swiftly, curbing my pulse, hearing aseagull, the wind icy at the corners of the town, dogs sleeping in the sun,carts passing.

I tried to believe something was settled, that life wasworth more for having told the truth. Yet, I wanted to return to Charaxos,demand apologies and resti­tution, apologies for impertinent, biasedcriticisms, as if apology, like a brand, could stamp out wrong, as if therewere restitution for my cheated years.

Somehow, as I walked, as Ezekias chattered, Aesopcommiserated: his hunchback shoulders squared my shoulders: his doll had thedignity of a scepter to prod my spirit.

A tow-headed youth greeted us and I thought: I wish I couldhave a son. Yes, to give birth again. That glory cancels many defeats.

In Libus’ house, I turned to him and said:

“I told Charaxos what you told me weeks ago.”

“But I shouldn’t have told you, Sappho.”

“It was time I knew the truth.”

“And now you have an enemy,” he said.

“He has been my enemy all the time, Libus.”

We sat on his veranda, an agnus-castus sheltering us from thewind. His boy brought us drinks.

“Are we better friends?” he asked.

“I trust you more.”

Tree shadows moved across his mouth and chin.

“Trust is not always friendship. I shouldn’t have informed.How shallow we are, the best of us. We bungle. Friendship, yours and mine, it’shard to measure, perhaps we shouldn’t try: isn’t it better left alone? Friendship,that’s what we’ve had all these years...I overstepped propriety.”

How pale Libus was, in his grey robe, shadows ridging the fabric,chalking his face, thickening his lips, greying his hair. His sandals movednervously yet he never moved his hands: they remained weighted to his lap.

I ate supper there, lingering with the ancientness of hisrooms, dark mosaics, the crowning of a king behind him, Libus’ chair of whiteleather, the king in the mosaic studying his crown, his jewels flashing red, ahint of Corinth and a hint of Crete.

P

Remembering my shepherd visit, I wrote this:

EveningStar

Hesperus, you bring

Homeward all that

Dawn’s light disperses,

Bring home sheep,

Bring home goats,

Bring children home

To their mothers.

P

What is it urges the mind to seek beauty? What is thechallenge? Why go where there are no charts?

Beauty says it is a kind of love.

So, I make love, in my quiet room, the word symbolic of man,life^’s continu­ity, my paper taken from reeds and trees. I write ofbirth, love, marriage and death, sensing that the unrecorded is vaster than therecorded. I sense the stum­bling: the past could be a gigantic storm, fogobliterating at moment of revela­tion, fog fumbling from man to man, sayingcome, saying stop. The past is a wave through which no swimmer passes. As surfit inundates, then vanishes. On windy nights, it moans at my window, beautifuland hideous. I struggle on.

P

I quote from my journal kept in exile:

For three days we have had little to eat, days ofquarrels, bitterness and savagery.

I gave myself to a merchant and he has returned the favorby feeding Alcaeus and me. We ate in the kitchen, glad to find considerateslaves. We can remain long enough to recover our strength, if not our hopes.

How I long for home and my servants, fish as Exekias canprepare it, onions in Chian wine, olives from Patmos. It helps to list the goodthings. Surely they are not lost.

How wretched to cheat myself to keep alive, to cheat theface, the mooning eyes, the stupid mouth, the odor of flagrancy, thedisbelief...chattel, cringe, lie still, perform.

Copying those lines I remembered things I have neverrecorded, our filthy clothes, windowless room, flies, thirst,sickness...Alcaeus in jail... I was fined...authorities jeered at us...nosympathy, no luck until Aesop, his fox, raven and rooster.

I never thought him brilliant but he was alwaysentertaining, agreeable about the smallest problem. Nuances come to me, as hetold of a turtle that ferried a small turtle and then, at the end of the pleasantride, said:

“Little turtle, you must pay.”

“How can I pay?” asked the little turtle.

“By doing me a favor.”

“Well, what can I do?”

“Hump along the beach and snatch me a fly.”

“I^’ll do my best,” said the little turtle.

After humping and snapping till almost noon, the littleturtle brought a fly to the big turtle. Finding the big fellow asleep, thelittle one had to cuff him.

“Here,” said the turtle, between closed lips.

“Ah,” exclaimed the big turtle, swallowing the fly, tastingit with care. “Umm, that’s the first fly I ever ate! You see a little fellowlike you can do things a big fellow can’t.”

P

During the night an earthquake woke me and I wanderedthrough the bed­rooms, to see about my girls. Atthis needed covering and as Iarranged her cov­ers she murmured, “Mama, mama.” Before I could slip away, shegrasped my hand.

“Are you homesick, darling?”

When I kissed her, I found her face wet with tears. “Whydon’t you go home for a few weeks?” I whispered. “You were calling your mama inyour sleep. If you’re homesick, you must go home. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.Do you want me to sleep with you?”

So we cuddled together and almost at once she relaxed and,after a few en­dearments, slept with her head on my shoulder, her violetfragrance around me. I held her fingers a long time. Drowsily, I asked: wheredo we go...why can’t we remain young...happy? The last thing I recalled was thesweetness of her per­fume.

The earthquake had been forgotten.

P

Alcaeus sat on his leather stool, his dog at his feet,sunlight behind him; el­bows on his knees, he said:

“...I prefer that hymn. There’s really no finer. In spite oftime it’s full of force, spring’s arrival, the brevity of summer, the dyingyear. It has the shepherd’s power, the forest’s—passion tamed and sanctified.Another one I like is...

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall...

Libus, sitting near Alcaeus, quoted his favorite, huddlingin his robe, his face averted:

Alone, in sea-circled Delos, while round on beach and cove,

before the piping sea wind the dark blue storm waves drove...

“Why do you break off?” I asked.

He did not answer but said:

“They knew, those ancients, how to supplicate thelowliest...they preferred the virginal...snowy peaks...whispering groves...thehunting cry...”

Warming my feet on a warming stone, I said I preferred thegolden hymn and repeated fragments...

Long are their ways of living, honey in their bread,

and in their dances their footsteps twirl, twirling light...

P

Fragment of talk:

“We can’t marry, unless we have a child...you’ll betwenty-three soon...it must be like that...my house is a house of women...”

I thought of those words as I passed Phaon’s house, beyondthe wharf, iso­lated. As I passed, waves climbed its base, licking at boulders.Its walls are thicker than most, cracked and mottled. I used to be afraid ofthat house as a girl and as I passed these thoughts brought back some of thatapprehension. I glanced at the seaward balcony, tottering on wasted beams,painted years ago. Seagulls squatted on the flat roof, as they have day in andday out. There are five rooms underneath those tiles and his mother and unclelived and died there, a harsh struggle in rooms of simple furnishings, coils ofrope, nets, brass fittings and bronze anchors.

Phaon lives there with two men, their servants and ahanger-on. Kleis visits occasionally. A parrot, some say nearly two hundredyears old, gabbles sayings and fills the sea-sopped silences.

Yes,his house troubles me—its darkness, its evocation of poverty and my own exile.

P

While I was ill, Libus cared for me, the mastery of hishands relieving pain. By my bed, talking soothing talk, he brought gradualrelief, just as two years ago. His hands are more than hands, it seems. Magicalmasseur, he explores yet never gropes: his fingers, padded at the tips, press,release, wait. Our friendship, with all its confidences, in spite ofdifferences, weathers the years and is stronger at such a time, under hismastery. As he obliterates pain, he blinks absently or smiles his pale smile,withdrawn yet assuring. He learned his art from a young Alexandrian, a man hemet while studying in Athens, who spoke many desert languages.

“I’d like to see him again. I’ve learned something throughmy own experi­ments; we would share. Of course, he’s a great man.”

And when I asked Libus about my illness, he said:

“Too much work, too much rich food, too much concern. Youhaven’t been using common sense.”

I didn’t care for this and said:

“I know from what Alcaeus says, you help him more thananyone. You can help me.”

“I’m not able to help him all the time.”

“You mean his drinking?”

He shrugged.

“Let’s call it something else. He does nothing so much ofthe time. That’s where the trouble lies. He’s not thinking...doesn’t care.”

“He wouldn’t let me in when I went last. Thasos had to turnme away.”

“The great soldier...drunk.”

“What can I do?”

“Try again, Sappho. You and I know what he is—and was. Youused to un­derstand him better than anyone. Now, well, I do what I can. He’sgrowing worse...have you heard him bellow at me or Thasos, as if he werecommanding officer? No doubt you have...and more...”

Libus’ hands pushed and then, feather-weight, strokedupward, over and over, inducing me to breathe steadily: his hands broughtwarmth, my thinking became clearer. As he pressed, the weight on my heartlessened; as his fingers covered my stomach, rotating their tips, I felt bitteranguish might not come again.

Lecturing me, he cautioned me about food and advised lessexercise: rest, let the days flow by.

So, I sail with my girls, lie in the sun, walk, poke alonglazy trails, fuss in my garden. Winter is hard on me. Chills come, leaving mystomach knotted, my eyes afire.

P

Phaon has returned.

P

Phaon and Sappho kneel in a grove,

a cithara beside them:

age-old trees shade the lovers:

the age of a ruined temple is part of

the timelessness of the grove:

bronze Phaon and white Sappho,

dusk takes over their whispers,

their motions, the wind in the olives.

Mytilene

nder the olive trees we facedeach other, alone, the sun coloring the ground, patching yellow and brown. Abutterfly circled, as if considering us. Tenderly, Phaon fitted his hands overmy breasts and I held him in my arms; swaying, we kissed: we had not talkedmuch and we knew talk could come later: his legs crowded mine: his hand undidmy hair, spilling it over my shoulders: confirmation was in that un­disturbedplace and accord burned our mouths and throats. Encystment was the slippingdown of robes, our knees touching, the feeling, self, and underneath self, theground, our earth: yet we were not aware, only before and later: theconsummation dragged at the trees: I forced him to me, forcing back his face,his mouth: how warm his stamina: tenderly, we rose, to fall back: tenderness,how it becomes ash, taking us by surprise: I couldn’t stop quivering till hishands stopped me: his voice was real so all was real: then, he was home andthis was not a lie: I knew it on the slope of hills sloping to the ocean: Iknew it in the boat, far at sea.

P

When we learned of a terrible earthquake at Chios, we loadedLibus’ boat with food, wine and water and set out, before dawn, across choppywater, Phaon and I at the stern, under blankets, Libus managing the sail. Wewere part of a small fleet but I couldn’t discern another boat. Spray swishedoverhead and fog, ahead and astern, seemed ready to pincer us. Under our hullthe water flooded ominously; the sky, without its stars, might have been theocean.

Our hard trip brought us into Chios tired and hungry; we hadbeen unable to look after ourselves but, without eating, we began to distributefood and wine.

Chios—happy town—lay broken. I walked about, remembering,stopping here and there: all the central part, shops and temple, weredismembered, had windy dust blowing across it, greyish dust that seemedmortuary. Yet, I saw no dead, only the injured: Libus helped them, bandaging,talking: I gave wine and water, afraid: he was annoyed by my fear: I could notfind Phaon and that wor­ried me. Wine, and water, dribbling them, my hampershaking, the wind icy and dust in my mouth, I felt sick again. A child raced tome, wailing: crouching down, I mothered her, fed her a little bread: as wecrouched, a slab of building fell, tottered forward and disappeared in a waveof dust.

“The quake came and came and then came again,” an injuredwoman said, accepting dates and cheese.

By now, I saw others from Mytilene and their hearty facescheered me. But how the gulls screamed. Flocks wheeled and screamed.

On the beach we lit fires and cooked our suppers, wind anddust still both­ering us: Phaon and I ate with people from home, our fire puttogether from the prow of an old boat, the talk about Chios and the injured,their lack of food and care. We slept in beached boats, the surf snarling,stars breaking through fast clouds: I remembered the big dipper and frightenedpeople... Libus woke us early and we did our best to help, using splints,caring for a head wound, bandaging a boy’s chest... Libus scarcely allowedhimself time to eat.

The wind had subsided, and I felt less fear and went aboutwith my basket of food and wine. In the afternoon, we welcomed other boats fromLesbos and after a second night on the beach—this one calm, all the starsawake—we sailed for home, three of us leaving at the same time, our boats somany grey corks on a line.

As I stared back at the stricken town, I heard the gulls.“Phaon, it was bad,” I said.

“Yes, very bad, though I’ve seen worse.”

“I hope I never do.”

“These people had help...sometimes there is nobody to help.”

“We’re in the lead,” Libus cried. “We’ll be the first oneshome. Now for some sleep.”

P

Today, I had a letter from Solon: he discussed politics andhis immediate in­tentions and then went on to consider my poetry, praising itfor its lyrical quality, refreshing themes, compassion and sense of beauty.

I respect his judgment and his quotations sent me to mybooks, to reconsider and evaluate. For a while, I sat at my desk, thinking overpassages, contemplating the ocean, serenely blue as usual. Life, for themoment, was balanced: it had acquired profundity and calm: here was my rewardsince I believed his assess­ments just: for once, I needed no one to share: Ineeded nothing.

But I picked up Aesop’s clay fox and recognized my need: thebite of yester­day cornered me.

P

Kleis has fallen in love—this time with a cousin ofPittakos. I am amused, and have done all I dare to make the pair happy,picnicking and boating.

I have seen him at play on the field, built well, long ofleg, with a homely, genial face and grin that consistently makes up formediocrity. Like his cousin, I could add. But that’s unfair. When I see himscrew up his mouth in front of Kleis, I sag. The next moment he brightens andseems about to say something intelligent. Then, the cycle resumes. Love, Iremind myself, with inward nod, can be curious.

Well, I am playing the game—if it is a game—circ*mspectly,knowing winds can be fickle. I gather news from my girls who too often babble.

“See, how she conducts herself! She’s grown up!”

“My, they’re serious!”

I am aware of her airs.

Am I to forget her clandestine meetings of a few months agoand expect her golden head to settle down?

She confides in me and I conceal my smiles.

However, doubts from deep inside prompt me to accept and notgo in for ridicule: where is another daughter, where is the boy suited to yourtaste? Is she to fall in love your way? Deeper, I discern the sacredness oflife, elements of faith and love.

Thinking these things, I go where the hills plunge to the bay:I listen, under my parasol: there is much more than sound or silence: I amconfronted by yes­terday, in the gulls: I squint, and there, on milky horizon,I glimpse the spirit of man, blundering, a plant in his hand, a rope draggingbehind him, a dog by his side: what is the rope for?

I think of my school and how taxing it is to teach kindness,moderation and beauty: yet, I am confident, teaching is worth while and livingworth while: good meals, laughter, music, dancing, love: they are there withhim and his dog and the rope, in sound or silence.

Kleis, may you find a good way, all the way.

For my part, my relationship with Phaon affords discovery,Sumerian lassi­tude, great rivers and forests, prowling sand, the bay and itscurrents, the hull dipping, the rower heaving his arms, groaning.

Illusion, deceit, whatever it is, this is the happiestperiod of my life.

As I walked by the columns of my garden, I recognized thatnever have I ac­complished so much. I have unlocked doors. I see my estheticway: my personal recollections have pulled out of ruts. I have uncovereduniqueness, sensibility... I have seen what it has cost man to survive: dunesagainst dunes, lack of water, perilous heat: I have weighed his potential, hisgrace, his beauty. I have sensed that appalling black that existed before thecoming of books. I have heard torn sail and smashed rudder. I have felt thefoundering.

That darkness must not come again!

We must see to that!

I walked among my statuary and benches, absorbing thedifference in roses: home and happiness were secure in me: my writing must be apart of this place: marble benches, a face augustly seaward, lichened withgreen: another face turned toward the sun, his enigma personal, his serpent’shead prowling through a disc.

P

I found this in my journal, written more than fifteen yearsago:

Yesterday, Cercolas and I spentthe day in an olive grove where men were knocking olives off the trees...wewalked far.

That is all I wrote and yet that was one of the most joyousdays. What kept me from describing our happiness? Was I too close to it? Or wasthe next day one of those hurried days and I thought I would write about ourday later on? Later?

A year later Cercolas was dead at war.

And what made those hours precious? It was our accord, theday itself and everything we saw and did. I realize this now. His arms werearound me, or mine curled about his waist. His mouth went to mine, many times.Mine to his. I wish I could remember what we said but I remember his smiles andI remember his coarse brown Andrian robe and I remember how we looked at thisand that, making each thing ours.

Cercolas...your name is euphonious...your fingers reach outof death...I glimpse your smile.

But is this all that remains when we are gone?

Is this the answer?

P

I have often relived the experience of giving birth. HadCercolas lived, there would have been other children. Kleis was born on asummer’s day, the ocean lapping after a windy night, a dragonfly in my room,clicking its wings over my bed. Mama saw it and murmured:

“There...see it above you. Now, I know you’ll have a girl!”

Shortly afterward, Kleis was born, the dragonfly still there:how blurred, it seemed, and how the ocean faded and reappeared as I fought. Ifelt I would drown in sweat, drops pouring down my neck. Mama wiped my face andhands, her voice soothing, as she cooled me. I wasn’t afraid: no, a newhappiness surged through me, even while my wrists were breaking and my kneesafire. Even while the pain tore me, I was aware of this happiness: I was bringinglife, defeating death, adding to our world. My heart sang, though sweatdrenched me, and the dragonfly, clicking its green wings, seemed a ragged dotor great bird.

I was glad Cercolas wasn’t there: I tried to remember hislove-making but all I could remember was pain and mother’s voice and thechatter of Exekias and the sound of the sea. When Kleis had come, I thought: mywrists are broken and my knees burn but I’m glad, glad...and mother kissed meand said: Go to sleep, darling.

When I woke, the top of the ocean had become pink and pinkwebbed the sky: it seemed I was staring through woven stuff, skeins in rows,with wool dropped and tumbled between: the pink darkened nearest the water andstars were visible—a sunset like many others and yet different because Kleiswas here: this was her first sunset.

P

During exile, when Alcaeus and I had the same room and bed,he tried to make me feel our bad luck couldn’t last. He would roar against it.He might be­gin the bleakest day with a song.

“Hungry—let’s go beg!

“Thirsty—let’s find a fountain. There’s cool water in theshade of a carob.”

Our feet grew blistered. Days I lay on my mat, too sick tomove, he brought me bread or a flower. Kneeling by me, smelling of the streets,he’d rub my hands...

“We’ll find a way.”

When we shared the big bed at Aesop’s, its sides paintedwith flowers, Al­caeus cheered, reminding me of our luck.

“Remember those candle stubs I found?” he laughed. “Rememberthe roast lamb I stole—how the guy rushed after me, jabbing the air with a knife.Re­member...”

I remember my gratitude to Alcaeus and Aesop must not end.Without their help I would have died.

I dreamed the other night that Alcaeus and I were exiledagain, that Alcaeus came to me, as I lay between heaps of dung: he crawledtoward me, clothes in rags, exhausted, blind. I opened my cloak and offered mybreast—wanting to suckle him.

Waking, I realized how late it was.

P

Four of us, with Libus as guest, had supper at a table onthe porch, a recep­tion to honor Anaktoria’s return...bourekakia andstuffed grape leaves, Anaktoria serving, maturer with that overnight bloom,that overnight assurance.

“Doyou like bourekakia?” she asked Libus, too obviously thinking of him,offering him stuffed leaves instead of bourekakia, offering herself, atleast for the night, something in that spirit, making fun of Tele­sippa, hernewcomer rival, who was also interested in Libus, diverted, momentarily bysomeone’s comment about my harp, a point to bandy for effect: how charming theywere, bathed and perfumed, Telesippa in her city clothes, Anaktoria in herCretan style, Gyrinno’s jewels amusing us, the topaz swallowing her throat.

“You see Sappho’s harp has twenty strings and is forMixolydian songs.”

The topaz tinkled and a smile went round, coaxing us to feelbetter.

I told them about the harp I had invented, admiring them asI talked, hair, shoulders, arms...enjoying each girl. I realized they wereespecially mine. No one else would have such an opportunity to influence them.

We listened while Anaktoria described her visit, her babysister, the sailor who died on the wharf, the arrival of an Ethiopian girl,slave for a merchant. She talked as I had taught her, gestures well timed, headpoised. She has lost her island mannerisms, such as gulping impulsively andbiting off chunks of food.

Brushing aside her shoulder-length hair, blue eyes a littlewild, Telesippa gos­siped about her dressmaker, “the best in Athens,” whose“tattling is incessant.”

Libus steered the conversation to something sound and Atthiscarried on: yes, no doubt, teaching helps.

Later, we sat on our terrace and passed around sweets andnuts and Libus joked, sultry jokes of the last generation, wanting to impressthe girls.

Old tiles underfoot...youth around me...the thick walls ofmy house above the sea... I relaxed until someone mentioned Phaon and I saw himworking on his boat, hands stained with oakum, knees rough from the planking.

“Phaon—I say good night to my girls. You’ll be with me,soon. Soon, I’ll be buried under your mouth.”

Tomorrow, we meet after the games on the field.

I’ll see him there, legs flashing, discus flying, his speardigging its hole. I’ll see him rock with laughter and splash himself clean.

P

Alone, I rubbed my hands over my body, thighs, breasts,ankles, wrists and shoulders: my flesh is firm: I know, as I sense my ownintegrity, that before long I must lie in death.

No waking touch on my belly and knees, no chance to comb anddress my hair at leisure, no mirror for dawdling, no winging of gulls.

P

Poseidon

Of the poems I have written recently, I like these most:

Love, bittersweet, irrepressible,

Loosens my legs and I tremble.

.

I could not hope

To touch the sky

With my two arms...

.

The sun sprays the earth

With straight-falling flames...

.

O, Gongyla, my darling rose,

Put on your milkwhite gown...

.

When seastorms scream across the water,

The sailor, fearing these wild blasts,

Spills his cargo overboard...

.

The night closed their eyes,

And then night poured down

Black sleep upon their lids.

Alcaeus prefers the last two.

P

In a vase, on my table, a white rose opens and I see theface of Anaktoria. The rose is the most perfect flower, some say. Of the twokinds, the garden and the rambler, I prefer the rambler, climbing through thenight, bringing its fra­grance into my room, white in the starlight, ivory inthe moonlight.

P

The sea and its waves are something we never forget yetnever remember: how the surf leaps and splits into foam, how the foam cascadesinto white and divides into blue. From shore to sky there is blue, in patcheslike marble, areas like grey and porous granite, ribbons of blue that submergein whorls.

How quiet the blue, how serene where afternoon sun polishesa path aimed for the shore, Cretan, Ethiopian, Etruscan, where men and shipshave sailed—their hieroglyphs ruddered by chance. The ocean is always chance,yet it is subdued, finally modulated by place and time. Wherever we travel,there is the element of chance, rain, storm, heat, cold, before us, deceptive,feminine, wrap­ping us in fog, cities, deserts, islands, birds, starry decksand windless watches.

We never remember the sea because it alters momentarily,making rainbows, spreading colonies of butterflies, floating celery stalks,turtles, heaving shells and driftwood—beaching itself with footprints that fillwith seepage or disappear underneath the wave.

P

Cercolas and I had such fun, when we were newly married androde our white mares, across the island and along the shore, sometimes swimmingthem. When the oldest became sick, I put a pillow under her head and tended heruntil she died, on the beach, beneath the thatch of her stable.

Cercolas took the other mare, to die with him at war, Isuppose it was. How can I know?

Our horses have gone, six or seven at a time, until thereare only colts and old ones—I see them on deck and in holds, their white facespeering, yellow manes shining: white, in memory of our mares, white as gulls. Iwish I could hear their whinnying across the fields, as they race toward me.

Warriors brag about their fearless horses but I prefer maresthat nip my hands and tug my clothes.

P

Music is a tree, a cave with sea water sloshing, a shell tothe ear, a baby’s laughter, the lover’s “yes.” I suppose it came from theflint, the arrow. Cercolas was music. Mother was music. The loom and harp aremusic. I have heard music in my dreams. I dream many kinds of music when I playthe harp.

I like music best at night, under the stars; I like it whenI lie down in the af­ternoon, aware, yet not truly aware; I like it when I amup the mountain, the wind harsh; I like it when I am on the shore, the beachfire low, sparks rising, the sea almost at rest.

Ilike music when I eat, when I am at the theatre, or alone. Lonely music ismarrow-wise, aware of secrets, revelatory in surprising ways, prying,blurring—altogether deceitful. I like the harp better than the horns. Drumsfrighten. The voice is best: its story is man’s, the sea’s, the mountain’s, andthe sky’s.

P

How I used to laugh at rimes Alcaeus wrote against Pittakos:

Old Pitt, we found your cloak

Among the fish and fisherfolk;

We saw your mouth gape and perk

Whenever a blouse made something jerk.

I suppose Pittakos paid many a visit to the fisherfolk—hewas young enough then. And Alcaeus was clever enough to wring every drop ofsatire out of P’s doings. His foolery endangered many of us. What a disgracePittakos remains in office. How fine it would be if Libus were empowered.

Libus says:

“There aren’t enough of us to overthrow this man...he’sentrenched till he dies. It’s better to wait. Look at Alcaeus, what has hisfight gotten him? Part of his tragedy comes from his inability to overthrowthis man.”

Yesterday, when I visited Alcaeus, I shivered and pulledback. Alcaeus stepped forward and grabbed my hand.

“Come, darling, we’re having a drink. Join us.”

Libus signaled me to sit down: their dining room was full ofphantoms; shields glared; pennons dragged at me. With an apish grin, Alcaeusreeled across the room to bump against a table and chirp a drunken song.

It was rainy and dark and the melancholy afternoon and roomclosed in. You must pretend, I said to myself. Pretend he can see. Pretendthere’s nothing wrong...imagine...

As the three of us drank together, a scrawny, red-fleshedboy served us, downcast, looking as if recently beaten.

As we drank, the melancholy of Alcaeus’ soul spread, seepingthrough taut throat muscles: intelligent things said with difficulty, goodthings said badly, reminiscences slightly distorted. What is more dismal than adamaged life, dam­aged beyond alteration, no matter how much we care? What morefutile than communication at such a time?

I could not look at him but looked at Libus instead, hisephemeral face growing more ephemeral as he continued drinking, wrestling withhis dogged silence.

Drink could not help... I fled home.

P

Mytilene

641

Three soldiers have been washed up on a raft, scarcelyalive: all of them were taken to Alcaeus’ house to recover, if that ispossible. Libus wanted them there, to care for them. They are islanders and hadbeen imprisoned over a year. For days they had been adrift, paddling, foodlessexcept for fish and birds. I hear from Thasos that one of them, not much olderthan Phaon, throws himself against walls and stalks about babbling to himself,begging for water.

Alcaeus is in his element, determined to help thesederelicts: he’s captain again, in command: he’s kinder and more resolute withthis trio, which he be­lieves he understands: oh, I sympathize with thesesun-blackened wanderers, these lovers of freedom who defied jailers. I, too,know what it is to defy, and what it costs.

I sent them food but I could not go to them.

Later, I changed my mind; I wanted to see them, to see whattheir failure had done to them, what their fight had cost. I decided I might beable to encourage them, so I brought Atthis and we asked Libus to let us in andwe talked to two of them, giving them food and helping them eat and drink, andeverything went well till the mad fellow heard us and hurled himself against thebedroom door and burst in, to collapse in a heap, jabbering, writhing, eyesrolled back.

Atthis jumped from her chair and cried:

“Uh...how terrible...like a worm!”

Libus knelt by the young man and his hands quieted him. Nota word was said: then he turned to Atthis:

“He’s been through a lot. Exposure...heat...no food... Wecan help him. He’ll be all right, in time.”

With a few reassuring words, he got the fellow up and ledhim away.

Later, I learned that one of the older men is a cousin ofPhaon’s. Phaon has heard the details of their days on the raft, and I ampleased by his kindness, the hours he gives to stay with the pair.

He and Libus are restoring them: food and encouragement arecancelling horror. Even the mad fellow is mending, eating and drinkingnormally, talking rationally much of the time. Phaon’s cousin claims he foughtwith Alcaeus, but Alcaeus can’t identify his bearded soldier: is it lapse ofmemory?

Or was it, as the cousin says, the period when Alcaeus layinjured, the spear wound in his skull healing, those weeks of pain that broughtabout his blindness?

P

Sappho and Phaon, in a small boat,

drift seaward, oars dragging:

shimmering light seems to tow the boat seaward.

Stripping, bronze, Phaon dives

expertly and brings Sappho a handsome conch:

listening to the shell they lie in the boat

and begin to make love,

a bronze gull sculptured on the sky,

the sound of waves.

haon’s crew is loading his ship withpottery for Byzantium, a cargo that has to be delivered soon. This realizationsharpens our love, though he thinks too little of distant voyages and I troublehim too much with warnings.

Summer is upon us and I accept the lethargy of eating,sleeping, dreaming. He likes summer heat, our damp bodies, my sticky perfumeand sticky fingers... cool drinks. He enjoys fruit mixed with coconut and hashad my girl pre­pare mixed salads...

“Fruit. In hot weather, nothing’s so good. And there’s neverany fruit at sea.”

“Not for long.”

“You know...when I come back, Kleis may be married. Yourfamily will be bigger, you know.” He talked languidly, with his cheek againstmine, as we sat on the beach.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

The thought troubled me—fixing time around me: Kleis couldnot be this old!

Baskets and dishes cluttered the sand around us, windpuffing, light ebbing to lavender, fog on the water, floating above thesurface, a boat creeping, its mast slicing misty layers, moving between floors.

What shall I give him for luck—a charm? A coin?

Why not my mother’s drachma? She was lucky: there was no warin her time: she had lovers and then a husband to whom she was faithful. Shedid not have to endure an island without young men and know what it was to liveamong women for ten years.

Yes, the old initialed drachma of hers...

The loading of the amphorae was delayed and we sailed in hissmaller boat, with a crew of three, to the bay where the wreck lies, oursailing so smooth the hem of my skirt hardly swayed. Phaon equipped us fordiving and since the ocean lay incredibly calm, we located the wreck easily bytacking in circles. Kelp had snared the masts—giant legs of brown. Her mastsstruck fists against us, as greenish fish crossed and recrossed her deck.Splinters of light sank straws, fidg­eting straws that reached the dragon’sgold and red.

I worried, afraid of kelp and fish.

Phaon disappeared beyond our bow: his brown arms yanked atthe kelp; he bobbed and swam toward me, treading water, puffing.

“Let me help you.”

“No. It’s too deep,” I refused.

He and his crewmen dove by holding rocks meshed in pieces ofnet; they coaxed me until I had to try, sliding down rapidly, too fast for me:I knew I could let go of the rock or jerk the line attached to it and be towedupward; I wanted to be brave and gulped and oozed out bubbles, peering up. Iwanted to put my feet on the wreck but I never reached her. Lungs bursting, Iswam up­ward, soared, unable to see clearly. My lungs hurt a long timeafterward, as I lay on deck, amazed at the crew’s folly and strength: there wasno end to their en­thusiasm, their plunges from deck and rigging: by sunset,they had hacked through the wreck, entering the dead cabin: when we raisedanchor and swung for shore I was glad, and hungry.

That night, I dreamed of gaping fish that carried coralfans: our sail became a net that filled with fish of reddish hue, then sank, tobe towed to sea: all night a gentle sea rocked us, the dipper above our rockyshore.

In the morning, while the bay lay limpid, before I couldfinish eating, our men dove and chopped. As I lazed, birds spiraling, someonehollered and floun­dered toward our boat and I rushed to the side to see asailor with a green cup, treading water, offering me his prize.

So the men had not been excited for nothing.

Phaon was as pleased as his men. Hunkered on the deck besideme, he nicked the green of the cup’s rim and uncovered gold, the gold gleaming.I’ll remember his hands as he passed the cup to me.

Who made it, how old is it, how long was it below? we askedeach other, as I held the cup, our deck swaying.

The crew’s crazy conjectures and laughter went on, as theywent on diving.

It was hard for them to give up and sail for home: starspegged our rigging and flipped over glassy combers: fish leaped: we watched asgreat white crests rose: we slept and woke, our deck slanting, boom groaning.

Phaon woke and we talked, of our separation and reunion.

“You will be gone a long time!”

“Perhaps my trip won’t be so long.”

“Let’s come back to the old wreck.”

“Will you dive?”

“I tried...”

We whispered and saw the dawn, a dawn that had streamers ofrain splotch­ing the horizon, pelicans one after the other in long files, ourisland in the offing, quite black.

P

I was sleepless most of the night, getting out of bed,restless because of the warmth, standing by my window, waiting for a breeze,the stars out, Mercury but no moon, the stars and the crickets and anightingale and the sea, and someone, somewhere in the house, moving, thensilence. I was thinking of him, wanting him, and I began a poem, changed it,rephrased it, thinking, my body needing his body:

Slick with slime to satiety he shoots forward

playing such music upon those strings,

wearing a phallus of leather,

such a thing as this enviously,

twirls, quivering masterfully,

and has for odor the hollow mysteries,

orgies for leaving, orgies for coming;

the oracle comes, comes with companions,

comes with mysteries, lover of mine,

displays this randy madness I joyfully proclaim.

I started the poem once more...such a thing as thisenviously, that’s suitable... twirls, quivering masterfully...hollowmysteries...there are good things...

Dawn came and there were the sounds of pigeons, gulls,servants coming and going, girls whispering...the laughter of girls.

P

The bay lay almost black and Phaon’s ship was quiet, its mahoganyrails shining, someone leaning over, utterly motionless. I looked about for amoving bird or a boat. Huddled on the wharf near me, a man slept, toothlessmouth open, nets over his legs and thighs. A similar mesh covered the water, asfar as I could see.

Wanting to say good-bye, I stood to one side beside Atthisand Gyrinno, chilled, afraid. The slow unwrapping of the clouds irked me: anumber of men arrived and carried bundles aboard, their motions slow, their laughterirritating. Was man always oblivious?

Then, from at sea, voices came, shifting uneasily, an oarcreaking between unintelligible words, a dog whining, a girl coughing.Loneliness filtered from the sky and depths.

The man still leaned over the rail...

“Off with the ropes.”

“Everyone’s aboard.”

“Let’s sail.”

It was Phaon’s voice: “let’s sail”: and he called to me,called to all of us: I heard Libus and Alcaeus: I heard the oars: as the shipheaded seaward, Atthis hugged me and my loss was in that receding figure at thestern, sail climbing the mast behind him: had I shouted good-bye?

Bitterness struck me: again I knew I had no right to such amood. Better to have a fling at Charaxos, there on the wharf, in his whiteclothes, sullen, belli­cose, his friends snubbing me as we walked past.

Home seemed meaningless.

Had Alcaeus felt this way, on his return?

I knew he had and knew he had had ample reason and threwback my head, as I opened my door, and walked to my room alone, determined tothink clearly: but it was no more than a resolve and the loneliness of thosesea voices came and that voice, saying: “Let’s sail.”

My ocean window called me.

Was that his ship, that mere dot, that point of wood underbanks of cloud?

I couldn’t keep back my tears: what was it, his spirit, hisdignity, his thor­oughbred body? No, it was the conjunction of these and thevery thought, this summary, increased my sense of loss. He was warmth, impulse,reason for living. Words! And he was more than words!

By now the dot had disappeared and against the clouds, birdswheeled and drifted and scattered raindrops fell, scenting the air. I went outand let them wet my face and take away the sting and then closed the shuttersof my room and lay down.

Rain has such music.

I let it lull me to sleep, sleep, in the morning, warm, inmy bed, a day or a year...sleep...was it from the depth of the sea?

That night a storm engulfed us, ransacking our trees,banging our shutters, moaning over the roof until Atthis got into bed with me,thoroughly scared.

“Don’t be afraid, darling.”

“I am...I am...Aren’t you?”

“No...maybe a little.”

“What about Phaon?”

“He’s far at sea by this time.”

“But isn’t that bad, to be far at sea?”

“I don’t know...hush.”

I resented her pliant body and scented arms and hair: yes,at sea, Phaon must be battling gigantic combers: his cargo might shift...hissail might... When Atthis hugged me, I felt stifled and yet, as she quieted andthe storm continued, I was grateful I could comfort her. If I could not havePhaon, I, at least, had someone who loved and needed me.

Rain and wind knocked open the shutters and I rose andclosed them and dried my feet and got into bed again.

Floor tiles had chilled me.

Rain cuffed roof and sides of the house... I heard the surfgrowing wilder, sloshing over rocks, climbing the lower cliffs, rising andfalling onto itself with a hiss.

I straightened my hair on my pillow, knowing I had hours towait: I said, you’ve seen a lot of storms, sleep. Your island isn’t in danger.But, nothing could keep me from thinking of his boat and its struggle. I namedoff members of his crew. I named their families.

Phaon’s cousin was with him—a wretched re-initiation, afterthose hideous days on the raft.

I heard Anaktoria and Gyrinno talking in the next room.

I thought of the madman, living with Alcaeus, walking aboutwith him: I’ll make something of him, Alcaeus had said to me, the facerevealing that his mad­ness had not left him.

Joy and exaltation are the triumphs...

today is the imminence...

even shadows have their fire...

the stars burn...

O, sea rover, fight...

P

Thestorm split roofs and hurled boats ashore, uprooting trees, damaging walls.

Slowly, the old town pulls itself together.

Old town—you have seen many storms during your centuries. Isit true, you let this one slip past you and sent it to sea? You should havekept it! You can withstand battering better than a small ship! Is it true, whatthe fishermen say, that many were drowned?

Men and boys go about town, picking up tiles to load theirbaskets.

Driftwood clutters the beach.

P

Men were hurling stones, grabbing them off the beach andthrowing them. I heard them hit Pittakos and saw him stagger, his flapping ragsjerking, his arm flung over his eyes. Silent, feet wide apart, he stayed hisground.

Alcaeus, facing the sea, lidless-eyed, roared and lungedabout, arms extended, yelling:

“Kill him...kill him...let me wring his neck!”

Beside him, the madman off the raft, howled and hurledstones.

About a dozen men were circling Pittakos, most of themblabbing defiance, closing in.

I rushed to Alcaeus and squeezed past him, to cry out... Itold them to stop, asking them to stop in the name of our island, our town.

“Get back,” Alcaeus warned.

I faced them, feeling their hate: it bubbled through me,seemed to ooze from the sand, from the sea, from antiquity: the hates of myancestors, hatred of tyr­anny and unfairness.

No one threw: they watched me, as I walked toward Pittakos:maybe they thought I had a stone.

“You get back,” I cried. “Go home, before they kill you,Pittakos. Get back everyone...go home.”

Nervously folding and unfolding his robe, Pittakos backedaway. A hand went to a spot where a stone must have struck. I felt no pity butstepped closer.

“I don’t know what caused these men to turn on you... Idon’t want to know...go home, before it’s too late.”

Without replying, he shuffled away, a sandal off.

“Is he going?” asked Alcaeus, finding me, hand on myshoulder.

“Let him go,” I said, facing the others.

Grasping Alcaeus, I forced him to walk with me, muttering tohim, seeing Thasos, dropping his stones with a guilty grin.

I wanted to forget the faces but I knew most of the men:young, bearded faces, most of them friends of Alcaeus, some of them hissoldiers.

“Don’t lead me,” Alcaeus protested.

“You need to be led.”

“You came at the wrong time.”

“What’s to become of you?”

“Let me go,” he said.

“I’ll see you home. Here, Thasos, take his arm. Thasos, wereyou mad?”

“We should have stoned him.”

“Why?”

“He quarreled with Alcaeus—spat on him.”

P

Alcaeus leaned on me and I sensed his weariness as if it weremine: he was breathing hard and had to rest, stopping again and again. Behindus, his madman wandered, his Pamphilus.

“I’m too old for this kind of horseplay, it seems.”

Thasos and I were saddened by his tragic features; wefrowned; minute wrin­kles had enlarged and deepened; his hands trembled; hismouth was open. He seemed in the past, with his men, galled, waiting: What ismemory for, I asked myself, to crucify? Shut off from the day, is this the bestmemory can do?

When I sat with him at home, I said:

“What was the quarrel about?”

“First, some water.”

Thasos brought us water. The cool of his gourd helped.

“Pittakos has stolen from the city...again...I came at himwith the facts...I know the truth...many of us know.”

We remained silent a while, my hand in his.

“It’s an old truth—for us,” I said.

“Very old,” he said.

Presently, the madman entered, carrying himself stiffly, chalkfaced, chastised. Oblivious of us, appearing more normal than any time I hadseen him, he talked with Thasos, regretting the incident.

Soft-talking men, inside an inner room, brought home to methe^. innocence of our own lives, how based on impulse, how likekelp, twisting, sinking, headed for shore, dragged to sea: we are mad, we aresane, or between: we exert our­selves and the world seeks revenge; we acceptand earn ridicule and belittlement: we affirm ourselves and alter our lives andthe lives of others: war is such an affirmation.

Innocence? Why not call all life innocent becausedependability can not be assured. And, if life is innocent, then what is therebut compassion and patience and kindness and beauty and love?

“It would have been better if they had killed him,” Alcaeussaid, rubbing his hands over his face.

I said nothing.

“I could have him murdered,” he said.

“Alcaeus...wait...”

“Wait?How much longer must we wait?”

“He’s old.”

“Are we children?”

“He knows what’s happening.”

“No—not even yet.”

“That couldn’t be.”

I saw Pittakos by the sea, spray dampening his clothes, hismouth to the gulls: I saw him, hand over eyes, legs spread; I heard stonesh*tting him... I could take no more and saying good-bye to Alcaeus, I walkedhome, eager to be alone, for now the town seemed withdrawn, callous,incomplete, a failure. I touched a hollow in a wall and picked a leaf and,where a street opened on the bay, looked and looked: the sea’s salty tasteacted as a philter and years of contentment and ease surged about me, trying toreinstate themselves: my girls met me and we went home together, sharing ourinnocence.

P

Just the other day, I dreamed of Serfo’s place, his fabricsaround me, things from Assyria, Egypt and Persia. Some of the cloth blewagainst me, light as a Sudanese veil. Atthis had a length of it in her hands, atwisted flowered piece yards long.

“I’ll make ribbons for your hair,” she said.

Alone, I sank into patterns, colors and textures. Somethingbrushed my cheek, a winged bull in gold on blue cotton... I saw an imperialsnake in green on white silk, a mighty roc in black on grey wool... I heardfriends asking prices, Anaktoria, Libus.

I heard mother say:

“This is the best, this one, darling, with temples andshields on it, this blue, soft blue! Don’t you love it? Here, take it in yourhands, press it to your face.”

I saw ships and listened to their keels...sailors unloadingbales...wasn’t that a remnant on the water?

P

A suffusion of light envelopes the Venus de Milo,

revealing the contours and texture of her hair,

face, breasts, belly, and drapery.

Voices sing Homeric hymns.

A woman, as lovely as the Milo,

disappears in the golden light

beneath the Mediterranean.

Villa Mytilene

as it three years ago I metAtthis—five years ago Anaktoria? Was that another dream? I am not sure.

Awake, I thought about my girls and now much they love meand make my house a house of grace. I must have beauty: I must have peace: andthey are peace and beauty. I recalled how and when I had met each and lovedeach one for her special qualities. Each had a place in my heart, gold on cotton,green on white...the sea was at each meeting and at each good-bye... I count myyears but the sea has no calendar.

Sometimes I feel the sea thinks for us, its pensiveness communicatesat dawn, its meditation at night, its probity sifting through the day. A stormyemotion—the sea. A period of tranquility—the sea. Fickleness—the sea. I couldnot be happy without its communication. For all its pervasiveness it seems onthe verge of a secret: looking down through the waves I sense it, I sense it atnight, when phosphorescence steals shoreward or when rain obliterates and thereis no visi­ble ocean, then, still, still it communes, insinuating mystery,legends from caves, legends stronger than any coral, barracuda and stingraysroiled under, sinking farther and farther.

P

As we eat, in the dining room, Atthis prattles about her newparrot, mimick­ing it.

Her glances, charming, rounded, sensual, inconclusive, askfor love.

Her mimicry, spoken somewhat under her breath, takes in thetownspeople, theatre folk, the Athenian star, Alcaeus, Gogu, the girls. But,because it is kindly and feminine, the fun carries far.

Her eyebrows have grown to meet over her nose and the fuzzylittle bridge gives her added years. Her breasts are larger, shoulders fuller.She could be a priestess: the face solemn, the lips pert; then laughter ruinseverything and she is simply girl, joyous life, asking for love.

Dressed in thin summer best, she pokes her neighbor with hersharp sandal and before I can say a word a scrap follows.

P

As I went downstairs, I put my hand between the lion’s jaws,stubby, mossy stone, oldest part of the house. Lingering, I watched leaves puffdown the steps. By the fountain, I absorbed water shadows, warmth around me, aninsect swim­ming toward a spot of sun.

P

A village girl brought me a bouquet of white roses, saying:

“You must let me join your hetaerae.”

She wore a twisted blue wool skirt, of darkest color, and noblouse. Standing erect, she offered her flowers and then spun around and fled:I could scarcely take in the clean-cut features, pointed chin, red mouth andnew breasts.

I can’t imagine who she is or where she lives but I mustfind her.

P

My working hours are longer and as I review my work I findit good: that is a sign of maturity: maturity is the seal I strive for and yetas I work I fear a loss of spirit: maturity is seldom daring and to be daringis to open doors: maturity, then, is balance: is it also the decorum peopleaccuse me of? Parasol, tilted at just the proper angle? Mask, worn at the rightmoments? As I came home yesterday from the play, I remembered a winking mask,rather like one in my room: was that derision?

P

I saw a young man on the street who startled me. Though hedidn’t glance at me, I thought I had seen him in Samnos: ax beard and sullenmouth were the same; he had the same slouch, the same filthy clothes. Watchinghim, I recalled that Samnian fellow, his pleas and questions:

“...tell nobody I’m here...but I want to know abouthome...tell me the news! You see I’ve been here for three years...to escape thewar...there are three of us...we came here on a raft...tell us...”

The frenzied talk was vivid as this derelict walked down ourstreet.

In Samnos, I had sympathized with my countryman for hisvoluntary exile was no easier than an enforced exile: I drew him out and latermet his friends, all hungry for news, all in rags, living from hand to mouth,scared. It was their fear that worried me and I urged them to make friends andforget the past, to marry and begin life in Samnos. I arranged contacts forthem...

But, was this one of them sneaking along, hoping for luck?Pittakos, the wise, the clement, would have him lashed to death by nightfall,if someone discovered him. My pledge of secrecy is a pledge I’ll keep. As Isailed home from Samnos, I thought of these men and was proud of their folly.

P

Roses are in bloom on the hills and violets are in floweraround my house. Kleis will be married soon, so I am doing things wrong. I tryto tell myself this is her happiest time and struggle to write a poem for herwedding. Her natural gaiety is infectious and yet, and yet...

We will have quite a ceremony, Libus, Alcaeus, Gogu, Nanno,Helen, my girls, sailors, half the town, Pittakos and rogues...Rhodopis andCharaxos...no, harshness is not in keeping with a wedding.

I can hear the male chorus.

I hear the surf...

Below us, the ocean eats at its rocks, above us lie thehills, around us stir the branches of the olives.

Peace: sacred grove, we dedicate these two: give them luck:a light will fall: the chorus will resume: a wreath will be hung.

Shall I play my harp?

Who is the god of illusion? Love? How is he to be kept alivethrough many years and many disappointments?

I shall try to help. Song has that gift, a gift nothing elsehas: to give the lost or hold it in suspension.

P

I feel utterly ridiculous, the greatest hypocrite: that ishow it seems as I urge Alcaeus to curb his resentment for Pittakos.

I have tried reason but it isn’t reason that moves Alcaeus.When he feels my sympathy, he listens: if he conceives of us as he used to be,his hatred subsides. Let him feel alone, he thunders, bends toward me, dragshis fingers through his beard and sputters:

“To hear you talk, I’d think you were never mistreated bythis man!”

“But you know better.”

“You’re a traitor to yourself!”

“That’s not true. You want to have him killed and I say welose through vio­lence. I’m no traitor to myself—or you. You can be traitor tojustice.”

“Let’s not say anything about justice, when we’re fightingtyranny.”

I recalled days with Aesop and said:

“I wish he was here, to advise us or hear our problems. Ithink I know what he’d say.”

“What?”

“There’s a way out of slavery... I didn’t kill my master.”

Slavery—there are all kinds.

It is a kind of slavery to long for Phaon and another kindto remember Aesop and another to hope. Perhaps Aesop would rebuke such thinkingand say: Slav­ery is not in ourselves but in the misused power of others.Surely that is the commoner kind but I find slavery in myself and my girls andmy island and my books.

Well, here is a story Phaon told me:

“Years ago, a slave broke into a temple on a deserted islandand found lamps burning. On a rug lay a naked man, asleep. He’d been lyingthere for centuries, guarded by someone, the lamps filled and the wicks new.

“TheKing of Freedom, were the words on a shield beside him. His yellow hairstreamed across the rug. Above him, a mask, fastened on the wall, spoke:

“ ‘Shut the temple...let the lampsburn...make no noise...take a hair from his head...go.’

“Theslave shut the temple, carefully.

“Years later, in prison, he bent over to examine the goldenhair he had kept and it burst into flame and became a torch which he used tolight his way to freedom.”

P

His flames and heat are fuel

For seaman’s muscles, his sea eyes,

Devil of laughter and devil moods,

His sinking-rising delicacy.

The initial union is relief

Of olives and cypress, breasts, birds,

Stinging and perspiration’s siege,

Roots climbing out of centuries.

P

Beauty, the wedding is over and I am alone with my lightedlamps and moonlight across the sea, night’s indifference.

Beauty, Kleis was happy...many of us were happy.

After the ceremony, Pittakos approached me, shuffling,dressed as I had never seen him dressed, in fine white clothes. His hate wasgone, that was something I saw at once: I was seeing another man. Speakingguardedly, hands folding and unfolding his robe, he said:

“...They would have stoned me. What can I say...to makeamends? You stopped them from killing me... You...you helped me...”

I grew confused. Remembering Alcaeus’ threat, my hatredsurged and I thought: Can he expect me to rub out the past because of anaccident on my part? Can he ask such a thing?

Do you think that I have changed—that I went out of my wayto save you?

My own harshness pained me. I had seen him at a distance,during the cere­mony, and had resented his presence; as I played my harp andsang he remained near, boggling his head.

Our sacred grove, filled with people, trees streaked withfog, was still in my mind. I could see Kleis smiling and hear the weddingchorus, the flutists, the barking dogs, the cries of gulls.

Glancing overhead, I noticed them, passing, gliding, sayingwith their grace things I tried to say in my writing.

Pittakos turned away.

I could not say a word but stepped forward.

“...Pittakos.”

He regarded me doubtfully.

“Yes.”

Then I started to walk away.

“What can I say? I’m old... I can’t erase errors. Sappho,I... Last night I stayed up all night...it was more than thinking: I looked atthe past. I’ve been mistaken. Though we’ve lived here, in this town, we knowonly lies about each other...”

Shuffling, he made off.

All were there in the grove: Alcaeus, baffled; Libus, paleand aloof; Anaktoria, gay; Atthis, dreaming; Kleis, my herder... We atetogether, drank, sang... The sun drank the fog and sunset ribboned the ocean.

I shall remember goats wandering through our grove, tinklingtheir bells...the mask-maker carrying my harp for me...trying to sing intoothless ecstasy...I shall remember the altar fire and wreaths of flowers,their incense and coloring... remember, too, the farewell of my pair, theirbacks and shoulders as they headed for their house on the headland, a smallplace among figs and tall white poppies, their world—not mine. I must rememberit is their world. When Kleis flings her arms around me I will rejoice. At thesame time, I must accept the fact that their marriage is their particularfreedom.

May it be a satisfying freedom.

Mother’s lamp, as I write, is nearly empty: she would haveliked the wedding ceremony, the chorus singing my poem: terra-cotta lamp, doyou remember her wedding? Did you burn for her ecstasy or were you snuffed outbefore the groom carried her to bed?

It wasn’t long ago I was married: how I walked, my headhigh, the embodi­ment of innocence and grace: I thought life would be easy!

The wind puffs through my room.

The ocean whispers.

P

Charaxos and Rhodopis attended the wedding, staying apartwith a group of their friends, no one dressed for the occasion. Since the manwho had forcibly made love to her was there, I was disconcerted. I was ashamed.My face burned. What could I do? Would they interfere? But they seemedpreoccupied, merely onlookers, most of them young men and women.

When they sauntered away, I enjoyed the wedding.

Someone among them, a stranger perhaps, gazed back at me,reminding me of Cercolas.

Cercolas, my mother, Aesop—each summons a series of images.When each one died, I thought: How can I go on? Now my thought is: What hasreplaced them? Husband, mother, friend... I am forever altered by theirabsence, emptier, lonelier. I seek them in others and yet never find them.

It matters to me how they died.

I am still troubled that Cercolas died on the battlefield.And it is tragic that Aesop died, beaten by a mob. At least, mother died besideme, comforted as much as human comfort is possible.

Death should not catch us unaware for then it cheats usdoubly. Surely, it is hard enough to die without dying in some tragic way. Eachof us deserves a last dignity.

P

Shall I tell Alcaeus that Pittakos came to me after thewedding?

I may never tell him because he will suffer more forknowing. It seems to me telling him could accomplish little. Hard as it is,unfair as it is, I must keep this to myself. Of course, some would disbelieve.And if Pittakos sees fit to remain silent, he and I will be better off. Liveswill be less complicated.

Even unmolested, he has not much time ahead. We must befar-sighted and choose a leader...

P

hom*osexual lovers in bed,

making love in the moonlight.

The light falls on their flesh,

faces, hands, legs, their passion:

laughter and soft moans and

the ocean below the villa.

Sappho rises and ponders her body,

stands by a window, facing the Aegean.

I took my lyre and said:

Here, now, my heavenly

Tortoise shell, become

A speaking instrument.

ne by one, the poems have fittedinto my book, so slowly time seems to have had nothing to do with itscompletion. Yet, my ninth book is done. When I had finished my sixth, Ithought: this is all. When I finished my eighth, I felt I need go no farther.Will there be a tenth? What will make it distinctive?

Phaon lives in this book, insatiability floods everywhere:lyric by lyric, our smoldering hearts reveal our happiness.

When I shared lines with him, he laughed at their frankness,eyes dancing. He remembered some of them, and shot them back at me, to tease.

I have sent selections to Solon: what will he write me? Willtheir crudeness be too much for him? I think not. He has savored love.

My Egyptians are copying the book—conspirators, no doubt,mumbling lines to each other, shaking heads. I’d like to slip into their shopas they work, to overhear them: would I laugh or recoil? Probably I’d beannoyed. Well, tomor­row I must go to the shop and see how they are doing.

I have not thought of a title.

P

Villa Poseidon

I sought Anaktoria and together we spent the night.

In spite of her comfort, I could not get to sleep. Her armsaround me, she lay motionless.

During the afternoon, we arranged flowers, taking them from thegarden. A rainbow appeared over the bay and arm in arm we watched it, its arcfaintly re­flected on the water. Her myrrh was everywhere, her spirit too: thethings she said were right: family traditions are a part of her and she addsjust enough fan­tasy.

For a while, we practiced archery, her shooting moreaccurate than mine. A lost arrow sent us near the sea. Thengames...games...what would life be without games and laughter!

Watch the dice in her fingers!

She’s a magician of tricks and youth, my Anaktoria and,oddly enough, I can never bring it all together; it is too effervescent, toodelightful: the moment swells over us: then, another moment, even while we areeating together, grow­ing sleepy together: ours is a gift that has come fromour island without men, years of femininity.

P

Someone sent me the doll Aesop had when he died, his Cretandoll. It came from Adelphi; badly wrapped, I opened it in my library, laid iton my desk, amazed to see it, startled, fingers fumbling. Someone had wanted tobe kind, but it wasn’t kindness to send it. What faded colors, what worn cloth,how had the doll gotten this old? It had suffered another kind of death.

With the doll in my arms, I smelled the incense of hishouse, dinner on the table, fresh fruit piled before us: the broad bracelet hewore bothered him and he shoved it higher on his arm: silent tonight, helistened to what we had been do­ing during the day: he had such heart forAlcaeus and me.

I could not keep the figure but packed it away. Itsevocative intimacy, its forlorn quality...they would serve no purpose I couldthink of. I was glad Alcaeus could not see it. Yet, I felt I had rejectedAesop.

P

A sweltering day was made worse when Gogu had a seizure nearSerfo’s shop. Serfo and Libus carried him inside and I found them working overGogu, kneeling beside him, Serfo’s slave fanning the sick man, swaying his palmfrond low, Libus’ face tense and canvas-colored. Serfo turned his barbaricfeatures, square-cut beard and blazing green eyes, on me, resentful when Iplaced a damp sponge on Gogu’s head, when I suggested we pull him farther awayfrom the wall. He growled and backed off, to care for some customers.

“Is it Gogu’s old trouble?” I asked.

Libus nodded, his hands comforting the man. When Gogu’steeth chattered and his head and shoulders shook, Libus restrained him, handson his shoulders. When he spoke to Gogu, I could detect an immediate response.The slave brought water and poured it for Gogu and Libus got him to drink: thefrond dipping closer, rising and falling. “Libus—Libus,” he said, and sighed,thin lashes over upturned eyes. The black hitched his broadcloth and sighedtoo.

The room was windowless and cool, lit from overhead. Apigeon cooed on the roof. For a while I sat near Libus but when Serfo offereddrinks, we went into his shop where he displayed ivory figurines on his dustycounter, Amazons, ibis, Etruscan warriors and sacred cats, none bigger than myhand.

“The cats are from Luxor,” Serfo said.

“Will Gogu be all right?” I asked, hearing his rapidbreathing.

“He’ll be all right by evening,” Libus said.

So we examined the collection, Libus questioning theirantiquity: I pointed out the yellowing and flaking: he held an Amazon in thedoorway, dust cracks mottling her face and armor, the texture of his handsobvious as well.

He seems to be holding me in his fingers, as small. I feltthe flakes of time—my life flaking, like Gogu’s, less lasting than the ivory.

P

The hours I spend with Libus and his sister are hours oftalk and wine, at his small house, in its garden of figs and olives, poppies inbloom along the paths. Their place, nearer the bay than mine, absorbs the bay’splacidity. The furniture stresses comfort. His mosaics reflect his regard forease...scenes of old days and old creatures.

I was glad when Libus gave up staying with Alcaeus; I hadmissed those visits to his home where Helen has taught me designs for my loomand reaffirmed what patience really is. She has read to me, acquainting me withbooks I would never have found...

Libus talks and toys with a loop of beads, in a thoughtfulmood, his hands, as they move, remind me of their healing quality and his voicehas that same be­neficence, distinctly personal, meanings having extra meaningmost of the time.

Helen’s face has none of his ephemerality but has, instead,a country whole­someness I love. She chats about flowers she has grown, seedsshe keeps in jars, promising me a selection.

Their poppies, grey-leafed, sea-bitten, have large centersand bees loll on the petals and the sea lolls beyond them.

Why is it the hours loll here? I have seen whales from theirgarden, sporting near beds of kelp, their blue backs like so many watery hills.I think something lures them offshore...another something makes Libus’ servantssing more than my servants.

P

A gigantic sea-rock assumes the face of a crying woman whenthe fog comes: some say she cries for our dead in the wars, some say it’s forthose lost at sea: I have often seen her, head bowed: she faces the town,staring: the sea sound is her weeping; perhaps it is the weeping of many women:if I walk by that deserted spot at night, with the fog about me, I cling toAtthis or Exekias. No woman goes alone there, when the fog is about.

P

The moon has set and

The Pleiades have gone;

The night is half gone

And life speeds by.

I lie in bed, alone.

P

Going to see Alcaeus, I met Kleis and she threw her armsaround me and kissed me, saying:

“Mama, dear, it’s good to see you! How I miss you!”

I tried to hide my pleasure but my heart sang and I held herclose, my body remembering hers, fingers slipping around the back of her neck,staying in her hair.

Pushing me aside, she exclaimed:

“Mama, let’s go to your house and be together, like oldtimes. Shall we?”

How easy to consent—and we walked home, arms around eachother, gulls over us, shadows skimming roofs, dusty cobbles asking for rain: Iwanted to remember her chatter, each inflection...

I would see Alcaeus tomorrow. I needed time with my own...

Pittakos stoned...Aesop stoned...the mob’s disgrace...

Year after year, is there greater calumny than our owncommunal perfidy? Is there greater stupidity? One man starts it, then five,then ten, manacled together.

For our island’s sake, I’m glad I cheated death.

Like old times, we sat at our looms and Kleis showed me aperiwinkle design, whispering confidences, saying he was good, saying the housewas good, the sea...she put her faith on the loom, the thread of it goingbeyond life. Mother must have heard me say such things, reflecting the samehope. Finches gathered in the olive trees as we worked. I asked time to stopand let us have the day last, at least longer than evening and the shepherd’sbells.

P

Charaxos brought him to my house, a castaway, I thought,dreg of the worst sea. Charaxos stood behind him in Cairo red, the sun blazingover the town, as the castaway bowed, holding together his rags, eyeswandering, skin and bones, nose snuffing at his hand, his mouth lower on oneside, a canine look on his face.

Muttering, he fished in a sack tied about his waist andoffered me something.

I hesitated to take it, feeling Charaxos’ curiosity—or wasit gloating? I grew afraid as the castaway insisted, wagging head and hand,Charaxos silent; forcing myself, I bent and peered at his hand...seeing adrachma.

I saw it had been pierced for a chain...taking it, I madeout the letters my mother had gouged...in the metal...yes, it was her drachma.

I wanted to run, throw down the coin, send Charaxos away,turn aside the castaway. I wanted to crumble on the steps and bury my head inmy arms and deny existence.

“Come in,” I managed.

And the men entered.

Together, we sat down and I asked:

“Where did you get the coin?”

“At Cos...”

“You are from Cos?”

“Yes, I came from Cos.”

“He came on one of my ships,” Charaxos said.

I could not look at either man.

“He came from Cos,” I said.

“Phaon died on the island...he and others...thrown on thebeach...we have rocky shores...he was injured in the big storm...you see, wefound him, my wife and son and I. He gave us the coin and sent me to you...he...”

So, he died after that storm, I told myself, and I got up,wondering where I could go: I saw the castaway’s blazing eyes and torn clothingand the greedy face of my brother:

“Stay at my house...as long as you like,” I said. “I willsend servants to look after you. I will...”

What will I do? I asked myself.

Will I take the coin and sleep with it? Will it burn my bed?Will I place it on my desk or hurl it out my window? And I opened my fingers tosee if the bronze was on fire.

Now, you have seen me grief-stricken, I thought, as I gazedat Charaxos. You may go and tell your friends. Tell them, Sappho is beaten.Tell them...

I excused myself and retreated to my room.

Far at sea, I saw a dot: Phaon’s ship, and I opened my handand laid his drachma on the windowsill.

Beauty, is he dead?

What has been gained by taking him from me?

Shall I go to Xerxes, and hold him to his promise? Couldn’tthere be a mis­take? Better to find Xerxes and say to him, “Remember yourpromise,” and take his powder. This is my inheritance, from parents, Cercolas,friends, this degree of misfortune, final degradation. Was love a mirage, orthis?

P

Libus sat beside my bed, his hands alleviating the pain thatdragged at every nerve: his hands warmed me, crossing my back and shoulders,assuaging with their mirage the storm that seemed everywhere inside me,bursting my throat, my brain, my chest, shattering my reason.

Yet, as he helped me, he reasoned:

“I hoped he would be back early enough for Kleis’wedding...he said some­thing to me about getting back early... I hoped you twowould go on...you know all of us watched you...our hearts were yours...it waslike that.

“I’ve always thought your pride deserved love, Phaon’s kind,free of politics. Yes, I know Alcaeus was sufficient, years ago; then ourisland women adopted you; then Phaon. It was his luck to give you what youneeded...”

“My coin didn’t bring luck to him,” I said.

“A coin means what? Metal can’t tell us about life...only wecan tell...to one another...”

“What have I told you through the years?”

He paused a while, hands motionless.

“Beauty...”

“And now?”

“Another kind...in the making. I know your ancestralline...losses become gain...I recognize bravery.”

His hands and thoughts continued their palliative, now thefingers, now the voice, as servants replaced lamps and closed windows, movingas slowly as if below the sea, finally to leave us alone again, the ocean’svoice mixing with the crickets.

“Kleis will bring Phaon back to me,” I said.

“Theirs is a curious resemblance...I agree.”

“What will happen to his house?”

“It will be hers,” he said.

“But she’ll never live in town.”

“No...she won’t change her ways.”

“Have you ever liked his house? I haven’t.”

“No,” he said.

“Libus, why doesn’t Alcaeus come to me?”

“He’s not thinking of your problem.”

“He doesn’t know about Phaon?”

“He knows...but can’t come.”

“Shall I go to him?”

“Wait...for a while,” he said.

P

My girls seldom leave me: Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria, eachbrings flowers and gifts, bringing them surreptitiously or with a hint ofjollity—sometimes compassion. Old Exekias pats my hands, kisses my skirt orturns away, tears unchecked.

Atthis, cheek against mine, murmurs her love. As we walkthrough our gar­den she says:

“I miss him too... I loved him too... We placed a wreath forhim... We three have made a shrine in the woods...”

Gyrinno appears in the night, as I lie sleepless. Unable tomention the trag­edy, she whispers hoarsely that she loves me and wants tohelp: Is there anything she can do for me?

Anaktoria has probed deeper:

“You must take care, Sappho. You must do nothing strange,that would harm us. We can’t have you obsessed by melancholy. Let us look afteryou.”

Eyes streaked with tears dim and I see him, imagine his bodysprawled be­tween the rocks of Cos and I hear his voice speak my name: I seeour Leucadian cliff and know I could throw myself down, die as he died amongthe rocks, far below.

Then, I find Kleis as I work at my loom, and her voice, revealingher sorrow, eradicates the drama of self: the curse of death needs soft handsand blonde hair and blue eyes and tender mouth... “Mama, darling...”

Sometimes I try to brush aside feminine ties, but there theyare, tightening about me: snatches of song come to me: I see women with babiesat the foun­tain; vineyards creep over the hills, ascending through fog, underthe wings of gulls, moving toward me, closer and closer: they are my father’svineyards, the vineyards of Alcaeus, Phaon’s vineyards, Libus’, Anaktoria’s;the bone flute, the whole island is in them, in the spring leaves and autumn leaves,in the stark vines of winter: the weeping rock moves through them, the defeatedfleet, the red rooftops of home, the bare hills, olive trees: I see a woman,called Sappho, lead­ing a child, named Kleis: I hear shepherd’s bells, and thesilence of dawn spills up from the ocean’s shore: a porpoise and a whale,beyond a belt of kelp, churn points of light and shadow: home, home is the redtiles and my mother’s lamps and the view where the vineyards snuggle to sleepfor the night: this is my in­heritance, to keep as long as possible, that iswhat I tell myself, compel myself to feel.

Kleis has the grape leaf woven in her loom and as she weavesshe faces me and smiles and I know how much love is in that smile.

P

Sappho stands by the seaward window in her library...

carved ivory racks hold books, ancient papyri,

Egyptian clay tablets, copies of hymns.

Blue from the bay inundates the library, her face,

obliterates the books.

Alcaeus, an old man,

holds a tattered manuscript.

Mytilene, Lesbos

uddenly, he stood in front of me, inmy library, dressed in black, beard soiled, deep wrinkles underneath his eyes.

“Alcaeus, I didn’t hear you and Thasos.”

“Exekias let us in. Are you working?”

“No...sit down.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

He leaned on Thasos: I felt that he hadn’t been sober verylong; he leaned forward, almost stumbling.

“Can I sit down?”

“Here, here,” said Thasos, helping him, laying aside apackage.

Silence troubled us.

I watched Thasos go and then Alcaeus said:

“I understand your loss. I understand what has happened toyou. Phaon’s death has overpowered you. I put it badly...but we haveshared...be patient...I understand...Sappho; I have brought you my Homer.Remember, when I got it years ago? Remember? I want to share. I should havegiven you this be­fore...What good is it to me?”

“Alcaeus.”

“Where is the book?”

“The package Thasos left?”

“Yes...take it...open it...”

I opened it, remembering how we had thrilled long ago, and,after a while, reaching out to him, grateful, hoping I could make him sense mygratitude, I kissed his forehead and his hands, his hands motionless, thesightless eyes con­fusing me.

He went on slowly:

“I’ve come to share my strength...it’s a poor strength,drunk, blind, but it does go on. You, my dear, are blinded by grief. Let metell you your grief can’t be as bad as mine. Or, if it is, let’sshare...share...we’ve shared before... I’ll take your dark away...hide it inmine...lose some of your burden at least.

“Sappho, let me help.

“Accept the old book, find hope in it... I have kicked asidedeath on the field...look at my eyes and then look at yours...you need nomirror.

“He’s dead...dead by the sea...you have your love of beautyto uphold you. Let it live! Give it new life! Soon enough death will claim bothof us, but, till then, let’s find comradeship...come to my house tomorrow, readto me...

“Will you?”

I nodded, then remembered he could not see and rememberedhis gift and his grace and knelt by him and put my head in his hands andpressed between his knees, as he patted me, chuckling a little.

“I’ll come tomorrow, Alcaeus,” I promised.

“Good.”

“I know your lot is worse than mine... I must find courage.”

Beauty, I thought, beauty, what can I say to help this man?

“Yes, tomorrow; then I’ll tell you, Sappho... I’ll tell youwhat I’ve learned, living in my black sea. How my ship drags anchor. What I’veheard. I’ve heard some strange things. I can sense someone moving, almostbefore he moves, a shift of air, let’s say.

“Watch me play jacks with Libus, old soldiers at their fun.I could cheat you...if you gave me half a chance.”

Again that chuckle.

The book lay open and his great arms lay across his lap,fingers up. My father had owned that book. With age it had come unsewed andhung in tatters: the smell of age was there: I rubbed my fingers over pages...

Quickly, he said:

“I like to feel those pages... I wanted to write a book asfull of life...give back the thunder of the storm...look how the bugs haveeaten the book...see that ripped page...well, where will you keep your Homer?”

And he smiled.

“Shall I read something?”

“Yes...now!”

Turning the pages so he could hear them I searched for afavorite passage.

I read as slowly and as distinctly as possible, allowingeach word time.

P

Cercolas, mother, Aesop, Phaon...gone. When shall I go?

P

I have been unable to write for days. I have nothing tosay...there is only emptiness.

P

Yesterday a nightingale sang, a song of tattered leaves,scraps of Nile, bits of Euphrates, papyrus against night, against impendingdoom, against depression. Tender notes whispered insanity. Other notes urgedself-pity. Others shattered—with sheerest delicacy—any hope of contrition.

A feather drops...a pause. One could die during such apause.

All of us wait—life waits!

A bubbling deceives the spirit, a trill alienates the heart.Something summons the past, other songs on other nights, other songs of otherpeople, the bone flute, of course.

This was not a bird, not a beak, not a feather but sail andspar, rigged to go at dawn, course along many shores.

“Beauty, you’re frail. Your bones are able to carry next tonothing and yet your song travels, spreading as if a pebble had dropped onwater...”

P

I walked under olive trees along the coast, following grassypaths, the breeze with me until I met Gogu, carrying a piece of kelp and ashell. At first, he did not seem to recognize me. How thin, how sick he is!Shadows of the olives shad­owed him. When he spoke, I hardly listened. Each ofus is going the same way, I thought, and so we parted and stillness put itsloneliness about me. The words he had said mixed me because I had not listened,mixed with my love-memories, adding incoherence.

Why was Gogu carrying kelp and a shell? Why was I walkingwhere I had of­ten walked?

In a hundred years, this path has changed little: the treeshave become more gnarled, the shadows darker, the air quieter.

The marble shrine at the end of the path crumbles year byyear and yet re­mains about the same: I can remember it when another broughtme: Phaon re­membered it: and now, memories are re-dedicated and burned, theirashes under my sandals, under my fingers and heart.

P

The best of life is illusion, I do not doubt. The best ofPhaon may have been illusion.

Ah, the nettles of desire, the sleeplessness, the gnawing ofregrets in my skull. These are emotions we can not share but must suffer alonetill dawn, the dipper proving we are children.

I believe that we, as human beings, prove nothing: there isreally nothing to prove except kindness and decency: all else is more illusion.

I take my harp but there are no words to accompany thenotes. I urge Atthis to sing: play, darling, help me forget...let me see yourface as I love to see it. Move your head with that fragile alacrity. Stretchyour bare legs under your dress.

As I open the shutters in the morning, I miss him...theocean has grown much, much wider.

My favorite olive tree says nothing to me.

P

Alcaeus wrote me:

“I know I can help you. Come over for the day. Courage,friend.”

The note repulsed me. What could he know of Phaon, of man’scleanliness and beauty!

I did not answer. Instead, I climbed the hills with Atthisand Anaktoria, to lay a wreath at an altar that has been our shrine for awhile.

The sea was rough and the wind was rough.

Tears overcame me at the altar and I made them leave me: I hopedto die there: I wanted my bitterness to kill me: Why couldn’t it happen? Whycouldn’t there be this finality?

I pulled flowers from the wreath and wrote his name on theground. A thrush hopped close by. The wind, gusting from the bay, scatteredblossoms and I found Atthis beside me, kneeling to comfort me. We had shared somuch, the three of us, days and weeks, grief and joy. She and Anaktoria got meto eat, un­der pines sheltered from the wind; she and Anaktoria fixed my hair.

Their sad faces made me long for happiness for their sake,and I tried to see beyond myself. There must be a trick that I can use todeceive others.

The placid sea carries a few boats,

small clouds on the horizon,

a series of silver cat’s-paws;

and as though through a sheet

of green glass the faces of

Sappho, Atthis and Anaktoria:

a laurel wreath whirls above the Aegean:

herons fly, dolphins leap.

leis left her shepherd’s hut andcame here and we have talked far into the night:

“He liked a gold cup...he liked the mountains...he liked thecove...yes, he went farther out to sea than anyone...his sailors likedhim...he...”

Kleis stayed several days and each day was a mirror of hispersonality. Her beauty brought out his quality, imaging it in various ways,her nature shaken from its customary silence to talk of him. I recognized theeffort and appreciated the communication. I wanted to write her notes but shecould not read. I wanted to thank her in some special way but it was she whothanked me, before slipping away.

Afterward I counted other friends: Alcaeus, Libus, Helen,Exekias, Atthis, Anaktoria, Gyrinno, Heptha, Gogu... I also counted those whohave died. Dreaming, I counted our island, our town, our trees, mountains andsea. I added my home. However childish to enumerate like this, I went to sleepeasily.

P

Perhaps, as I grow older, I may find an idea, a seed.Perhaps it can grow in someone’s mind: compassion, courage, grace, love—itcould become one of these.

I shall continue to put down my thoughts, the handprint ofmy days.

Could it be that the greatest thing in life is perseverance?

P

Somebody, I tell you,

Someone in future time

Will remember us.

We are oppressed by

oblivion, by the idea

Of nothing at all,

Yet are saved by the

Judgment of good men.

Christ’s Journal

Peter’s Home

Elul 10

he sun is setting. The evening isvery warm. Across the fields I hear children’s voices as they play.

This evening I have been reading the Psalms and theirbeauty fills my mind. I have decided to write my thoughts, not because I am apsalmist, but because I hope to get closer to the meaning of life. Of course Ishould have started writing long ago. When I was in the wilderness I had anopportunity. Now, it is hard for me to find the time, and writing is not ahabit of mine and does not come easily.

However, like a shepherd, I shall gather together mythoughts, watching for strays. In spite of vigilance my thoughts may wander.

It is pleasant sitting here at this table, the night airblowing in; a star is caught in a tree. Peter is talking to a friend; Peter’svoice has always pleased me, so deep.

ÿ

Elul 20

Yesterday, when I was in Naim, someone pointed out a sickman huddled in rags at a street corner. It was one of those windy days and dustspun around us. The man reached up his arms and mumbled; I remembered seeinghim before and maybe he remembered me. I felt his hope; I felt I could help,and I said:

“Pick up your mat, get up...walk... God will help you.”

The fellow trembled. He seemed to shrink inside himself asif afraid of me. He closed his eyes and doubled his hands. I waited and thenrepeated my com­mand slowly. Like someone in a dream he untangled his rags andknelt. As he rolled his mat I encouraged him. Glancing about furtively, hestood, tottered. I thought he would fall but he kept his eyes on mine and Iurged him to walk.

“Master...master,” he muttered, staring about uncertainly.“Master...where... how can I?”

Limping, carrying his mat under one arm, he headed for thesynagogue and as I watched he began to walk easily. He threw down his mat andbegan to run. Dust swirled around us and he disappeared from sight.

Later, someone told me hehad been bedridden, crippled for almost forty years. Forty years—he had beencrippled longer than I had lived! Now he was walking...running... I felt suchjoy, such joy, all day. I couldn’t eat when I sat at the table at Peter’s; hismother scolded me. To please her I nibbled a little fruit. I couldn’t findanyone who could share my joy so I walked alone, roamed the countryside. As Iwalked I could see his tortured face, dirty beard, beggar’s clothes. Fortyyears...

His name is Simeon.

Probably I will see Simeon soon. And what shall I say whenhe thanks me? What can he say? I will see a changed man and that will beenough.

ÿ

Tishri 2

t seems only yesterday I was inNazareth yet that yesterday was years ago. Regardless of the passage of time Ifeel the summer heat and hear flies buzzing. Father is at work in his shop.Whitey comes to me and meows; she’s scared of the thunder rumbling in the dis­tance;she’s hungry too. Mama is cooking and the smell of beef is everywhere.

Father begins to saw and sawdust spills over his feet. Ilean against a wall and sunshine spreads and I feel everything impregnate me,the stucco, earth floor, the bench, the broken handle of the saw, Fatherbatting flies that try to settle on his beard. This will last forever. Caughtin the web of time we will eat supper together, before lamp lighting, andWhitey will sit on my lap.

I recall another afternoon years ago—the same place. ButFather is upset, talking volubly, denouncing Herod and his tyranny, an old, oldstory for all of us. I have tried to deny the truth of that story but there itis, Herod’s soldiers slaughtering innocent children, hoping to kill me. SurelyI hate the man and yet I have learned to pity his blundering.

As a boy I wandered, praying, asking understanding. The dryhills were un­communicative. If it is impossible to forgive it is possible tolook ahead. I felt too that my guilt might become a disease. I saw that thepast can have too pow­erful an influence.

ÿ

Peter’s Home

Tishri 6

Tomorrow I am to preach on a hill... Peter says the weatherwill be fine. I hope so, after windy days. For weeks we have had wind and cold.

Here, in my room at Peter’s, I am discontented. The windowstry to send me outdoors. They face cornfields and the corn is waist high, brownand roughly swaying. I wish I could stretch out in the middle of a field, liethere and watch the clouds and listen to the wind. I am happiest when outdoors.

The sun is down but I won’t light my candle; instead, I’llwatch the coming night and perhaps I can summon thoughts for tomorrow; perhapssomething will talk to me in the cornfields, something I can impart. Friendsand strangers will arrive tomorrow...

Darkness has taken over and I can barely see to write...acricket speaks...may profound thoughts come.

ÿ

I spoke to them on a little hill, a rocky place. It wasn’twindy or hot and we were not troubled by flies and as I stood before them,fishermen, villagers, friends and strangers, sitting on rocks and on theground, on shawls and blan­kets, I was deeply moved. I was specially moved byan old woman near me who never took her eyes off me. Dressed in blue, herclothes in tatters, her face gleamed. Wrinkled cheeks were kind. There waskindness in her folded hands, but, most of all, it was the compassion in hereyes, soft, tearful, blue eyes, that had searched for so long and hoped for solong. Hers was the patience of the poor. Her spirit became my spirit as Italked.

“Blessed are the poor...for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.You are the salt of the earth—you are the light of the world. Let your light soshine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father inheaven.

“Blessed are the meek,” I said, “for they shall inherit theearth. Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted...blessed arethose who hunger after justice...blessed are the merciful for they shall obtainmercy.”

The old woman had buried her face in her hands: she was mymother and every mother, sincerity and love, the symbol of integrity.

A breeze came and white clouds piled along the horizon. Thecrowd in­creased and the hill was covered with people. Shepherds approached andheld their flocks in check, listening.

“...Rejoice and be exceedingly glad,” I said to them,“...yours is the strength of thousands...yours is the strength of the chosen,the humble and the contrite, the pure and lowly...blessed are the lowly. Be yeperfect, even as your Father who is in heaven...”

I tried to express my sincerity, the sincerity that began inthe desert, that has been accumulating, that is, for me, the essence of living.I tried to speak slowly, measuring each word. By the time I was finished I wasvery tired. I was glad to feel Peter’s hand on my arm and hear him ask:

“Aren’t you hungry?”

A lamb blundered against my legs and I stooped and picked itup and held it in my arms, thinking of my humble birth. There was such comfort,holding it; I felt my strength return. I thought of the stable in Bethlehem.When I went to see it years ago nothing remained but a watering trough and afence. Time had also swept away the star and the Magi.

Men, women and children pressed around me, talking,praising, asking ques­tions. When I put down the lamb it dashed away.Questions—there is no end to questions. I am glad and yet I am world-weary.World thoughts oppressed me. The moon was well up before I could get away andwalk to Peter’s; as we bowed our heads at the table someone knocked on thedoor.

ÿ

Tishri 21

Sometimes people say I am an unhappy man.

That is not true.

For one thing, I like to remember happy experiences, and oneof them was the wedding at Cana. What a pleasant stroll it was, the daytemperate, the path climbing gradually above palm trees of the valley, up tothe vineyards. Birds were gossiping in the vineyards. The blue of the Jordanflashed through oleanders. The snowy top of Hermon sent out a string offlamingos.

At Cana, Mother greeted me. There were old friends among theguests. Miriam was beautiful, more beautiful than I remembered. I thought ofSolo­mon’s song as I watched her, “Thou art in the clefts of the rock; let mesee thy countenance, let me hear thy voice, for sweet is thy voice and thycountenance is comely...”

After we had eaten Mother came to me and said “there is nomore wine... Miriam is distressed...a wedding without wine!” she exclaimed,gesturing toward the guests at their outdoor tables. Certainly it was Miriam’sday. I thought of our friendship through the years and I decided to changewater into wine, a token to their youth and their happiness.

I called two of the servants.

“Fill the water pots with water...now empty them into thewine pitchers. There will be wine for everyone.”

“It’s good wine,” I heard someone remark.

Miriam thanked me and I hoped for acceptance on the part ofeveryone. A beginning has been made, perhaps a seal or symbol had been placedon my min­istry. I tasted the wine on my lips as I walked to Peter’s. Before Ihad gone any distance Andrew and Phillip criticized the miracle. They said Icould change a man’s soul as easily. They were afraid. Mother, walking with us,defended me and ridiculed them.

Alone, I struck out across a grain field where men weredismantling a tent; behind a stick fence donkeys brayed; day was closing behindits fence of clouds; I felt that the men dismantling their tent were alsodismantling time.

Alone, the happiness of the wedding returned.

I tasted the wine.

ÿ

Heshvan 3

ather is too old to work and I wanthim to sell one of the Magi gifts, help himself and Mother. This has been apoor carpentry season for him and for others. No use has been made of the giftsthese years but he won’t listen. He will not so much as hint where they arestored. Where else but the synagogue? He is afraid of the wealth, of robbers...

It is easy to get him started about the Magi. His eyebrowco*cks, his head tilts, he pulls his beard and settles himself, legs crossed. Hedescribes camels, accoutre­ments, attendants, a long, long story, growinglonger with the years. The star and the angels are always there. He be­comeseloquent like someone who had dabbled in divination.

“Casper...Melchior...Balthasar...”

Mother is pronouncing their names. She is fondest of theBabylonian king.

^“He was tall and stately and wore a dark bluerobe. His hair and beard were snowy white...”

It was a harsh journey into Egypt, some of the time withoutwater, the heat so overpowering they walked at night. At an encampment,Egyptian soldiers provided food while Mother rested a few days. A sergeantrepaired her sandals. They followed an ancient caravan route, asking for help.They lived with Gabra nomads—borrowing a white camel, a day or two. Father says“she was a real princess on that camel!” They hid in a hutment from Herod’smen, his troops passing on maneuvers. A lone traveler gave them dates andbread. They begged eggs at a caravanserai...a little goat’s milk...a littlemeat.

Mother praised her donkey. He never refused to carry her.For a while they stopped under sycamores where it was cool, a pond nearby. Butthey were very hungry. There, under the trees, the donkey died. They thoughtthey would never get back to Israel. Father had the Magi gifts sewn to thedonkey’s pad but when the animal died he had to carry everything. Utterlydisheartened, they trudged on. They got lost. There were sand storms.

Mother begged him to sell the gold cup. “It’s not mine tosell,” he objected. But he traded Melchior’s coins, “for the sake of our boy.”So they survived. Herod’s men continued to haunt them; then they learned thathe was dead.

“Despicable men do despicable things,” Father said. “Rome isthe great insti­gator of crimes. The Kittim! Political schemes arehatched in the Forum with the wild beasts. Rome appoints a governor forJerusalem; the man is in exile so he devours us, his subjects.”

Last night I lay awake most of the night, haunted by theseghosts. The past can be a simoom. Maybe it is a good thing when today’sproblems wipe out yes­terday’s problems. When the oil in the lamp burned out Itried to find oil in the storage shed. There was no more. At dawn I read myfavorite psalms.

ÿ

A thousand hoplites marched through our town. Drums. Horns.Thud of spears.

Many people fled.

Last month the hoplites caused a riot in Naim.

I am unable to countenance such hirelings. I am unable tocountenance mili­tary death.

ÿ

Friends are still troubled by my miracle at Cana. As a groupof us walked to Jerusalem their annoyance went on and on.

In Jerusalem I was annoyed by the bellowing of cattle, thebleating of sacrifi­cial sheep. An ox screamed. Dust rose from underfoot as Ijostled turbaned men... A woman in a striped veil blocked my way.

Passing Herod’s temple I searched for sky. Men had workedfor years to build that temple—was it for dust and smoke?

At the temple I stood among money exchange tables andlistened to men haggle. A strange, dark, bestial man lorded over everyone. Atan ivory-topped table men quarreled and spat. A sacrificial trumpet shrilled. Igrabbed my taliss, the one Father gave me. Knotting it into a whip Istruck the money from a table. Coins spun. An exchanger howled. I lashedanother table, upset it, then another. A crowd jeered as I demanded that theyhonor the temple.

“This is man’s place of worship. You offend God. Look, whatyou’re doing... take your money away...you know our temple is sacred. God’stemple is a temple of peace.”

Later, when a judge demanded an explanation, I saw my owndisrespect, my own violence. He was a lanky, stone-like figure, grey-haired,grey-faced, palsied. He understood my rebellion, the rankling perturbations ofmy life.

“I’m a Greek,” he said. “I realize your alienation. I’m newhere. I have much to learn. When a man revolts there is usually well-groundedreason. But be care­ful! The next time there may be fines or punishment;another man may not be lenient.”

ÿ

Heshvan 9

That night, after scourging the temple, I dreamed of home: Iwas working at the carpenter’s bench, making a three-legged stool. I finishedsmoothing the legs and sat on the floor, Whitey beside me. She was playing witha heap of shavings.

Again I had that illusion that time was mine, that thesunshine and flies and smell of olive oil and earth would never leave me. And Ithought, as I worked on the stool, how pleased Mother would be when I finishedit for her birthday. I glanced at a mark on the wall and wondered if I hadgrown taller.

ÿ

Galilee

A storm. The lake. Two fishermen drowned. Tents blown over.Next day as I bury the dead a little girl comes and throws herself at my feet,a flower clutched in her hand. What does death mean to her?

ÿ

Heshvan 11

Wearing dirty work clothes I was readily admitted into theprison at Machaerus, a citadel high above the countryside. Guards shrugged as Ientered. A door clanged with a terrible crash: I was in John’s cell. Kissingme, hugging me, we embraced: as always I felt he was part of me.

“How are you, cousin? I thought we would never get to seeeach other again...in all those rags they didn’t know you. You chose a goodtime; there has been an ugly quarrel going on...we have new guards. Here, here,sit by me.”

John has been imprisoned five months and is chained to thewall, a loop around one leg, letting him move a few feet. Rattling the chain,he nodded and grinned at me. I did not understand what he whispered. When hewas certain we were alone he grasped his chain and forced it open, first onelink and then an­other. Though he had been a wrestler and farmer I was amazed.Free, he clasped me in his arms.

“It’s a great trick...nobody knows...I can get up at nightand walk around... maybe there’s a way to get out of here.”

How often we have been taken for brothers because of our redhair; we trim our beards the same way; our faces are much alike except thatmine is leaner. We were brothers as we talked, sitting on the stone floor, thechain between us.

John urged me to leave Capernaum.

“You can’t go on preaching there. Antipas has men on thelookout for you. He’s as cruel as Herod, you know that! Go in hiding for awhile, Jesus. There’s no good in it if both of us end up in chains. Ourministry will fail.”

I had concealed bread and fruit in my clothes but John wouldnot eat while I was there. I gave him a comb and he combed his beard and head,grimacing, laughing. I asked him to change clothes with me: “You can put me inchains,” I said.

An empty cell, stone walls, chains, the Dead Sea glisteningdozens of feet below, a cold floor, a little food...what could I do?

“Are there other prisoners on this floor, John?”

“I never see them... I’m not allowed outside.”

“You know that we are trying to free you.”

“Don’t run any risks.”

“We aren’t afraid.”

“I have enough to eat...time to pray.”

“We need you.”

He bowed in prayer.

To be born anew...that is our hope for mankind.

I went away embittered. Think of it, I left a comb and somebread and fruit for a great man, a man of God. As I walked through the night Iheard and re-heard those words:

“May the Lord bless thee and keep thee, the Lord make Hisface to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up Hiscountenance and give thee peace.”

Peace inside stone walls.

When shall John and I meet again?

ÿ

Peter’s

Heshvan 19

I have preached in the synagogues at Cana and Capernaumduring the last few days. I do not like preaching indoors. The sky is best andweeds and grass make the best floor. Old laws become new laws outdoors. Istress repentance and faith—the time is now at hand. I try to speak withauthority and yet avoid rigid precepts.

Usually I walk alone. Being alone, from time to time, isessential: there is a peace in the company of one’s own shadow. After everymeeting I am again surrounded by questioners, most of them respectful, some arequite idle and oblivious of anything but themselves.

At Capernaum, as I spoke, swallows flew in and out, swoopinglow. I won­dered, as I watched them, are we the interlopers, have we usurpedtheir place? For me birds epitomize the highest form of beauty.

Near Capernaum I met an officer as I rested under treesalong the road. His horse was lathered with sweat and the man was tired; heleaned forward in the saddle and eyed me critically, in silence. I asked him todismount and rest.

Joining me he said he had heard of my miracle at the weddingand my cure of the street beggar. He brushed dust off his immaculate uniform.Wiping his face he scrutinized me, then pled with me to come and heal his sonwho was, ac­cording to his doctor, dying of fever. I shared fruit and heintroduced himself; he admitted he had sought me as a last resort. I pitied theyoung father, fond of his only child, yet so skeptical. Rising nervously,catching his horse’s bridle, he urged me to go to his home.

“I can’t wait any longer... You don’t seem to understandthat my son is dying. Ride to Capernaum. Take my horse. Ride...help my boy.Master, cure him...he has been ill with a terrible fever...for days... I mustfind help if you can’t help...”

“Ride home,” I said. “Your son will live; from this veryhour he will improve. Ride home in peace...do not hurry... God has answeredyour plea, our prayers.”

I felt my faith attend the boy as he lay in bed. For alittle while he became my son—the son I would never have. I blessed him. Myfaith, God’s grace, would renew the child. My power was adequate. I did notneed to travel to Capernaum.

Never looking back, the officer rode off, dubious, angry. Abreeze clattered dry leaves above me.

I knelt in prayer.

ÿ

I am troubled because there are so many sick in the world.

Capernaum...Capernaum...the village might be all mankind.

Here I healed the mother of my host, a woman gravely ill ofseizures. I had hardly helped her and finished my dinner when people clamoredat the door, the demented as well as the sick.

Still riding his bay, the officer found me and assured mehis son was recov­ering—his ardent gratitude was so bewildering, so nervous. Aswe talked in the courtyard of my host’s home people jostled him. He tried tosend them away, to establish a sense of intimacy with me.

Walking through the town at dusk I touched this one, spoketo another. A sense of anonymity troubled me: it was everywhere. The exultantfriends, the overjoyed crowd, forced me to retreat. As I closed the door of thehouse I ob­served Roman soldiers. I asked to be left alone. I ate supper alone.Early in the morning, shortly after dawn, I slipped away to the hills.

ÿ

Peter’s

Simeon came. We sat on stools and he thanked me, tears inhis eyes. Clean, wearing new clothes, a little shawl around him, he related howthrilling it was to be able to move about, to “really walk.” He explained whatit had been to be “a stone in the street, a stone to spit on.” Eyes burning, hemade me know what it was to be forsaken, abused, hungry.

He says he has told others of his cure. Only a few mockersdoubt. Friends and strangers visit his house, to touch him. He imitated pokinghands. Simeon is a pathetically handsome man, still frail, his frailtyaccenting his features. “My cousin Ephriam has promised me a job,” he said.

“I’m fifty-three but you’ve made me young. My memory iscoming back. Everything tastes good...”

ÿ

I believe my faith will help people because it is a faith ofhope, a faith that conquers obstacles; it is a faith based on patience andkindness. We have no right to kill, no right to inflict pain. Ours is the giftof understanding, contentment. Ours is the honoring of simplicity and honesty.

Sun on the hills is a kind of faith...the vineyard thatendures is another...the wounded heron struggling on...childbirthpain...fishermen drying their nets on the beach...

Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name...

He is our guide, Father of us all, brother of us all, masterof all. Seek and you will find. Our kingdom is at hand.

ÿ

Kislev 2

have been reading a scroll, anancient one.

I write outdoors, on a table, under olives.

As I speak in public I become more and more a master ofwords. I detect the difference in just a month or so. I am encour­aged. I nolonger have to think what I do with my hands and arms, how I stand. Thoughtsflow.

Going from place to place I see the same heads. The sunstreams over us at the benediction. The passion of living is obvious, touchingeach of us, offering kinship and peace.

Salt of the earth...

ÿ

John is the salt of the earth and yet he writes me that hehas been beaten by his guards. Several times I have returned to Capernaum tovisit Joseph, the young officer. He has promised to use his influence to freeJohn. How wary he is of becoming involved with the prison authorities. InJerusalem my intercessions are ridiculed: John is branded treasonous.

Authorities are evasive or antagonistic. They ridicule ourwish to uplift the world. I am told to take care.

Guards at the citadel refused to allow me to visit John.

Written requests go unanswered.

Peter, James and Matthew are no luckier than I.

ÿ

A finch is watching me as I write under the olives.

Rain is threatening.

Conception. Birth. Death. Each is a mystery.

In my father’s house I grew up among mysteries. I heard themtalked, argued over, curtly dismissed. I have resented the unknowns, yet toplumb them is still beyond me. Each child is a mystery. The temple is amystery. The shell that I pick up on the beach has its mystery. Some say I am aman of mysteries. Does the turtle have its mysteries?

ÿ

Kislev 5

For days I have been too busy and preoccupied towrite—preaching often, healing often. I am writing in a borrowed tent; Jamesand Mark are asleep inside.

Yesterday, on the lake shore, I was circled by a crowd. Italked to them till late. I wish to record the promises I made them:

Verily, I say unto you, he thatbelieveth in me hath everlasting life. I am that bread of life. Your fathersate manna in the wilderness, and are dead. I am living bread. If any man eat ofthis bread he shall live forever.

In keeping with my promise I passed out bread and fish inbaskets. I blessed the food and there was an abundance for everyone, many ofthem hungry chil­dren.

Mark and James and Phillip passed the baskets till each wasfed, the fish and bread always sufficient. At parting I reminded the people ofthe deeper meaning but some were overwhelmed by the miracle. A youngster ranabout shouting: “He made the bread...he made the fish...with his own hands.Jesus made...”

A strange restlessness troubled almost everyone.

Phillip, Andrew and I strolled along a white path, as white,in the moonlight, as if made of crushed shells. Galilee was flat and silvery.Andrew continued to comment about the “bread and fish” at almost every turn ofthe path. His youth­ful, enthusiastic face warned me, warned me that youth isirresponsible. What is the proper age for wisdom? As for miracles is there amiracle surpassing the miracle of faith?

ÿ

Peter has made me a tent. It is dark green, and big enoughfor two. The tent pole is an antique shepherd’s staff. A charioteer and anumber of untranslatable characters have been carved on the wood.

“Papa gave me that staff long ago. He said it is Assyrian.”

I can carry the tent comfortably and the staff is never outof my hands.

ÿ

Peter’s

Kislev 6

Last night I dreamed I was a tree—a cedar tree.

“Don’t cut me down,” I begged. “I am shade...I am the homeof birds.”

I sat underneath the tree and fell asleep. I slept inside adream.

ÿ

Peter’s Home

Kislev 10

John is dead. Murdered.

He has been beheaded.

The world has lost a voice of reason. I have lost my bestfriend. He was be­headed at a drunken orgy—his head was displayed like a trophyat the palace. What desecration, abuse, folly, horror. I can barelywrite...sorrow...resentment... my mind whirls to the days we passed together inthe desert, our wilderness comradeship. His faith was my faith. Our bonds werethose of true brotherhood.

I should have been able to free him. Instead I gave himdried fruit and a comb. The letters I wrote did nothing. My petitions weredisregarded. I was too patient. I have sat in this room all day...nothing hascome of my sorrow but more sorrow. Peter and James and Mark have had their say.

Late in the evening friends arrived, wanting to plan hisburial. Permission has been granted: we are to be permitted to claim his body.It is best to have the sacred privilege of farewell. We tell each other that wemust succeed for his sake, man of poverty, prison and death.

For his sake we can burn our lamps and candles and sharelate communion, get up early, walk many leagues and extol his faith. We willtell it on the hills and in the towns and in the villages. I feel hiswrestler’s hand tighten on my shoulder.

ÿ

Kislev 12

We brought John to the ancient rocky crypts, a dozen of us.Some of us wound scarves around our faces. Mother suspected that we werefollowed. She insisted on two to act as guards.

Simon was there... Matthew, Peter, Luke, Mark...they helpedus lay John out­side his crypt, helped us cut stone. A torch burned Mark’s arm;someone smashed our hammer. “Work fast,” someone was constantly urging. Petergot defiant: “Let the Romans come,” he shouted. “We have a right to bury ourdead.” Luke had to calm him. It was dawn before we had the crypt sealed; wewere cut and bruised. No torches.

As I sat among the cliff rocks I tried to obliterate thetragedy, tried to refute his death. Hard to breathe. Hard to utter the finalprayer. Think of it...we had buried a headless man, friend, friend...

As we stole into town we met the Kittim officer,riding for Capernaum; he did not recognize me of course. What a stark figure! Iwanted to talk to him about his son but Mother begged me: we must not trusthim.

She railed against wickedness and power.

Luke left us, to care for a sick man.

As we walked, Mother leaned on a stick. Her wrinkled facemade me aware that the star of long ago was not around.

At Matthew’s home we talked of John’s betrayal.

Perhaps we should be somewhat mad to combat man’s madness:we must chop up the two thousand crucifixes, chop them into pieces for firewoodand with that firewood we shall bake our bread—our pita. Crucified breadis the bread of the poor, the waiting, waiting poor. God must help them; wemust help them; we must help them as we must help God. Heal. Lift up our eyes.

ÿ

Nazareth—home

Kislev 20

When I picked corn in a field with my disciples I wasreproved because it was Sunday. When I healed the withered arm of a man I wasrebuked because it was Sunday. I am threatened by various authorities for such“misdemeanors.” Men spy on me and plot against me for acts of kindness.Kindness has reached the level of a crime. Officials remind me, ratherdiscreetly, that John met a tragic death. The Sadducees hate me.

At the pool of Bethseda I helped a man who could not getinto the water: I brought him health. He had been a paralytic for years. A crywent up because this was on a feast day. I explained that I intended to carryout my work regardless of the day.

“The son of man is lord even on the Sabbath,” I said. “Theworld of kind­ness must be a part of our world.”

At Nazareth, as I preached on a hill, the crowd turned onme. They insisted I perform miracles for them. Angered that I would not respondwilly-nilly, men attempted to throw me off the cliffside of the hill. James,Mark and Phillip pro­tected me; the four of us climbed down the cliff to awadi.

Disgusted, Father feels I have gone out of my mind. He longsfor the peace of my boyhood days. Mother understands: her feeling is intuitive.Though I dis­appoint and worry her she hides her concern, offeringencouragement. She visits those I have healed and tells me how they havechanged. Not all are like Simeon, grateful. Some do not want to have anythingto do with me.

ÿ

Peter’s

Kislev 22

As I write Peter leans over my shoulder, reading this recordthat is such a poor record. In the midst of my writing I see John’s face; Ihear him. We talk about him.

“The Romans are going to take you, one of these days! Whatcan I do to look after you? All of us...what can we do? Look at that madman theother day. He rushed at you... I thought he would kill you...he had a knife.And you cured his madness. There...there, he became one of us...or so it seems.Luke wants to help me look after you. You can’t go on without any thought foryourself!”

Peter’s voice expresses sincerity, warmth, education. Speechis man’s finest quality. More than the eyes, the smile. Its powers are almostlimitless. Its tender­ness, the child, the babe. My mother consoles with a wordperhaps. Out of the past it goes on and on with its revelations, its mirages.

Peter crumples leaves in his hands and reminisces as we sitaround a table, the door open, his dog lying outside, flumping his tailagreeably.

“...No, Papa wasn’t a clever fisherman. When Mama died hedidn’t look after our house; it didn’t much matter to him what we had to eat.He seemed to be looking for her. I tried to light his lamp but it didn’t work.He got very thin, weak; he coughed. I did all the fishing for us. I providedbut I didn’t do a very good job... I miss him...it was good to have him there,even when he was sick...”

Peter’s

Tevet 4

n this little, comfortable houseI try to find time in the evenings to study Greek or write in my journal. Iprefer my journal. Doors wide open, the lamp bright, I read or write. My legsget restless, my eyes blink and the next thing I know the lamp has burned outand my room is dark.

The other night, after tossing on my pallet, I dreamed thata woman came and brought an antique alabaster box and knelt beside me—to anointmy feet. I tried to say something to her but I couldn’t speak. The woman wasbeautiful.

Suddenly I was standing on a hill. A man was near me; therewas nobody else. The man began repeating a parable, imitating me, each wordcuriously vivid. He said:

“There was a creditor who had two debtors. One owed hismaster five hun­dred but the other owed fifty.” The speaker stopped, adjustedhis purple robe. “When their master forgave them their debts who was the mostgrateful? The one who owed the most or the one who owed less?”

Someone laughed uproariously.

ÿ

Ah, the strictures of the mind: without discipline we are weak. As a boy I learned values. Ilearned how to accept and how to refute. I remember holding a scroll againstthe light in the doorway of the synagogue: I noted how carefully each word waswritten. Pen strokes. Such a frail thing, this wisdom.

I found other kinds of wisdom on a dune, at a desert pool,in an oasis.

ÿ

Tevet 5

For days I have been trying to compose a meaningful prayer.I have trudged along the shore at Galilee; I have listened to the waves andgulls. I have tried to find words suitable for fisherfolk, villagers,countrymen. I walked the wadis, climbed the cliffs. I have lain in my tent andpeered at the stars. I have repeated scriptures. Talked.

Lastnight, after supper, the words came to me:

Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,

Thy will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread, forgive us our trespasses,

lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil

for Thine is the kingdom,

the power and the glory, forever.

When I repeated the prayer to Luke and Peter they werepleased.

ÿ

Galilee

Tevet 11

A storm woke me as I lay in my tent. The wind was churningleaves and I walked to the lake to watch the waves. I felt cold but pulled mycloak around me and continued walking. Clouds were traveling fast. When therain started I re­traced my steps. I heard voices and men at their oars. Waveswere piling against rocks. The voices in the boat sounded familiar. Again thethud of oars. Yells. Wasn’t that Phillip? It was Peter. Through rain and sprayI made out the hull of the boat; then I recalled someone saying they had toland a catch before dawn. Someone shouted:

“We’re sinking...we’re sinking!”

I walked over the water toward the boat; it was difficult tosee through the rain and spray. I recognized the boat. As I walked the wavescalmed; the water was black underfoot. Two of our men had slumped over theiroars. I shouted. Nobody responded: they were frightened at seeing me. Petercowered. I called again.

“Peter,” I cried. “ Don’t you know me?”

“Is it you, Jesus?”

“Yes.”

“Let me come to you.”

“Come,” I said.

He sank as he walked toward me and I caught his arm andsteadied him and helped him climb into his boat. Luke welcomed me. The boatswung toward me and I got in and sat at the stern with Phillip. Everyone beganbailing. The rain was letting up and I pointed to the shore. We soon beachedher and everyone began to talk, telling his panic, that they had been unable tosee; they crowded around me; they thought I had saved their lives.

Luke built a fire of beachwood and as the sun came up we hadbreakfast to­gether—some of them singing, everyone hungry, the fish tastingmarvelous.

“Mark broke his oar,” Luke said and laughed. He was dryingby the fire, his clothes steaming. He explained that they had been blown firstone way and then another.

ÿ

Nain

Tevet 18

This has been a beautiful week because I raised a man fromthe dead and made a blind man see.

At Nain, a small village, my disciples and I met a burialprocession headed for tombs cut in the side of a nearby hill. A young man layon a flower-covered bier. I learned his name from a man in the procession: itwas David. He and his mother had been my friends for years. I recognizedAthalia walking behind the bier, weeping. Aaron, her husband, had diedrecently.

It was a warm, still afternoon. The warbling of a bulbulseemed out of place as the procession passed. As the bier scraped against arock, as the bearers stopped, I approached one of them and asked them to wait.

“David...David...this is Jesus...arise...”

The disciples, astonished, bunched around the bier. Itouched David, spoke loudly, shook him.

“David, you are all right. Your mother is here. Get up...”He sat up among his flowers and his mother rushed to his side. He recognized myvoice and asked for me. I talked gently with him.

A happy procession. The bier was abandoned; someone threwflowers into the air as David walked...

I am overjoyed as I write. I see David and his motherkissing each other. Someone is singing.

From Nain I went on to see the daughter of Jairus as she layin bed in her home. The curtains were drawn; the air was sick room air; flowershad wilted on her bed table; her dog cringed under her bed. I asked everyone toleave us alone.

“Talitha cumi,” I said. “Daughter, I say arise...youare no longer ill. The fever has left you.” As I prayed I also thought of Johnand his death. This little girl was not to fill a grave. I bent over her andtook her hand. I could see her rolling a hoop, laughing.

“Talitha cumi,” I repeated, and sat beside her,pressed my hand over her fore­head, touched her eyelids. “Rise, mydaughter...you must sleep no longer...”

Her eyes flashed; she was afraid because she had never seenme; smiling, I said:

“Your mother is outside your room...shall I call her?” Shenodded.

When I came to the blind man in his home I pressed myfingers over his eyes and spoke to him. I wet clay and placed it over his eyes.I allowed the cool clay to comfort him as I spoke; his wife watched with anexpression of doubt; as I removed the clay she stepped aside.

He made a curious noise, pushed me aside, stood.

Walking, he asked:

“Is this my home...is that my garden out there? Are you theman called Jesus of Nazareth? That must be a tree out there...” He was walkinginto the garden of his home. “Is that...is that a bird...who are the peoplewatching me...and that, is that a flower?”

I write and the evening sun shines on my table and on myhands and it seems to me that I have lived many years in a short span; it seemsto me I am very much alone; it seems to me I hear voices: Deuteronomy voices,Jeremiah voices. I hear and yet I am alone. Today is my birthday. I amthirty-three.

ÿ

Shevat 8

s a boy I respected Greek—such arich vocabulary, I found; I thought the language overly concise. Hebrew is thecity man’s tongue, best suited to argument. I prefer my Aramaic. It is moregracious and agreeable for public speaking.

Haran believed in learning three languages: he was the mostintelligent rabbi I have met. To him I owe my background; his years of tutoringgave me freedom to think. Morning after morning we sat facing each other at hishome.

“We have to think, not memorize...you memorize and thenforce memories to evolve into patterns of original thought. Yes, memory andthought are broth­ers. But, make no mistake, thousands repeat the law and thescriptures and only a handful think.”

I see his sparsely bearded, wan face. He was a man who atesparingly yet lived to be eighty. A great walker, he was as restless in body asin mind.

Haran was proud of two ancient scrolls—one of them oncopper. The library at Qumran had greater rarities of course.

Haran said:

“Something lives in you...your mother has called myattention to it, an inner voice. When I heard you declaim in the synagogue Iperceived it.”

So, it is my privilege to help, merge dream and fulfillment:I believe it is a privilege no other man has had: I am the husbandman.

Come unto me ye who labor and areheavy laden and I will give you rest...suffer the little children to come...

Tonight I see the world shining in their eyes; I hear hopein their prattle.

ÿ

Tent

Shevat 12

Years ago I experienced the greatness of the Sinai desert,its crags and dunes, the heat and cold. I came to understand its desolation,its loneliness, its calm and fury. Now, during these troubled times, I long toreturn to the Sinai...have a lizard sit beside me, my straw-covered basketfilled with golden dates.

In the Sinai I perfected my Greek to a greater extent andstudied the classical Hebrew until it came easily. The history of man became animportant part of my meditations. Silence and the simoom became part of those devotions.

A tiny plant sprouted outside my tent and withstood theheat, cold and winds. It was my companion and incentive, a little calendar inleaves.

I found the same plant growing at Qumran, behind themonastery. While I studied there it survived several sand storms.

ÿ

Locusts, dates, bread, honey—the wilderness taught me thetrue taste of food. During the months since the wilderness I have eaten well,too well, but the taste is lacking.

I have not thought as clearly as I thought when unencumberedby men. There, each morning was mine, each evening was mine. Worship was asnatural as breathing.

My tent flaps billowed. They were pinned back every night bythe stars. Heat and thirst were often there yet a sense of praise was foremost.Wonderment was on top of a dune. As I slept a mirage might come and bathe me inits cool water.

I slept on my boyhood blanket, one woven by my mother. Shewove it when I was ten.

ÿ

Nazareth

Shevat 15

I am leaving Nazareth—leaving home.

It is farewell to friends and places, all I have loved. Onlyin memory will I walk along the orchard creek and hunt for crayfish, think andstare as a boy thinks and stares. I had several pals... We had niches in cliffswhere we often hid. We had an old fig we liked to climb; there was a cave wherewe lit fires. We found menhirs and dolmen—strange, strange things! In Galileewe had a stout little boat and we’d drift, drop anchor, fish for chromis andwatch the pelicans.

There’s a feeling to my Nazareth: the stars are brighterthere, the sun seems a little bigger, the wind a little cooler. How good it wasto turn a corner and think: Mama’s home...supper is almost ready...Papa’sworking in his shop.

ÿ

Nazareth

Shevat 20

Today was cool and windy.

I visited Simeon. I visited Mark. I visited Jude. I calledon the captain, who has been transferred to Nazareth. His son sat in my lap awhile. I did not say good-bye although I lingered at each place. I wanted tofeel the peace of each place and keep it with me. I did not need to talk much.Being with friends was all I asked.

Oh, how the wind blew me along, flapping my cloak, flappingthe olive branches, the weeds and the papyrus.

How hard it is to write.

ÿ

Nazareth

Before I left home Father displayed the gifts of the Magi onhis work bench, first removing his tools and shavings. He locked the door andlit two candles. Mother—so excited—seemed to be seeing the star as she handledthe gifts.

“They haven’t changed... Joseph, you’ve taken good care ofthem! Oh, they’re so beautiful!”

And she knelt in the sawdust, the gold cup in her hands, itsjewels redder than I had remembered. I had forgotten the gifts were sobeautiful.

“Where have you kept them...in the synagogue? The geniza?” Iasked.

Father nodded, frowning.

“We have decided to present them to the elders...tomorrow...atthe meeting. They’ll become the temple possessions. It’s different with yougoing away... Mother and I have decided...”

But I wasn’t listening; I was absorbed in Mother’sappreciation as she han­dled the gifts, kneeling or half-kneeling, smiling; hershoulders lost some of their age. The myrrh box interested me, its aroma stillevident, its chased lid yet untar­nished. Mother lifted the clasp. The claspwas set with green stones. She called my attention to the ornamented hinges.She held out the gold cup to my father...

“I wish you hadn’t worried about the gifts,” she said with asigh. “We ought to have enjoyed them...now we can see them at the temple...Look, Jesus, at this handle...ah, those were strange days in Bethlehem... Godwas with us...”

I loved her for her dreams and sacrifices.

I loved the hints of youth and beauty in her face.

ÿ

Nazareth

Shevat 25

Tomorrow is my last day here.

As I lay on my pallet I heard rain lash our roof; I heardthe wind in the trees. Then my mind dropped back and I remembered Mothersinging, crooning to me, as I lay sick as a boy. I remembered songs in theevening. I heard her laugh­ter as we played jacks. I smelled her barleybread... I smelled roasting lamb.... Father was in his workshop, his planesliding; he was singing. As a child I loved his singing.

Now, silent, worried, he works in a preoccupied state,bothered by frequent visitors, concerned about my future. “It is wrong of youto go to Jerusalem, wrong to throw yourself into the hands of your enemies.”

There will be no more Festivals of Light.

ÿ

At Nazareth I used to have a pet goat.

Memories... I can not tolerate juvenile memories any longer.I am not an old man. Memories must not impede my ministry.

There must be beauty. Life must have beauty.

ÿ

Jerusalem

Shevat 29

Thy rod and Thy staff will comfortme...yeah, though I walk through the valley of death yet will I be with Thee.

As I walked into Jerusalem I heard those words. It was dusk.An immense caravan choked the air, camels, drivers, gapers. Again I thought ofHerod and the innocents: city life brings Herod to mind. The Kittim areevident on the main streets: helmets, standards, shields.

A camel sank to the ground beside me, eying me, beggingfor kindness. Trumpets blared.

Crowds circled the temple, some chanting, some bearingfruit, some waving palm fronds. Flares burned. On two giant candelabra, perhapseighty feet high, torches smoked, guttered.

Shall I be able to help the people of Jerusalem? Shall Iremain? My loneliness here was so unlike the loneliness of the desert.

I was to meet Judas who was to take me to friends. When hedid not come I bedded down in a booth of branches, with cattle nearby.

I slept and woke to their animal sounds, without dread.Someone roused the oxen, then the sheep; the beasts wanted to be fed andwatered. Nobody dis­turbed me. Probably I was considered a herdsman. I dreameduntil a child brought me a cup of water: holding it out prettily she asked:“Are you thirsty?”

“Yes,” I said.

“My papa is taking care of the oxen.”

Opening my pouch I offered sugared dates to the girl.

ÿ

I found Judas at the home of a mutual friend. I had neverseen him so well dressed. He drew me aside and gave me money from our treasury.He seemed forlorn. I am told he is having a love affair with the daughter ofPilate. Marcus, the son of a senator, has described Pilate’s daughter as abeautiful, talented, ruthless woman. Marcus and I sat on a garden bench and heen­thused about Jerusalem: “So unlike Rome, so much more oriental—can it be weare free of our penates here?”

That evening I stayed in the house of Leonidas Clibus. Mywindows were olive tree windows. Garden paths circled a tiny fountain wheresomeone had tossed fresh oleander blossoms, red blossoms.

A copy of Horace lay on a circular table by my bed; lampsand rugs, hangings and x-shaped Roman chairs, cushions and inlaid boxesbrightened the room. Propped on a cushion I read Horace for hours; when mycandles dimmed a slave brought me fresh candles and volumes by Lucretius—recenttranslations.

...What’s this wanton lust for life

To make us tremble in dangers and in doubt?

All men must die and no man can escape.

We turn and turn in the same atmosphere...

I went to sleep preferring the thoughts of Horace: his loveof nature, his fondness for rustic surroundings, his boating on the riverAufidus, his fishing. He liked to play ball. I could visualize him, as a boy,when wood pigeons covered him with leaves as he slept on a hillside.

ÿ

Clibus’ Home

Adar 6

here are children here. What pricelesslooks they give. I love their delight in simple things, their warmth, theirtrust, so obvious, so quick. Truly, theirs is a special kingdom. I am happiestwhen they are around me, as they were yester­day in Clibus’ garden. It was abirthday party for his daughter who is six. I told stories as they sat aroundme. What laughter, giggles. A little boy brought me a toad and put it in myhand, saying:

“It’s for you, Atta.”

ÿ

Clibus

Of course I miss the great library at Qumran. The beautifullibrary in his home is a fraction of that monastic collection but beardedClibus has invited me—with widespread arms.

A delicate bronze of Minerva stands on a plinth at thewindow end of the narrow room.

A book on my lap, I watched a golden Persian cat stealabout, stiffly inde­pendent.

Though I can not read Latin I can understand titles and thenames of authors and I appreciate handsome volumes, ancient volumes, familytreasures.

Minerva—I used to think of visiting Rome and Athens.

ÿ

Adar 15

I spoke to a group near the city gate. I was aware thatofficials were present, Sadducees.

I saw men dragging a woman, kicking her, letting her fall.She had been caught in adultery. When she was brought to me I suspected atrick. Why should I pass judgment when officials were in the crowd? Authoritieswanted me to break the law by passing judgment.

I was shocked by the woman’s fear, her beseeching face. Asshe stood by me a soldier hit her with a chain. Men yelled: “Stone her, stoneher!” When a man shoved her to her knees she hid her face in her arms—pretty, acountry girl, I thought.

To give myself time to think I wrote on the ground with astick. I wrote and obliterated words, watching the crowd and the woman. Ismelled death. It was in the smoke of sacrifices burning in the city. It was inthe crowd around me. I had never smelled the death of a person.

Taking in the street ruffians and the officials I said, in aloud voice:

“Lookat her, at her torn clothes. Do any of you know her? Think. Go deep inside.Think. Let the man who has not sinned throw the first stone. You accuseher...where is the man? Go home, all of you. Have you no pity? Remember thecommandment: Thou shalt not kill. We are not animals! Let her go... I repeat,let her go. Go home—all of you!”

I helped the woman to stand. Someone had thrown ashes on herface and I bought water at a shop and washed her face and hands and bought oilfor her cuts and bruises. Matthew found us and brought her food.

“Where can I hide?” she asked us. “What is to become of me?They will catch me...beat me... Master, master...what shall I do?” Her wordsmixed with sobs.

Matthew and I helped her out of town, beyond the gates. Wesent her to the home of Talus where Luke cares for the sick.

ÿ

I returned to Clibus’ library but I was too disturbed to read.While I sat there, the Sayings of Moses spread before me, Affti, Clibus’Egyptian wife, brought a pillow and sat by me. She is as beautiful as Miriam;to have her there was a com­fort but her words were not comforting:

“It isn’t safe for you to preach in Jerusalem... Your faithis for the little towns and villages where the Romans have less influence ornone at all...

“When James was here a month or so ago he mentioned going toRome. Do you wish him to preach your gospel there?”

She went on to urge me to send apostles to Egypt.

“There are more than seventy of you now... I hope you cansend two or more to my country...to preach in the villages...you are neededthere.”

That evening, after dinner, she rapped on my door: she isvery tall, very ele­gant; dressed in an Egyptian gown, she made a little bow,and presented me with a bronze stylus.

“It will be better than your wooden one,” she said.

While enjoying my stylus someone brought me a dish of lemonpaste.

ÿ

Sadly, more than twenty years have passed since our Nazarethsynagogue ac­quired a scroll. Our scrolls are in tatters and all are asked torefrain from using them. Learning this, Clibus has offered several scrolls.

“I’ll send two of my men...one to carry the scrolls, theother to see that the first man doesn’t wander off.”

Perhaps little Nazareth may have a worthwhile collectionsomeday.

ÿ

Jerusalem

Adar 20

My enemies come closer.

Verily, I say unto you, the manwho climbs the sheepfold wall is a thief. He who enters by the gate is theshepherd. To him the porter opens and the sheep hear his voice and he calls hissheep by name and leads them...

My parable is realistic but people do not listen. They pushone another, talk.

When I encountered a blind man, a man who had never seenduring his life­time, I sent him to the Siloam pool. He bathed there and at mytouch his sight became normal. He stumbled, fell, rushed about, shouted.Trembling he raced for home. He brought friends and there was great rejoicing.Then, stunning everyone, authorities questioned me rudely. Because he defendedme and called me his healer he was put in jail.

I had to go before the local magistrate, affirm his honesty;then he was freed. I said to the magistrate:

“I came into this world to help men see...”

ÿ

Last week I cured lepers on the Jericho road, men and women,all in rags. All were afraid of me, afraid of themselves. I thought I couldchange their minds but their minds were in tatters like their clothes. One manthanked me, a young man from Tyre; the others, quarrelling, pushing oneanother, tearing at their rags, left the road to crawl into a cave.

I asked the man from Tyre what he knew about the others buthe could not concentrate on what I said: he was so moved, so pleased, soenraptured over his health he stood in front of me, smiling, laughing. He keptholding up his arms and hands—showing me. I asked him about people I knew inTyre. He shook his head, laughed, kissed my hands, rushed off. A caravan waspassing, camels, drivers, onlookers; he disappeared among the camels, the dust.

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Jerusalem

Adar 25

Today I received a message: the mebakker at Qumranhas invited me to return to the monastery for a second residency. He wants meto instruct others in the Messianic Rule.

I am no longer in accord with Qumran’s rigid communal life:such sharing would be difficult for me; certainly none of my disciples wouldunderstand.

But I think of the Qumran desert; I think of the cliffs andcaves near the monastery. Morning and evening shadows! What great fogs used toengulf us!

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Urusalim

Adar 28

I spoke outside the temple and, as I spoke, men and boyspicked up stones to throw at me.

Sadducees want me excluded from the temple; others want meexcommuni­cated. They stamp me an untouchable. Such intrigue! How am I to helpman­kind? My disciples urge me to leave Jerusalem. The world is beautiful, theyremind me: Go to Cana, go to Bethlehem, to Galilee, to Jericho. Date groves.Olive groves. Roses. As if I needed a reminder.

This afternoon I walked about Solomon’s city to animpressive ruin, a series of roofless rooms, fallen columns, weeds growingthrough marble floors, lizards on walls. Birds dotted the sky. I tried toimagine the regal furnishings of Ptolemy’s time. Underfoot were hieroglyphicslabs, a cartouche among them. I climbed old stone walls, were they Nehemiah’swalls when he fortified the city? I found a broken scarab and rememberedEgyptian words my mother taught me as a boy. In the street below the vast ruinsa Roman soldier talked with another Roman soldier. Herod’s workmen were cappingstone pillars. Tall men in dark red robes, red turbans on their heads, proddedcamels, heavily laden animals. Were they Syrians?

Somewhere along the way I met a blind man led by a boy. The sunsent sweat down the boy’s face. Tired, they sat by a spring where women andgirls were filling jars. People recognized me and soon a crowd formed, as Irested. The blind man, wearing a sash woven with gold, white-bearded, tall,erect and proud, asked about me. The boy whispered desperately to him.

“It’s Bartimaeus and his son, from Jericho,” a woman said.

“Son of David, have mercy on me,” Bartimaeus pled, speakingsoftly. Then he cried:

“Lord, have mercy, that I may receive my sight. Are youJesus of Nazareth? Will you help me? Will you touch my eyes? I must see again.”

I sat close to him and talked to him, the aura of his faithevident. As we talked I realized he could see: his expressions were sostartling. He embraced his son. Erect, silent, he stared about him. Everyonewas silent. Fumbling a little, he walked away; then, he returned and knelt byme and kissed my hands.

“Master...let me follow you... I believe...let me be one ofyour chosen...let me tell others what you have done for me. I know about yourministry.” He kissed my robe. “When I heard you speak yesterday I tried toreach you.”

He urged me to stay at his home; perhaps he had heard me saythat fox have holes and birds have nests but the man of God has no home. Iwarned Barti­maeus not to look back if he put his hand to the plough.

Lately I have not seen much of Judas. He refuses to visit meat Clibus’ home. I hear that Judas has quarrelled with the daughter of Pilate.Faithful to our group, he collects and disperses funds. Our group is increasingin number—committed to everyone. Some of us provide food, clothing and shelter.

A nomad group is famine stricken. The babies need sugar andsalt and we have provided packets by way of a caravan.

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Clibus’

Through Clibus I have written a letter home. Mother willfind someone to read it aloud. I don’t want Mother and Father to come here.They dislike the city. Father has been unable to work and needs to husband hisstrength. He must avoid danger.

Getting up at dawn I have been able to memorize lines fromHorace, lines that help. The tiny garden helps. The children help. But whenJohn’s cousin, Elihu, came, distortion returned as we talked of John’simprisonment, torture, death. Elihu is a frail soul, so unlike John. He is soin need of encouragement. He tells me that a storm flooded homes in Nazareth.They did the best they could with shovels and baskets.

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Jerusalem

Nisan 8

look forward to resurrection. Thepromise of resurrec­tion sustains me although I am, at times, con­fused,confused because resur­rection means a blurring of the future, perhaps acessation of the future. I can not plan a sabbath. I can not say “We shall meettogether at Samaria.” Since the beyond is truly incomprehensible today isdistorted as well.

I must warn myself of the onslaught of pain that will crushme during the crucifixion. How to bear it? Gird my loins, perhaps. It will notbe easy to die for my fellowmen. Will my ascension help others rise from theirtragic lives?

Dread eats away at me.

Hate undermines me.

Broken covenants...Golgotha, place of skulls...rockyJudea... Caesar Augustus, your crimes are everywhere...imperator...killer!

I need to be baptized with love.

With wisdom.

Yesterday, in this city of rocks, I noticed straw in astable, yellow straw, fresh, clean, glistening in the sun. I took a few. Straw issimplicity. Simplicity points to a balanced way.

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Bethany

Nisan 12

Yesterday I walked to Bethany. Martha and Mary said thatLazarus had died. Among graves and stunted trees, in a stinging wind, I becamekeenly aware of the days I spent at their home, with the three of them. Howoften Lazarus and I had done carpentering under his thatched shed.

Here, with his sisters, friends and relatives, here at the tombs,I knew death was not the answer. I walked to the crypt where Lazarus lay. Looserocks tum­bled underfoot. Wind whipped. A boulder blocked the crypt and I askedMartha to have her friends help me drag it aside. Men consulted and argued thatit was useless; they glared at me savagely as they pushed and dragged thestone.

At the opening I bent over and cried:

“Lazarus...come... I am the resurrection and thelife...come...this is Jesus!”

I needed him. His family needed him. Mary and Martha. Deathdid not need him, surely.

Men jeered and howled. But I knelt and shouted as the windspat on all of us.

Ah, sorrowing women, yellow rocks, death, a man in hiscrypt, cold stone, a hawk screaming...

I called again and again.

“Lazarus, this is Jesus. Arise! Come with us! Remember us,remember I am the resurrection and the life. Come unto me...believe...God ishere...”

It was late afternoon: the sun was behind the yellow cliff.

Martha clutched my arm and said:

“Lord, let us leave. Lazarus has been dead four days. Hestinks.”

A funeral procession passed by—men and women—the mencarrying a child’s coffin.

“God, our Father, help us. Give this man life again!” Ibeseeched with pas­sion. I knew, as I prayed, that Lazarus would respond.

Swaying, wrapped in burial clothes, Lazarus appeared, ascarf across his face. He could not see or move his hands. I went to him andMartha uncovered his eyes. Mary ran to help. We unwrapped his legs and arms.

“Jesus has given you life,” Martha said. “You are going homewith us...you are one of us again.”

Stumbling over rocks, Mary guiding him, Lazarus found aplace to sit down. We unbound him and someone gave him a robe. Someone offeredhim a piece of bread. He shook his head, stared at us, turned from one to theother, his face birdlike, hawklike, white. He peered at his crypt. Marthahugged him, laughing. People gathered. Some knelt around us.

“Mary, what happened?” Lazarus began, speaking his firstwords.

“Why am I here in this place? Why am I wearing a robe? Andthese people... and Jesus! Was I sick? Where are my clothes?”

I longed to leave this place of death: it was closing in onme. The wind blew harder and a hawk leaped upward.

With Martha I walked away, listening to her happiness, herpraise.

“We must have supper. What shall we eat? Will he be hungry,able to eat? Je­sus, you have saved him. I love you. It’s wonderful! He’sback...think of it, after four days. Then, then there is no death for us whobelieve...”

At supper Lazarus was unable to talk; he drank a little andsoon had bread wet with olive oil. No one had much to say. Lazarus sat next to me.Bending over his plate he gave me a few boyish grins—like old times. He hadgotten into his work clothes. Putting his hand into a pocket he pulled out asmall chisel and laid it on the table. But he said nothing. I urged him to eatMartha’s fish or lamb, delicately prepared. Every face at the table expressed awonderment and rapture. The candles burned down. The women ate. Suddenly therewas chatter and then laughter—rejoicing.

It was difficult to return to Jerusalem, leave my friends. Ilingered a day for the fields of barley, the paths that were peaceful paths. Ihad to have time to be with Lazarus, be with Mary and Martha, write my journal.Alongside the carpen­try bench I have a table. I prefer writing outdoors. Thereis a vine on the thatched shed and it is in flower. As I write Lazarus issleeping on the ground, in the sun.

Caretakers at the graveyard claim that one of the crypts hasbeen robbed.

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Jerusalem

I keep hearing the words of an old hymn as I go about; itwas John’s favorite, one we learned while at Qumran. Was it solace while he wasimprisoned? I hope it was. It is a comfort to me—so gracious.

I give thanks unto Thee, O Lord,

For Thou has wrought a wonder with dust.

Thou hast made me know Thy deep, deep truth,

Thou hast given me a voice;

I continually bless Thy name.

I seem to hear John’s commanding voice, his lovingbenediction as I left his prison:

The Lord bless thee and keep thee,

the Lord make His face to shine upon thee

and be gracious unto thee...

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Ephraim

Nisan 14

I am staying at a beautiful old stone house in nearby Ephraim.I have allowed myself a respite, among pomegranate, olives, roses. Herons flyat dawn and eve­ning. Children run in and out. A boy with shaggy head has a petdove. A girl with almond eyes is learning to weave. My disciples are here, thenew and the old. We have met in a low room, plain and bearded men, clothes newand disheveled; Ezra shows me his injured leg; Luke works over it; Lamech (a strongyouth) is from Casarea, an expert swimmer, he said.

“I will walk to Jerusalem tomorrow. I’ll remain there. Thehigh priests will accost me. They may mock and scourge me, as they have many others...butI will return.” I tried to speak calmly. I could not be forthright...

Calling me “Rabboni,” a pretty girl knelt in the jammed roomand anointed me with fragrant oil. It was a moment of calm, a moment of beauty.

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Nisan 15

Holy Week has begun.

I walk accompanied by my disciples.

As we pass a tall wooden cross I remembered that the Romanshave crucified as many as two thousand men at one time because of religiousdedication. Al­most every single one of us has witnessed a crucifixion.

Hail Caesar!

Ours was a solemn path on a clear morning, larks singing,the air brisk.

Carrying fronds, waving, hoping to speak to us, hundredsfilled the paths and streets, wanting the miracle of love and life.

Our path crooked upward to the “House of the Figs,” where Iwas given a donkey, a tall, white one. Children shouted joyously. For me, hewas my donkey of peace. I waved as I rode along. Some women cut branches andtossed them in front of me. Others threw flowers and shouted “Hosanna.”

Jerusalem spread around me, blocks of stone, yellow walls,piles of ancient masonry, new porticos, towers, shops... It was my city, myhated city; I esteemed the meaning it has for my forefathers, men who slept inthe valley, with peaked cypresses above their graves.

Dust fanned over us as we followed a narrow way. Romans turnedon me and turned on the crowd but I warned them to desist.

At the temple I found more money changers. The courtyard wascattleyard; waiting rooms were storerooms. Animals bellowed. I struck again atthe vendors, toppling tables, hurling money trays. The crowd screamed, cheered.In the midst of this bedlam strangers, travelers, stopped Philip and Andrew.They insisted upon being presented to me. The four men offered me sanctuary inthe kingdom of Edessa.

Priests, soldiers, young and old crammed around me as Iexplained the life eternal, the image of redemption, eternal salvation and theprice we must pay.

God is our Father...the world of nature proclaims Hisgoodness...men must share His divine harmony...you reach God fromwithin...reborn, you recognize the light.

Children sang.

My love went to them.

Astride my donkey I preached to them in simple words.

As the sun slipped behind the city towers there were scoreslistening and we lingered on the terrace:

“There is light for you for a little while longer...walkwhile there is light... darkness will come...he who walks in darkness cannottell where he is going... believe in the light...”

The evening air was becoming chilly; a wind was blowing infrom the desert.

With my twelve I walked through the Golden Gate, passinggreat herds of sheep and goats, grey pastoral sheep and black mountain goats. Iwas proud of my men, proud of their courage and love, proud of their humility.

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Jerusalem

Nisan 29

We met in an upper room—a white-walled room. Centering itwas a long ta­ble and we sat around it, sharing bread and wine...below us roseswere in flower.

God was with me as I told them, my legatees, that I must die.

“Tonight you are entrusted with the keys of the kingdom. Twoat a time you are to go about the world, preaching the gospel. Faith is ourchurch.”

I loved each man. Such faces! Bartholomew, Matthew, Luke,James, Simon, Peter, Thaddeus, Judas, John, Phillip. I gazed at one and thenthe other, fisher­man, cobbler, farmer, physician, lawyer...brothers.

“Your task is to save mankind!”

The lamps on our table shaped shadows on the walls, on thefloor, far more than shadows. The white walls enshrined each of us. When thewind puffed our lamps blinked. Ours was an aura that may never recur.

“Soon my enemies will crucify me...one of you will betrayme...”

What consternation! What hysterical exclamations! Whataccusations! Then the pleas began: you must escape! Let us help you! We can!Listen...flee...tonight.

“Faith is the miracle for everyone,” I said. “Heal the sick.Remember Cana... Galilee...Lazarus...the lepers on the roadway...”

I reminded them that we are samaritans. Mercy is ours, oursto give. We are to help the heavy laden. Love our children. We are to teach byexample.

Israel, I told myself, you are to nurture goodwill,tolerance, peace, hope.

So it was in that white room, at that hour.

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Clibus’

By the light of candles I write, to shepherd words, to communeonce more. There is little time for writing, little time for thinking. I feelthat I must endure. By the flickering lights I commune with Father, Mother,earth.

I would like to go on healing the sick, alleviating pain,the body’s pain, the soul’s. To be a good shepherd, yes. Will my disciplespersevere?

I can write no more tonight.

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Peter’s

Iyyar 2

h, Jerusalem, you killer of prophets,stoner of those sent to help you! How I have wanted to care for your childrenas a hen cares for her chicks under her wings. You would not have me!

Plotters have attempted to trap me. A group cornered me nearthe temple. Is it lawful to pay tribute to Caesar? they asked. I asked for acoin. I called their attention to the face on the coin, the face of CaesarAugustus.

“Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto Godthe things that are God’s.”

Not to be defeated, men queried me, as I sat in the court ofthe temple, old, old questions. It seemed to me they were stunned when Ireminded them that God is not the god of the dead but of the living. Otherinterrogators appeared at noon. A huge grey-bearded priest demanded:

“Master, which is the greatest commandment of the law?”

I deliberated, wanting to impose on his arrogance.

“You shall love the Lord will all your heart and with yoursoul and with your mind...this is the first and greatest commandment,” I said.“The second commandment is similar,” I pointed out. “You shall love yourneighbor as yourself.”

By now I was angry and left these idlers and when I wasalone with my disci­ples I shamed the trouble-makers who clean the outside ofthe cup and leave the inside dirty... I called them a generation ofvipers...they are the ones who will persecute the faithful from town totown...crucify them...

Grief overcame me. I could talk no longer.

Disgusted with the day, Matthew asked if the world wouldcome to an end soon. That question had to be left unanswered. Inventors ofquestions are every­where. I wanted to add, watch, be on guard, pray ceaselessly,work... Don’t be careless while your master is away. You can’t tell when he mayreturn.

Mother came to visit me, she arrived in the night, afraid.Rumors had reached her that I was ill. She was ill. It is a long, long walk, fromNazareth. Peter gave us melon and though it was long past midnight we sat at alittle table under the stars and ate.

ÿ

It is impossible to go on writing.

I see what is to take place. I am frightened. I must waituntil I have risen from the dead to continue writing. I have spoken to Matthew.I will entrust my journal to him.

Judas, in a drunken rage, has gone to the authorities andhas promised to de­liver me to them for a sum. He ridiculed me when I refusedto ask God’s pro­tection.

ÿ

Here are my final thoughts:

I beg You, dear Lord, hear me. Be attentive to my lastsupplications.

I wait, my soul waits. My soul waits for You more than anywho wait for the morning. I say, more than those who watch for the morning.

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Peter’s

Iyyar 10

I am alive.

A tremor roused me and I slowly unwound my grave clothes, noticinghow beautiful they were. I looked at my left hand. I looked at my right hand.They had healed. The stone that blocked my crypt had been rolled aside. It wasdawn when I went out. Outside I found a discarded robe.

The sky was grey but sun slanted across spring hills. Iwalked toward the sun on a path that led away from the tombs. Perhaps no onecan grasp my bewil­derment and my happiness. I tasted the air. My brain rushedabout, rebounded from a bush, crashed against rocks. Light was splintering aroundme; inside that light was the realization that my suffering is over. I need notdie. Life was living in me like a seed, but a perpetual seed.

Following a path across flowering fields I picked flowers;then, across the field, I saw Mary Magdalene. She was sobbing, crying. I calledher and she ran to me, saying “Rabboni” over and over. “Dearest...”

Mary and Martha appeared. The women surrounded me, laughing,touching me, kissing my robe, my hands. Later in the day we set out for Nazareth,for my home, Mother and Father. Halfway Mother met us and threw her arms aroundme—no words were necessary.

That evening, as we ate together, Mother described Father’simprisonment. He had sold the gifts of the Magi to obtain bribe money: heplanned to bribe the soldiers to free me. The merchant who bought the giftssummoned officials. By lying he got Father jailed for theft.

It required four days to free him, our Nazarene prieststestifying...

Liberated from death I see life as a singular continuity, acontinuity embody­ing my imperfections, many hopes. I find a new calm in allthat I experience: as I project into tomorrow I sense this serenity. Simplicityitself wears an aura of riches.

Tonight, living in this composure, I write freely. Time, asa force, has dropped away. Pressures are comprehensible such as the stress atour last supper, the betrayal of Judas. Though I held my emotions in check Ifelt confused by many doubts: above all I felt that my ministry would fail.Ah, that white room, those shadows, our courage as we sipped salt water inmemory of the Egyptian exodus. Those faces as we sang. Now those memories areglassed inside a mir­ror, unblemished. And I may open that mirror andexperience a memory or I may close the surface.

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I stand alone. It is a beautiful feeling. I stand herewithout past and without future. I am a naked man, a man of the wilderness.This is the miracle of self. The mind owns itself. It does not ask. Acceptanceblocks out intrusion. Each of us should experience the wilderness of mind.

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Iyyar 18

This is how it was:

As I knelt in the garden I thought of John and his prisonbars, for around me were bars of shrubbery, blacker than any I had seen.Immobile bars.

Death was in the bars and in the air around me, imagined butnone the less real, as real as death had been in the street that day men wantedto stone the woman taken in adultery. This was my death—I listened forapproaching sol­diers, for the voice of Judas.

“If it is possible,” I prayed, “let this cup pass from mequickly.”

I heard the brook below: it had a place to go. I had this,this waiting, this ex­pectancy, my disciples asleep on the ground.

Death...death is the ransom for man’s sin, I remindedmyself.

Cries of sentinels rang out.

Judas knew that I was here, that I had come here to pray;presently I heard the unmistakable clank of side arms and men’s voices, foreignspeech. I could wait no longer. I stood up and waited for Judas to identify me.

Stumbling over shrubbery, Judas called.

I answered.

“Who are you looking for?” I asked a soldier carrying atorch.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” he said.

“I am Jesus.”

Lanterns and torches appeared. Peter saw and heard thesoldiers and snatch­ing a sword from one of the guards he slashed a man’s ear.I rebuked him and cared for the guard, an Arabian named Malchus, who wassingularly afraid of me, afraid of the garden, his task.

“We shouldn’t have come...you were praying...this is thegarden where you come to pray,” Malchus said.

“Is Judas with you?” I asked.

“He has gone... I’m captain here...you must come with us. Wehave been commanded to take you to the high priest, Ananias.”

“You take me with swords and shields—like a thief. I taughtin the temple... I prayed daily for you...”

Malchus, his face in torchlight, mumbled in Arabian andturned away.

“Leave him alone...get out of here,” Peter shouted; I sawthe guards struggle with him.

Malchus led me along the narrow streets, dark. People layasleep in corners and doorways. Donkeys were hobbled together. We walked overpiles of gar­bage. As we filed toward the house of Ananias wind smoked ourtorches. At the door of the house we were kept waiting. Two of my guards fellasleep.

Amid bickering I was led into a small room and left there;then, late in the morning, I was brought before Caiaphas, before scribes andelders, in an open courtyard. There I heard someone say that it is expedientfor us that he die for his people.

Caiaphas asked me about my teachings and I responded:

“I have spoken openly. I have taught in the synagogues ofNazareth and Cana and Capernaum and in this city... I have said nothing insecret. Ask those who have heard me what I have said.” I spoke tersely becauseI realized this was a false trial.

One of the scribes struck me across my face and hurled me tothe floor.

Witnesses were brought—citizens. One testified that I hadvowed to destroy the temple within three days and rebuild it without hands.Other witnesses dis­agreed. A woman said I faked miracles. A man testified Ihad threatened to de­pose the governor. Others disagreed.

“Are you Christ...are you the man the people call Christ?”Caiaphas asked.

“I am.”

A priest gestured; he seemed to tear his robe. Caiaphassmiled.

“You have heard this blasphemy,” he said. “We need no morewitnesses. I condemn this man to death.” I knew nothing more could be said inmy defense.

As I sit at my table, underneath the trees, at Peter’s home,I write as if I were writing about someone else, a friend perhaps. I writewithout prejudice. I am shaken by man’s corruption and yet my lack of faith inman does not influence my writing.

I was left in the hands of guards and palace servants andthen I was led into a room where my hands were roped behind me. I was thrown onthe floor and beaten and kicked and spat on. Men placed me in a chair andcovered my eyes and asked me to guess who struck me, everyone laughing.

I fell asleep on the floor and was wakened for a trialbefore priests, elders, scribes, in a marble-floored room, Roman insignia onthe wall, the room icy, airless, officers and soldiers at one end, one of themin battle gear—to impress me, I thought. But I was scarcely able to stand,scarcely able to think. My hands on the back of a chair, I put my mind to work:I singled out my home, its doors, its windows, the grass growing in the street.I forced myself to visualize my mother and father. Though I was in pain Iremembered my little friend, Amos: we were kneeling in the dust before my house,playing marbles: dust flipped as we shot.

I was asked if I was the son of God.

The trial was not a trial. There were no witnesses.

Temple officials conferred.

Roman authority was not involved.

A judge or priest condemned me to death.

Such authority had been denied forty years ago by theRomans. Being aware of this added to my resentment; I tried to speak out butwas silenced. From the courtyard I was marched to the paved square calledBabbatha; troops lined the square, spectators gathered. The sun’s warmthlessened my pain. One of the guards, secretly, gave me bread. I saw Judas withPontius Pilate; Pilate was ac­companied by councilors, guards. I felt I hadbeen hurled into a wholly alien world—enemy world.

Pilate, stepping forward in his robe, asked Caiaphas thenature of my crime. I will remember that scarlet robe.

Caiaphas, annoyed, said:

“If he were not a malefactor we would not bring him beforeyou.” Pilate un­derstood the evasion. He responded:

“Take him, judge him according to your law.”

A priest declared:

“We found this man saying he was Christ the King.”

Perhaps Pilate was remembering his troubled past, the servitudeof his an­cestors, some problem, for he hesitated, suspecting a ruse, that thepriests were deceiving him. He must have known that I had not preached revolt.

“Are you king of the Jews?” he asked, motioning me to comecloser. “Your people have brought you here. What have you done?”

“My kingdom is not of this world.”

“Are you a king?”

“I was born to bear witness to the truth.”

Pilate shrugged.

“What is truth?” He resumed his seat.

I did not respond.

“What is truth?” he repeated. He waited a little while andthen said, looking at me closely: “I find no fault in this man.”

Spectators and priests protested. Someone shouted:

“He stirs up the people from here to Galilee. He’s atroublemaker. He drove us out of our temple market.^”

At that moment Pilate may have become aware of my accent orremembered I was born in Nazareth for he ordered me brought to trial beforeHerod, the local governor. Herod, I thought, the name stunning me as I recalledhis crime.

We crossed a bridge, a hostile crowd following; young Herodwelcomed me because he had heard of my miracles and wanted me to perform forhis benefit. Was I wizard, necromancer, fakir?

I could not speak to this murderer: I envisioned John inprison, waiting, waiting for the liberty that never came. I saw his decapitatedhead on a tray, dis­played for a dancing girl.

Because I could not speak Herod had his men throw a purplerobe over my shoulders and place me on a chair. They mocked me, spat on me, anddemanded I save myself.

Herod refused to try me and ordered guards to return me toPontius Pilate. It was then, as we recrossed the bridge where the populacejeered, it was then I attempted to think of home. Something like an actual wallblocked me. All the emptiness of life, the savageness of the wilderness, the enmityof mankind, came into being. I prayed but prayer was useless. A man held my armor I would have fallen: his sword hit my side.

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Peter’s

Iyyar 25

Pilate resented a jeering mob and tried to establish order.

He commanded men to assume positions in the Babbatha yard.Calling sev­eral priests, he said, shouting at them:

“You have brought this man before me. You say he pervertsthe people. I find no fault in him. I will punish him and release him.”

He sat on his tribunal chair, his wife beside him. Raising hishand he re­sumed:

“I will free a man. Who will it be? Barabbas? Do you wantBarabbas free or Christ? Choose your man.”

“Barabbas...Barabbas,” the priests shouted, and the crowdrepeated his name, a man known for his crimes.

“What shall I do with Jesus?”

“Crucify him...crucify him.”

“What has he done?”

The crowd answered: “Crucify him.”

Shall I continue this journal? Will others accept myaccount? Shall I simply destroy these words? As days pass I am able to re-livethe sadness. There is a chance to diminish man’s cruelty. I take that chance.We are here in this world to make life worthy. We are here to teach others.Teaching is no easier than learn­ing. No one has ever had my vantage point:this permits me to continue.

I searched for a friendly face among themob...Peter...Mother...Matthew... Clibus...

Barabbas wasbrought before the judges and liberated with jeers and laughter. He passed byme, a great, tall man. As he walked away I was led to a whipping post, bound,and lashed with thongs; I was lashed until unconscious. Courage, where was mycourage to bear the cru­cifixion.

I tried to think...

In a barren hall soldiers stripped me and put a filthy robearound me and forced a crown of thorns on my head. Six or eight men confrontedme. They mocked me.

“Hail, king of the Jews,” they hol­lered.

Priests appeared and cried: “Crucify him...he calls himselfthe Son of God. Kill him.” Pilate appeared and asked: “Who are you?” I couldnot speak be­cause of pain.

“Speak to me...don’t you realize I have the power to set youfree.”

I was thinking of Judas.

A Roman officer spoke out: “He’s an enemy of Rome...hedefies Caesar.” “Our emperor is Caesar,” a priest shouted.

“Take him away,” Pilate said. “He is yours.” He took waterand washed his hands before the crowd. “I am innocent of the blood of thisman,” he said.

Again I looked for my disciples but now a centurion incuirass and armed soldiers, carrying shields, grabbed me and forced me outside.“To the cross,” someone said. “To the cross,” another repeated.

I was amazed to find myself walking. It isn’t far, it isn’tfar, I told myself.

We descended a stepped path. The bridge lay ahead. Peoplejammed the bridge. We climbed a steep bank, passed houses, trees, rocks. Thecenturion ordered me to carry the crossbeam. As he compelled me to take thebeam he gave me water.

It was nearly noon.

I shouldered the beam, fell, tried again. The officerordered an onlooker to carry the beam. I heard a priest shout: “If any manwishes to prove the inno­cence of Jesus, let him speak.” His voice, his robe,the beam, the crowd... I can’t remember. Yet I remember men selling dates,hawking fruit. I wanted the food of earth, life itself.

My mother broke through the crowd and embraced me. A littlefarther on I heard Lazarus call. I saw Martha. She was kneeling, reachingtoward me. Peter, Luke, Clibus, Mark. I saw. I loved them, their faces like oldgraven coins.

I saw them all the way to the spot where they laid the crosson the ground. I prayed for courage, strength to endure, as they stripped offmy clothes.

Then men pounded a nail through my hand and I was blinded,torn with pain. Then I felt greater pain as they pounded a nail through my legsand then I felt no more pain until I hung on the cross.

I looked and looked but could make out nothing; then I sawtwo men hang­ing on crosses beside me. I looked at them and they looked at me.I saw people below me; I heard women and children crying. I tried to speak tothem. But as I hung there everything began to move away from me: a greatdistance swam around me. I thought of a mirage. Someone put a sponge to mymouth. Then I saw my mother, I saw Martha, Lazarus, people I had cured. Asoldier shoved his spear into me. I tried to say something... That is all thatI remember.

ÿ

Joseph of Arimathea obtained permission to remove my bodyfrom the cross. He and my disciples placed it in his family crypt. He provideda robe and cloth to cover my face. I lay in his tomb, myrrh and aloe about me;there I lay for three days.

ÿ

Peter’s Home

Sivan 2

eter is a descendant of a nomadictribe. Euodia, his mother, is a gnarled woman, dark, serious. She and Peterbuilt this house after her husband died. She had had enough of desertprivation. Last night she spread a special table for my homecoming: pomegranatejuice, melon, cheese, bread, nuts, chromis and another fish, clarias, myfavorite. Euodia is an expert with olive oil—perhaps some are nomad recipes. Atsupper time she accepted me easily; Matthew and Peter were wary, afraid, shy.

While we were eating, Peter said:

“Master, how can it be you were crucified eight days ago...Can you say that you are well?” He brushed his hand over his yellow beard. “Icouldn’t forget the terror...will you help us understand? When all of us meetwill you explain? Is it faith?...”

We were eating at a makeshift table under Peter’s olives; itwas well after sunset and we felt the quiet of the extensive fields that makePeter’s home a retreat.

Matthew, picking at his supper, nervous, kept watching myhands—I knew he was studying the scars.

“I hope you never return to Jerusalem,” he exclaimed.

I agreed: I agreed for several reasons: one reason was mydesire to send my disciples to remote places, villages, towns.

“Our work is to be carried out among our countrymen whilegovernments interfere.”

“We love you...we had nothing to do with the crucifixion,”Euodia blurted out.

Love, love after crucifixion is a brilliant but blackenigma: it proffers and de­nies. We know that love helps us forget pain;however I ask myself whether it is evil to forget evil. But I can think ofresurrection as a form of love, a love be­yond supplication. I take that stepand realize that immortality is another form of love.

Desert air pushed in as we finished our meal and we soonfelt chilled. I wanted to shed my fatigue by reading but we discussed visitingthe spring at Neby. I suggested we leave early if it did not rain during thenight and bog the paths. At Neby I wanted to work out a plan for James, Peterand Matthew, if James joined us. When government cruelty diminishes I wantPeter to preach in Rome.

In my bedroom I read Ecclesiastes—drowsing at times,aware of my familiar pallet, the good pillow, the candles. I was able todismiss the imminence of de­parture. I put it away like a shell under seagrass.

Ecclesiastes meant more to me than weeks ago as Iread and re-read passages.

Rain woke me during the night—a pleasant shower smellinglike spring. So, we would walk to Neby another day. Here I would be able to goon reading Ec­clesiastes and Peter’s copy of the Psalms. When Itold Peter that Clibus had found the Ecclesiastes scroll on a trip tothe upper Nile they were astonished. They had never seen so ancient a scroll.

ÿ

Peter’s

Sivan 5

Judas is dead. He took his own life. His body was found bythe daughter of Pontius Pilate. Since he was one of us we have buried him; athis grave a down­pour struck us and drove us to a shelter. In a few moments theearth was flooded. I can’t recall such rain and thunder.

Judas, born in Gamala, vineyard proprietor, dead at twenty-eightyears. As Ec­clesiastes says: “Woe unto him who is alone when he falls.”

ÿ

Startling, on a hillside, on a hilltop, a contingent ofRoman soldiers, a new encampment, white tents in rows, banners, standards,smoke. Shields flash as men drill. Camels are hobbled behind the tent town. Wecan make out men in half armor, men wearing helmets, men at work shoveling, menerecting a large striped tent.

Is this always glory, power and death?

ÿ

Peter’s—early morning

Sivan 8

Shall we be like trees planted by rivers of water? Shall wemature slowly like the olive? Shall we endure two hundred years? Shall thesem*n replant? They are humble men. Are humble men more or less successful withtheir lives? These men know ambition and is ambition the safe route? Verily, verily“all is vanity and vexation of spirit,” if we listen to Ecclesiastes.What will evolve when the sil­ver chord is broken? I have answered thesequestions in the past but I wish to answer them once more.

ÿ

Peter’s

Sivan 10

Sivan is a beautiful month, a month of subtle changes.

I lay in deep grass yesterday. While I lay in the grass Iremembered the fields around Nazareth and I remembered climbing olive trees atharvest time—how we sang and shook down the ripe fruit onto nets.

Mama made the finest olive oil in Papa’s oil press, thefinest in Nazareth some Nazarenes said. I hurried to fill our baskets... Iwanted to gather more than anyone. I never did.

Tomorrow I go to villages and will heal the sick...it is ajoy, a joy rather kin­dred to lying in deep grass in the warm sun.

I have read my journal. I will return it to Matthew’s care.Among our disci­ples he is the most reliable.

ÿ

Sivan 12

So, as I write with my bronze stylus, I listen to theevening, familiar sounds; through my window I see the Milky Way and the greatconstellations and I am aware God is affirming his handiwork.

I write very slowly, lingering over each letter, the squareletters superior to the old script. I go on listening. The lamp burns steadily.There is no wind. There is gratitude.

ÿ

Nazareth

Sivan 17

Father has suffered from his imprisonment. His handstremble. After seeing me on the cross he is unable to believe that I am alive.

I held out my arms to him as we stood in front of our home.He backed away.

“...Father, remember how we visited together at Qumran?Remember that old long-bladed saw, how I repaired its handle three times?

“Mama gave you that shirt at the Feast of Lights...”

He turned and walked away, trembling.

ÿ

When I was staying at the home of Gehazi, after preaching inthe synagogue, after healing, Barabbas appeared. Jamnia is his village and heentered the house of Gehazi without knocking. A great tall hulk, he loomed overme; then he knelt and begged me to accept him.

Dressed in goat’s skin, his face and beard wild, he seemedill, perhaps de­ranged. I tried to calm him, to reason with him.

“I should have been crucified,” he repeated in a hoarsevoice.

For a long while we remained together, talking, praying,hoping.

ÿ

Peter’s

Sivan 24

Patience—we need patience.

Going from village to village, town to town, means walkingfive days, four days, two. It is a five day walk to Nazareth. It is a two daywalk to the village of Gehazi. Most walks are pleasant. It can be cold, windy,hot; and when it rains there is seldom any shelter.

Sometimes we travel together; sometimes we walk alone; thesedays I prefer my solitary walks. I am aware of close communion when alone.Patience, pa­tience...but the calendar moves on: Shevat, Adar, Nisan, Iyyar,Sivan...

ÿ

Peter’s

Tammuz 3

will miss Peter’s little house, itsrough walls, its crooked windows, its clumsy thatched roof. The floors haveinterested me. He found pieces in some Babylonian structure; he hauled themhere in an ox cart. I have come to love this isolation, its olive trees.

Today is a summer’s day.

Great clouds, great sky.

Peter sought me out as I sat in the bedroom reading. Againhe asked for for­giveness. Kneeling by me he promised he would carry theword... “to Rome, if you wish. Teach me courage, teach me strength, teach me tobe wise...”

He and I have worked at the carpenter’s bench lately, inLazarus’ shed. It took the three of us to line up a door. Of course it was veryold. Laughing, we had to admit our clumsy workmanship.

We are proud that there are more than seventy of us now. Isend them out in pairs.

ÿ

The home of Lazarus

Tammuz 8

It seems to me I view mankind with a sense of compassion—aconstant per­ception. Mine is a brief, swift looking back: I heal the sick, Irenew lives... I re­member the hart and the brook...man’s insatiable thirst.

Children come and animals come...the ox and the donkey havebeen friends. A shepherd, I still follow hills, hills of resurrection they maybe. Perhaps history may call me a man of righteousness. Perhaps history may notstop. I speak to history. I say, once again:

“Go and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of theFather, the Son and the Holy Ghost...”

Teach as I have taught...remind them of grace.

ÿ

Tammuz 11

I leave no tomb, no crypt, no marker.

Finality may not be a friend...

When I leave shall I carry a handful of earth with me?

James, Peter, Matthew, Mark...Mother andFather...Lazarus...Miriam... each one is mine but for how long?

Peter will pick up my sandals and say:

“These were his.”

Father will say:

“He helped me make this box.”

The Godhead is before me and I struggle with delight andwith astonishment.

ÿ

Tammuz 12

I am entrusting my journal to Matthew. Since we have friendsat the syna­gogue in Capernaum he will leave my journal there.

Verily, verily I say: Fear God and keep His commandments.This is the duty of man.

ÿ

Farewell Thoughts

hope these thoughts may be helpful.It is very late and lamplight flickers...

Inside a man of light there is lightand with this light he lights the world.

The angels and the prophets will cometo you and give you strength.

Blessed are the ones who have heard theFather’s word and kept it in truth.

Have you then discovered the beginningso that you ask the end? Where the beginning is, there the end will be.

The kingdom is inside you. When youreally understand you will know that you are the son of the living Father. Ifyou do not under­stand yourself you will be in poverty.

Split wood and I am there. Pick up astone; there you will find me.

Come to me because my yoke is easy, mylordship gentle. You will find rest.

The kingdom of the Father is spreadover the earth and men do not see it.

Blessed are the solitary and the elect;you shall find the kingdom because you have come from it and you shall go thereagain.

Isay, whenever one is one he will be filled with light, but whenever he isdivided he will be filled with darkness.

Love your brother as your own soul. Guard him as the appleof your eye.

There will be days when you seek and you will not find me.

ÿ

Note:

These logia appearfor the first time in a journal.

They are from the 4thcentury Coptic book,

The GospelAccording to Thomas,

discovered inHammadi, Egypt,

quoted through thecourtesy

of the translator,Dr. Ray Rummers,

Chairman, Departmentof English, Baylor University.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Journal

“Boththose who recently attempted to fly came to grief.

Leonardoda Vinci also tried to fly,

but,he, too, failed.”

– Girolamo Cardano, 1555

For Elizabeth

Leonardoda Vinci

April 15, 1452 – May 2, 1519

Illustrations

The illustrations are originals by theauthor—interpretations of work by da Vinci.

Leonardo’s self-portrait ................................ 225

Rendering of Leonardo’s signature
in his “mirror handwriting” .................. 225

Silhouette of head ........................................... 227

Head of horse ................................................. 233

Madonna’s hand ............................................. 243

Prisoner ............................................................. 248

Sforza horse ..................................................... 251

Birds in flight ................................................... 261

Plants and designs ........................................... 264

Mona Lisa ......................................................... 278

Christ’s hand .................................................... 283

Bicycle ................................................................ 296

Head of man ................................................... 308

Glider ................................................................. 317

This journal was kept by Leonardo da Vinci during the years 1516 to1519 while he lived in France as the guest of King Francis I; there, he livedin the small residence of Cloux, near the King’s summer palace at Amboise onthe Loire River. Leonardo writes of his boyhood, his mother, his friends, hiseasel and mural paintings, his dissections, his colossal bronze horse.

He tells ofhis attempts at flying, his inventions... This is a codex of his mind as hedivulges his art and the scope of his interests.

To the end ofhis life he was painting, map-making, carrying out architectural commissions,arranging his treatises on perspective, anatomy, horses, flight, and the arts.His patron, King Francis, called him “Mon Père.” Da Vinci’s last years, atCloux, near Paris, were friendly years.

1516

Cloux

December 10, 1516

MEMORY . . .

MEMORY. . .

remember that hot, dusty afternoon inFlorence. I ordered every­body out of my studio. I got up from my workbench andde­manded that they leave: the tattlers, the oafs, the bores, the faithful. Ipacked them off. Yelled at them. Stormed. I had work to do, work that wouldkeep me until dawn. I had to have serenity, no ribaldry, no disgrun­tled si­lence,no questions, no interruptions of any sort.

I slammed the doors, bolted them.

A mouse scuttled across the room.

Until I resolved the perfect angles, sheet after sheet wentinto the making of that pelvic drawing.

Queer how memory is: I can see that messy workshop, easels,clay figures on stands, rags, canvases, frames, chisels, pigments, brushes... Ican see the mouse watching me from beneath a basket. Again I sense that longafternoon, that long night... I had dried bread, cheese, and port. I rememberthe church bells. At dawn I slid my work into a special portfolio, then concealedit. I was often hid­ing things in those days, hiding sketches, hidingdetermination, hiding frustra­tions, goals.

Memory...it gives you what you want and supplies absurditiesas well, like the dream that I had in Florence, recurrent: I was lying on mycot... I was dead... I was carried to a morgue and dumped there, amongcadavers...blood and mould satu­rated my drawings and my writings...my canvaseswere being eaten by termites... how well I remember that dream.

I remember a fat Milanese who used to haunt me while I wasdecorating the walls and ceiling of the Sala delle Asse: he was a pompousmember of the Sforza household, a great nose-picker, who had done nothing atall through his long life. While I worked, he sat, hunched in a princelybrocade chair, in elegant clothes, sometimes asleep in spite of my assistants,ladders, and scaffolding.

That Sala delle Asse work was boring. Like many a commissionit was com­pulsory. To arrange masses of foliage on walls and ceiling seemed absurd.Designs were refused, at the outset. The employment of immense tree trunkssatisfied. As I painted, I mingled knotted cords with the foliage, intermingledbranches, established a rhythm. I kept my greens from becoming monotonous. Iachieved a kind of helmeted bark on the tree trunks. Before I finished, theSala’s canopy, the forest umbrella, became more meaningful.

My fat friend slept on and on.

How much did I earn? I have forgotten. Was I ever paid?

I would like to return to the castle and walk through thatSala; I would like to be alone; I would like to try to think as I thought inthose days; I would like to sense my aspirations; I would sit on a bench underthat deluge of foliage: I would list geology, hydraulics, painting, sculpture,geometry, anatomy, medi­cine...

Cloux

When Michelangelo showed me his cartoon for his mural in theConsejo, I complained that a scene of idling nude bathers was not the best wayto depict war. He was critical of my cartoon, saying “you are more concernedwith horses than men.”

My objective was to show war’s anguish: pain was to be sixtyfeet long by twenty feet wide. Twelve hundred square feet of pain. All of mydraughts­man­ship went into this Anghiari conflict: I painted rage, rageagainst war, the rage of dying men, the rage of the wounded, my hate, myaffirmation.

All of 1503 and 1504 went into my preliminary sketches. Ioften rode about the countryside to sketch horses, sketch riders; I sketched inthe Sforza stables; the stablemen posed for me; my apprentices posed. Friendshad their chance to exhibit their horses in action. Gamin posed. The militia.

So, I did not paint a wall: I painted the smash of steelagainst steel, the plunge of steel into flesh, the grunting of frightened horseagainst frightened horse, men stumbling, men falling, dying, their helmets offear, helmets of pain...yellows, blues, greys, reds.

On Friday, June 6, 1505, I began to paint the Anghiaribattle. It was my greatest challenge. Here I could render something moremeaning­ful than the madonnas. Not Christ on the cross, but man on the cross.Pigment and light were to come together in harmony. The day that I began topaint was beautiful but the weather changed quickly for the worst. Some of myassistants were called away—they were ordered to attend a trial.

The wind caught me unprepared and ripped the cartoon. In afew minutes the storm took over in earnest. I laid aside my brushes andpigments and dis­missed the remaining apprentices. Half of Florence wasinundated that night.

PAZZIA BESTIALISSIMA!

That is man’s disease: he can not refrain from politicalmadness. Again and again he is willing to be duped.

The central group in my Anghiari mural is thestruggle for a military flag: I painted life-size horses, life-size men,life-size hatred: the central struggle fans out across the mural, expressingthis futility.

I seldom eat at the King’s table although I am alwayswelcome. Sometimes it seems like a long walk to the château, sometimes it israining. In the evening fif­teen courses are certainly gourmet adventures, buta little late at night.

The King often sends me three or four trays—a retinue ofpages brings them to my studio, laughter and ribaldry, and then decorum as theyfile into the studio. Soufflés, artichokes in cream and butter sauce, crêpes,pastries, glacés, Vouvray. I am partial to grapes and someone on the royalstaff hunts them up for me.

Sometimes I find five or six silver dishes with as manykinds of nuts. Francis claims that he could not survive for a month on my vegetariandiet.

Maturina fusses over almost everything the King sends:

“Now, let me see, let me see,” she mutters. “You should eatthis first...it’s better for you that way...and these pastries, why they’remuch too rich for you!”

She arranges the dishes on the dining table (you must not eatin the studio); she places my chair, lights the candles, unfolds my napkin andspreads it across my lap. What a splendid old ragamuffin she is! Too bad shehas lost most of her teeth; her features are leaden, her hair is twisted undera net in lumps, her arms dangle crookedly. She is bones hooked together withshrunken gut. She has been working as a servant for thirty-five years, shetells me. I’ve had her for fifteen years.

Cloux

The French call this place Le Clos-Luce, and it is a brightenclosure. I think of the royalty who have lived here through theyears, the many mistresses who came and went. As I look across the lawn of themanor house I can see the little chapel of St. Hubert and the rooftops of thechâteau; it often seems to me that I have been here before! With Francesco,Salai and Giovanni busy in the adjoining studio, I try to believe I am a youngman...time is of no importance!

Salai rushed in as I worked at my easel.

“Look, look at this...”

He had found a sketch among my sketches, a sketch he madein Florence long ago, when he was about ten. It shows a bicycle. There itis on a scrap of paper, among p*rnographic scribbles and graffiti.

“You did pretty well, riding that thing...at first,” Ireminded.

“There weren’t any brakes, remember?”

“Well, when I connected the chain drive to the pedals andadjusted the han­dlebars you rode it into the Arno.”

“Some splash!” said Francesco, coming in with Giovanni. “Youcould have gotten the bicycle out of the river...it floated,” remindedGiovanni.

“I couldn’t get hold of it...the current was too fast!”

“It should have been made of steel, to last.” I said.

“Let’s make a bicycle for the King,” suggested Salai. “I’llshow him my drawing...no, you make one for him. I can see the courtiers ridingabout...we can improve on the one we made in Florence.”

Cloux

Certainly a bird is an instrument performing according tomathematical laws which are within the capacity of man to understand. How doesit climb, dive, spiral, hover? I asked these questions yesterday as I watched aflock of ducks along the Loire; I asked the same questions in Florence, inMilan, in Rome. If we ask questions we can eventually achieve some kind ofanswer. Persistence then!

Why does the heart pump a certain beat? What starts it pumping?Just when? Why, at that given moment? Does a nerve trigger it? Heart beats inthe womb must be automatic.

If we understand the mechanism of the heart we may be ableto help when it is damaged.

What are the essential differences between the heart of asquirrel and the heart of a man? Between the heart of a cat and a man? Betweenthe heart of a cow and the heart of a man? Knowing the differences should help.

I must check through my anatomical drawings and comparenotes and ana­lyze the results. There is so much to be learned. And itis all there, ready to be apprehended.

Amore sol la mi fa remirare... love only makes meremember; love gives me pleasure...

So it was, long ago, when I loved, when I composed a rebusevery day. There was so much to sing about. I played my lira da braccio. Madenotations. As a boy, I thought seriously of becoming a musician. Perhaps atroubadour. At Andrea’s shop I created a silver harp, in the shape of a horse’sskull. The fame of that harp took me to Milan—changed my life.

“The song of men is the remedy to pain...”

I almost believed that.

I designed drums, multiple beaters; I could change the pitchof my drums through holes in the sides...I built three portable organs... Idesigned glissando recorders...I made a lute for Nicolaio del Turco...I made awind-chest con gomito for the prioress...

Perhaps I should compose some rebuses for the King.

No.

The music I hear now is not that music.

I might have spent my life in the world of music; yet,often, even as I played, I puzzled over the enigmas of ocean and mountain, theenigmas of the body, of sound: why was one sound more resonant than another;why were there echoes; why was a woman’s voice unlike a man’s; why were therechanges in the songs of birds?

Ah, those apprentice years!

Those apprentice years!

Getting up at dawn, working before breakfast, working tilllate, forgetting to eat, going for a swim in the Arno, rushing back to work,forgetting to sleep; work, work, it was a beautiful thing.

I was forever gathering plants, drying them, mounting them,identifying them. I roamed alone. Good to get away from the studio. I wasforever dissect­ing animals and birds. With every bird I asked: how does itpropel itself? How can man go aloft? Those birds, those caged birds...it wasright to hoard money, to buy them, to liberate them. I followed them, I satwith them, I ran with them, studying every possible angle.

I filled sketchbooks with sketches of the hawk in flight,the raven, another with the sparrow.

My glider, based on the studies of the hawk, flew around ourworkshop. Again and again we tested it, wondering why it flew.

Andrea had me working bronze...there was so much, so much. Hewas always encouraging. What a fine master. What a fine artist. Now with gold leaf,now with new pigments, now something in the way of a discovery withsilverpoint.

He had so little money. Sometimes he went hungry. Sometimeswe had to find money for him and his family. Little Lila, little Lila had tohave a toy. Tony had to have crayons. Bread, milk.

Writing this journal I am attempting to indicate theimportant things in my life. However, I am perplexed: I can’t decide what hasbeen significant, I am trapped by small things...little things crowd theimportant. If life is a mural then every detail is important. As I write I amlearning who I was. And the omissions, are they carelessness or are theydeliberate? As for important lapses I must make an effort to fill them in, ifthere is time. If weariness does not overcome.

Looking back at Milan, at my first year there, I remember:no, remember is not the word: I have never forgotten that meeting at theDuke’s festa: I was playing a lute; she was introduced to me; she wantedme to repeat the song; we talked. Love? That is not the right word. But isthere better?

Caterina had my mother’s name; that meant something to me.

I wish I could describe her as I saw her at the festa butshe has become unreal through the years. I see her in the sunlight, I see heras I sketched her, I see her as she lay dead. There is no easy way to describeour love. I am unable to sepa­rate beauty from tragedy. I wish I could.

Caterinawas nineteen. She was my blonde, my Leda. Was our love unique? Maybe it wasrather ordinary. That does not matter. It matters that there were long brushstrokes in the mind. There is no need to retouch our emotions. Cer­tainly herdeath and our daughter’s death need no retouching.

I hear her singing one of my songs, a song I composed forher... I hear her laughing and I hear our daughter laughing, as they playtogether. Laughter—in memory—does not blur as words and faces blur.

Nineteen,twenty, twenty-one...we had three years together: there was money enough: therewas time enough: then Milan was besieged. Both were killed by the bombardment.But before they died, Mother visited us and for a while I had two Caterinas,two loving women, two gentlewomen. Our child was learning to walk. Not manypeople know of those three years.

Cloux

Today, Maturina has served me her special pasta, severalkinds of bread, dried figs, camembert, her three-layered pastry, and Mosellewine. She appreciates my fondness for sweets.

I asked her to sit down with me. As usual, she declined.

“I want your company...everyone’s away.”

Boltraffio, Francesco, Salai and others had gone for theday. Another holiday!

“Are you homesick?”

Her sad face became a little sadder. She sat down andclasped her hands in her lap and stared at them.

“I think you should visit your people.”

She nodded.

“...But I couldn’t leave you.”

“For a month or two?”

“It’s a long, long way to Vinci...and alone!”

“Salai is returning to Florence soon...”

“But I can’t...”

“You should see your family. People in Vinci would like tohear about us, how we’re getting along. We have money enough.”

Abruptly, hands to her face, she got up, and shuffled away.“I’m too old,” she said.

Cloux

As we rode along the Loire, following the river road,Francesco and I talked:

“So you received a letter from your mother yesterday? Howare things at Vaprio?”

“Quiet...everyone is well. Papa has fully recovered. Mamasays that conditions are very bad in Milan...fighting in the streets...hungrymobs...looting.”

“Vaprio continues to escape...I hope nothing changes that!”

“You asked me about the pigments I bought in Paris. We havea good as­sortment. I’ve been grinding them. We’ll have a beautiful green, thatlaurel green you’re fond of.”

“I’m still partial to green. I suppose you bought the Dutchpigments...”

Our horses, side by side, kept an even pace: both from thesame stable, they liked walking together: the road was familiar to them: theafternoon was sunny; shafts of light rebounded from the Loire; a pair ofsquirrels chittered at us; hunt­ers and their dogs passed—someone saluted uswith a playful toot of his horn.

“Mama insists that we stay away from Milan...she warnsus...she said that I’m to tell you.”

“I understand. We’re lucky to be here; Cloux is like Vaprio;beautiful coun­tryside; a sketch here, a sketch there.”

“We should ride to Chambord.”

“I prefer the river trip...”

“Shall we go on the river?”

“All right, Cecchino. You arrange the trip. Certainly,there’s no finer château than Chambord. Let’s spend a few days there. We canfind new paintings, new marbles and bronzes...from Milan...Athens...Rome...thegreatness of stolen art...”

As we left our horses at the stable, Francesco asked:

“Did I mention that the Princess de Lamballe has a son? He’smy age. He wants to study painting. Do you want a Prince for a pupil?”

Cloux

The King and I talked far into the night.

Youth can be so sincere: youth can evaluate and assess: lastnight, on the part of others, he apologized: the Gascon archers were much onhis mind...

“I have thought of them many, many times...those Gasconfools...nothing else to do...made a target of your cavello...ourarchers...”

Bronze for cannons...he knew about that...he searched aboutfor a solution, as if it might be possible to cast the horse. As he saw it, hefelt he had rescued me. Had he? I turned over that thought. Recompense? WasCloux recompense? He did not say so. I think we both wished to believe it wasrespect, admiration. His talk made us feel awkward at times.

I had not complained: I had not mentioned the monument.Divulging his sincerity got Francis beyond his scope.

Hereferred to Amboise and Cloux as my home. Haven, of course. Retreat? Voluntaryexile. Those thoughts could be brought in. I tried my best to avoid anyembarrassing approach. Presently, he was excusing the battle of man againstman. Again we were faltering. His innate shrewdness came to our rescue, and wediscussed architectural changes at Amboise...

“We must do everything we can to improve it...it can neverbe like Chambord ...help me give it a manorial feeling...walk about with metomorrow...let’s write down some of your ideas...that stairway...the entry...wehave to make it less grim...harmony...”

IL CAVELLO...the words haunted us as we said good night.

I lay down under my canopy. The bed seemed to grow immense.On one side I saw a child, a bend in a river, a hill...the bed drifted...theroom changed... I saw men pouring bronze into a mould... I saw a great horse ina city square...

SALAI—Heis either in studio rags or elegant, foppish; he bursts with energy (has abrisk, haughty walk); he is quick with his pigments; he is as lean-featured asa fox; he is yellow-headed, tall. He has a wonderful laugh, a tooth-spreadgrin. His brown eyes are spoked with yellow. A girl-chaser. My Salai will neverbe­come an accomplished artist. I still have to remind him to wash himself. Ai,Salaino! And will he ever quit that foreign habit, the habit of smoking?

Almost everywhere I travel I am troubled by poverty: I talkwith the workers and some of them say they are hungry all of the time: I talkwith them about their tools, and try to improve them. Shovels. Spades. Rakes.Forks. I have sug­gested a more efficient roasting spit—I have made detaileddrawings. I have im­proved a wood-planer and a file-maker. I have designed atextile machine, a bet­ter barrow, a good water-lamp.

For most field laborers, theirs is an ox-life.

Horse, mule, donkey, ox, man...they are inextricable.

Landlord and tenant, the struggle goes on and on: they areas much at log­gerheads as pope and duke. Serfs, beggars, greed, knights,fools—pathos.

At Vaprio, I sometimes ate with a farmer and his wife, intheir tiny stone farmhouse. They did not complain, yet they slept on mats, atemeat now and then, worked from dawn to sundown, shivered through the winters,saved flo­rins in a clay pot. Their hands at mealtime were the hands of oldpeople and yet they were not old.

In the Vaprio region the people have to pay exorbitantmilling fees, pay to use a common oven or wine press. Fishing rights have beenstolen. For a few gentlemen there may be no wood for winter; for many others theremay be no wood at all. Some want a civil war to put them on their feet.

At Vaprio, I recall a child of nine or ten: I saw her oftenon my visits there: she reminded me of that festa, in May, in Florence,when I fell in love with my own Beatrice, when I was eleven or twelve yearsold. My Beatrice was beautiful, her features delicately formed, her behaviorgentle and agreeable, full of candid loveliness... I thought of her as myangel.

In those days, in Firenze, I often passed Dante’s home: hiswooden door had a bronze knocker, a simple braided ring. I used to imagineknocking and saying:

“Is Dante Alighieri at home?”

I expected a housekeeper to reply:

“He’s been dead a hundred and fifty years, you fool!”

I would have dashed off, laughing.

Cloux

I suppose I must admit it: I am a parasite of royalty.

During forty years I have had nine royal patrons.

Each one has hindered me; each one has helped.

I could not have survived in my vineyard at San Vittore: Ineed artists, sculptors, apprentices, courtiers, women, princes, jousting,masques, jewelry, perfume... I need great art. I need antique art. Libraries.

Last night, at Amboise, in the garden, at the pergola, Iexplained some of my observations of the moon. Courtiers crowded around. A dukewas there. A prin­cess. There was an earnest exchange as I passed around lunardrawings, in the lamplight and torchlight.

“The details are as accurate as I could draw them...noticethe craters, pits, the rills...you see, if you keep the moon under carefulobservation over a period of time, you’ll become aware of fixed landmarks. Imade those drawings from the Coliseum...in Rome...”

Francesco has copied this. It was written in Florence, in1508. I thought it rather interesting, so I have included it here:

Forseveral days I have forgotten to hang my notebooks on my belt. I must see to itthat I remember. Tomorrow I must write down exactly what I observed when Idissected the pigeon I found dead in front of the church.

Se sarai solo, sarai tutto tuo...

NOTE:when you sever the man’s legs tomorrow afternoon, lay them on the floor besidehim: measure length, diameter, muscle curvatures. Dissect each foot, and recorddifferences. Since the man was very fat, try to discover ways of over­comingthis problem.

Remember to borrow the lancet from Tomas.

I warned my new assistant: Cosimo, squeal on me and I willsee to it that you never become a member of the guild.

He has threatened to write the Pope (or one of theCardinals), and expose me. He could. He knows how to write. Now I pay him more soldithan any of the others. Blackmailer!

Ah, you Florentines, look, look! I render a skull—yours! Youtremble. You are afraid of learning! For centuries you have been afraid. Afraidof yourselves, of others, of God. You are trapped in stupidity and lassitude.

Blood—how it scares you: You whimper at the sight of blood.I remove a man’s guts. You are horrified. But you will batter a man to shredson the battle­field, and show your gory sword. You will dump boiling oil onhim...you will blast him with gunpowder...but you won’t dissect him...you won’tlearn how we are made!

Sometimes kids overran my studio; maybe because I nevercould yell at them. They would sneak in from the street; they had to poke, tosee, to talk, to giggle. One afternoon (I remember it was such a fine day, aday to chuck everything and walk out of town), five or six boys and girls camein and before I could figure out what they were up to, they rushed out with twoof my models. Two or three ran toward the Arno; others ran off into thecountryside. I couldn’t follow both. Whooping and hollering, the kids flewtheir model over the river. I watched it soar away, dip, glide, plunge into thewater.

When I found the other kids, in the country, they had my RedHawk: they had it launched on a cord, and kite-like, it was climbing,spiraling, staying aloft.

Kids—I miss their laughter, their enthusiasm!

There was a time when I had dirty waifs sleeping on thestudio floor. We took in two or three; then others came. Their parents had diedin the plague at Santa Maria; I guess it was at Santa Maria. Those were hungryweeks for all of us; yet we somehow managed, managed to feed them, get clothesfor them, find homes for them—and kept on working.

Cloux

Copied from my 1504 Florentine notebook:

As soon as we met in the Town Hall there was a big wrangle.Ten or twelve of us, bearded patriarchs and upstarts, were at odds. We mustdecide where Michelangelo’s David was to be placed. We must situate itwhere it had shade part of the day, where it was protected from the weather; wemust have it mounted on travertine; we must move it carefully; we must see toit...

It was lucky for us that Michelangelo was not around. Hewould have ex­ploded—and told us off.

We walked around Florence for several hours, fighting theheat (and each other); then, we reached our one and only mutual agreement—to gosomewhere and eat.

Later, I went with Francesco to Michelangelo’s studio, andwe sat there, the two of us, and talked about his David, sitting on abench facing his work. We agreed that it equaled any classical masterpiece. Itwas a little difficult to accept such beauty coming from such a troublemaker.

It required four days for men to move it, by windlass androllers, to a site alongside the Town Hall: how carefully we worked, the statuesuspended in a sling. Sometimes there were thirty of us at the job. A downpourdrenched us. As we moved forward over slippery cobbles I thought the figurewould topple. Car­gadores bellowed. Michelangelo was on hand and beat oneof the cargadores with his fists, screaming at the top of his voice.

When we had David in place we arranged a party. Allthe Florentine artists. Michelangelo was absent.

A while ago Niccolò Machiavelli wrote me from his Tuscanfarm, where he is still exiled from Florence. His disturbing thoughts linger:

“Mornings, weather permitting, I hunt or snare thrushes,reading Dante or Ovid to make the hunts more agreeable. After lunch, I visit aninn and throw dice with the yokels, to taste my malign destiny in their brutishcompany.

“When evening arrives I go to my library, after I have shedmy muddy, every­day clothes. Now I am dressed as if about to appear at court,as an envoy from Florence. Elegantly attired I enjoy the presence of great menof the past. They receive me cordially. I talk with them, speaking confidently;they are at ease. For a few hours I lose myself: I am not afraid of poverty anddeath.”

Familiar...the thoughts of the exile.

Yesterday, I wrote Niccolò and invited him to Cloux.

“We will be a pair of exiles. Stay with me a month or two.Amboise won’t bore you. There’s a superb library. The King has welcomed you.There will be no expense on your part. I will see to that.”

How he helped in Florence: I remember that I owe my Anghiaricommission to him. And that night Cesare strangled my friend...it was Niccolòwho provided the horse.

A library.

A library can erase problems.

A library is a kind of stained glass.

Francesco and I enjoy the Cloux library. Handsome room. Afine Mantegna—in an old style frame—hangs on the far wall. Its mythologicalscene is pleasantly antique. The shelves hold parchments, vellums, velvet-boundbooks, illuminated manuscripts, scores. Francesco has turned up a score I wrotefor the Medici, one I used to play.

There is a white marble table with alabaster legs where Ispread out the manuscripts and books.

The librarian, keys at his waspish gut, is a defrockedJesuit, ashen-headed, ashen-faced; he admits that he has never lifted down halfof the books.

A lovely prie dieu holds a Latin volume, its pages ornamentedwith pastel water­color and gold leaf. The carpet is a mouse-chewed Turkishweave, red on red on red, with colorless, limp fringes.

The unchained books are in Spanish, Latin, French, Greek,Dutch, and Hun­garian—collected by King Francis’ father. He loved this room. Hedied there.

Sitting under the green pergola at Amboise, King Francis andI sipped apéri­tifs, the afternoon warm, a lazy hunting dog at his feet.

“Idon’t understand how your army crossed the Alps in six or seven days.”

“Five days,” he corrected me.

“By the Col d’Argentière?

“Yes...do you know that Pass?”

“I have camped there. I have seen some of it when I wascollecting fossils. But for an army to get through, it seems im­possible. Youhad cannons, horses, mules...”

“We were determined to surprise the Milanese.”

We watched dragonflies circle above lily pads in a smallrock-rimmed foun­tain, their orange wings on fire in the afternoon light. Nearthe fountain men were planting young columnar cypress. Other gardeners werespading paths be­cause the King was re-landscaping. Someone, pushing a barrow,with an enor­mous red wheel, asked the King if he could plant the roses in thecircular beds already prepared.

“We had good weather,” Francis said.

“Think of it...it took me almost a month to reach here.”

“But you were in no hurry, Mon Père.”

“Snow...mud...ice...”

“I realize.”

“Did you think of Hannibal?”

“I did.”

“What Pass did he use to invade Italy?”

“Some say the Mount Genevre.”

“He was a great tactical genius.”

“Our army was well led...but there were times when I wishedwe had some of Hannibal’s elephants...but fog was our worst problem...morningfog, thick as an elephant’s hide...maybe that fog helped us...our scoutsencountered shepherds in the fog...stopped them from informing others...”

Most men fail to come to grips with nature’s intricacies. Whenthey find a fossil they are satisfied with a cursory look. As for flowers,insects, animals, birds, they turn away from them if they serve no practicalpurpose. And because men do not care to probe, they resent or fear my studies.I have been made to feel this through the years.

They accuse me of wizardry...alchemy...vile practices.

My studio door is banged open.

“Help me, Maestro...oh, God, help me!”

And I try... I draw out pus... I patch a hole in a rogue’sleg... I sew up flesh...but the same man, when he is well, whispers lies aboutme :

“He steals bodies from the morgue! He steals dead men’slegs...he slices men’s skulls in half!”

The body’s secrets, the mind’s secrets...we must unlockthem!

In his Amboise armory, facing the Loire, Francis showed mehis trophies and gear: his new armor from Cadiz, engraved with floral patterns;his father’s armor inlaid with gold and silver (from Milan); a plumed helmetwith the regal sala­mander in brass and copper inlay; a circular shieldinscribed AFTER DEFEAT VICTORY.

We spent a morning among spears, pikes, swords, scabbards,helmets, bows and arrows, arquebuses...standards...saddlery. The King admired aToledo sword and a pair of antique Hungarian spurs. I was taken by an engraveddagger from Greece—Homeric lines along its shaft.

Leaning on a pike staff, Francis spoke excitedly about hisconquest of Milan:

“...How we fought! Was it for twenty-eight hours or longer?I thought our cavalry would mow down the Swiss...the Swiss kept rushing towardus...it was our artillery that destroyed them...I fought on my great Conde, thechestnut you admired...he was wounded, badly wounded...I had to leave him...Ihad my visor smashed...my shoulder was sliced open...it was like your Anghiari...horses...men...smoke and dust...at times I couldn’t see...everybodyyelling...drums beating...the Venetian troops saved us...

“By God, it was terrible...sometimes I feltalone...sometimes I thought my own men would kill me.”

“Is it true that 15,000 men died?”

“Yes...yes...15,000...12,000...who can count the dead? Somewounded crawl away to die...peasants began pilfering, killing...maiming...ourwounded filled the Maggiore Hospital...you must have heard...the halls andloggias were filled...

“Milan waspoorly defended,” I said.

“The walled area of the city? Few tried to stop our entry.News of defeat had spread throughout Milan...little resistance...futile...”

I returned to my studio thoroughly disheartened: it is thisrepetition: city against city: pope against duke: the stupidity seems endless:what shields protect us against the fools of the world!

Yesterday, I enjoyed the King’s dinner—another hundred ormore guests: Cardinal Mercier, De Brosse, Ambassador to Holland, military,priests, courtiers, beautiful women. I sat opposite Francis and enjoyed hisscarlet-gold suit, sewn with diamond chips. I believe he was wearing five orsix rings; one of them is rather like the stone I gave Mona long ago. Francispersonifies youth, hedonism, and royalty. Watching him, listening to him, Iforget the tedious round of courses.

Princesse de Lamballe, sitting beside me, a lovely woman inher forties, dressed in blue and nakedness, praised the banquet:

“Francis has such wonderful chefs...the food is fresher herethan in Paris...I’m so glad to get away.”

“Tomorrow,” the King said, leaning toward me, “all of us areleaving Am­boise...we’re going to Chambord.” He waved his hand, and smiled.“All of us!”

All of us meant about a thousand people, as the King headedfor Chambord. I watched his retinue (I declined the invitation): I estimatethat there were four hundred horsem*n, two hundred mules, mounted archers,stablemen, the Chamberlain, musicians, clergy, wizards, cooks, doctors...thearchers wore black and red, the musicians wore yellow and green; the King worea hat with a yellow plume and a yellow cloak flecked with white fleur-de-lys.The musicians played oboes, trumpets, tambourines, and drums. Such discord.Away they went, pen­nants, banners, oriflammes.

Suddenly, it was quiet at Amboise.

In my studio I sat at my desk and looked down on thepeaco*cks and some pheasants: Francesco came: we began to work: I dictated pagesfrom my treatise regarding horses.

Francesco Melzi isa proper, thoughtful villa-man, handsome, slight, mid­dle-tall, grey-eyed,blond. He is my patient friend, my gracious friend (gra­cious to everyone): hehas his father’s agreeable manners. He is horseman and archer. Flutist. Apainter for fifteen years, he handles chiaroscuro like a master: he is best asportraitist. No woman-chaser, he is dedicated to Latin, Greek, He­brew,French...and all of the arts. When he trims my hair and beard he likes toflatter me.

I am searching for a glass that reflects a Florentineface—not a wrinkled, bearded patriarch.

Giovanni Boltraffio—Tony—has always had wealthbehind him (like Francesco); here, at Amboise, he wears satins and silks,claims that the King’s tailor is “the best in the world.” Tony is so enormous,so muscular, his satins often split. Blue-eyed, genial, bowing, a little tooobsequious, he sometimes dabs perfume on his paint-messed hands. He has bighands, big feet, big skull—topped by curly brown hair. With him decorum comesfirst. He is always aware of his sedate heritage. He sings beautifully, and isan accomplished lutenist. At home he is devoted to his cathedral choir. InAmboise, he is considered a nota­ble fencer. He’d rather fence than paint. He’drather eat than paint. He will have nothing to do with dissection. Right now,he is involved with a red-headed hussy who champions sex.

Andrea del Verrochio—tall,with not an ounce of extra meat on him...it seems to me he is still a youngman, that we are at work together in his studio. But no, no, the Arno roaredthroughout that night, as we mourned his death. Many of us. Corpses lodgedagainst supports of the Puente Vecchio. Plagues. Madness. Work. We cherishedhim, his frailty. Guild-member at twenty. Such kindness, such classic renderingsin stone and bronze. We revered his Saint John, his serenity in stone.

We exhibited his sculpture in every corner of his workshopand yard. People. His Dolphin Boy. His Christ. Ghosts from hismetal and chisel.

We learned how to use the abacus together; we learned aboutmixing oils; he taught me silverpoint and charcoal; we worked with pastels,with gold leaf.

Ai, Andrea—what a scalding rain on the night you died. Wesat about, we drank wine; then, next week, we returned to our casting, ourhorses, busts, an­gels.

Most of the years in his studio were tranquil. There werewonderful days, when, like John in the Desert, we detected our own worth—in themastery of his work. His home was mine. His garden was mine. His florins.

I see him painting a madonna’s drapery...weeks of work,painting delicate, gilded folds...he gave me books...

He said: genius is dedication.

He also said: art and friendship.

1517

Cloux

January 6, 1517

fter walking along the Loire, thewater grey, swallows passing un­derneath the grey arches of the château bridge,I sat where I could study the supports, estimating their bulk and weight. Nonotebook. Too many unfinished sketches and treatises. An ancient bridge and myface—ravaged by time.

At the little chapel of Saint Hubert, which I admire somuch, so complete in itself, pigeons were flying about. Wings again. What arethe correct angles for flying? Which wing structure can lift the most weight?How to estimate the cam­ber?

Rain splattered me as I walked about. A drum roll remindedme of the thun­der at Vinci. I climbed the Tour Hurtault and was a boy again,as I watched the rain, as I had watched it at my mother’s house. Then I used totry to estimate the number of drops, measure them, weigh them.

What a superb château—this Amboise! I admire its bulk, itsage. It is no wonder that kings have lived here! Amplitude. Privacy. Gardens.The gardens tempt me to walk on and on. Yesterday, I sketched the Tour desMinimes—emphasizing its massive base line, the skillful masonry; as I sketcheda playful squirrel climbed a birch, flipped from branch to branch, nibbled. Imust remem­ber to sketch the bronze doors of the chapel. The sculptor stressestexture in his composition. Somehow Florentine!

Wander...

I wander...

I wander alone or with Francesco.

Inside the château, if it is raining or cold or misty, weprowl through the halls and public rooms. Halls, rooms, people. A door opensand there is someone. A door shuts, and you are alone with a dozen doors. Coldwindows merge into cold mirrors, a door opens. Here are tapestries from Bruges.Someone coughs. Feminine laughter sounds.

As I walked toward Cloux, lights blinked in window afterwindow; a light ap­peared in my studio; someone passed carrying a torch.Maturina has a fire in my fireplace. She has the table set for Francesco andme. Glaring at me she scolds me for my damp clothes. “Your cough...you know!You never think of yourself. Your supper has been ready a long time. I’ve askedFrancesco to look after you but he forgets. Only yesterday I said to him...”

Whenever the Egyptian sultan presented the Florentines witha new animal, I made sketches. At one time, there were several lions in thetown’s menagerie. An old lion had a stubby grey mane and a black splotch acrosshis face. Since one of his paws was crippled, he limped badly. As he walked orstretched out in the summer sun, a friendly ibis often pecked about in his fur.Old and wise, he ate only two or three times a week...and outlived youngerlions. Bruno, a keeper, let me measure him. Skull. Neck. Spine. Shoulders.Rump. Paws.

I suggested large cages for the menagerie animals but no onelistened. When I designed a cage for a lion on two levels, with a tree in acorner, nothing came of it.

One night, in winter, a friar opened a cage and let a sicklion go; for days the young man had tried to cure the female. Running amokthrough town, she cre­ated quite a scare until she was trapped in a cul-de-sacby some of my appren­tices. Muzzled, growling, she was returned to her cagewhere she died.

It was only a few blocks from my studio to the menagerie andI often heard the animals roar while I worked.

Cloux.

Cage.

Our incessant feuds, wars, brutalities, our pettiness, haverotted our minds.

For years I have heard men describe roads frozen with sleetand dead, bloody ambuscades, military gear trapped in mud, mules and horsesfloundering, deso­lated villages. I have seen victory and defeat...Milan...Pisa...Bologna... Perugia...

Surrounded by death, I have known many men who want more andmore of it. I have remembered that as I painted my mural, my Anghiari.Some of my war sketches have been aberrations. It would have been wiser had Iconfined myself to my atelier. Among my drawings, sketches, cartoons, models,among my plants and fossils, I should have gone on and on painting. Who, betterthan I, through my anatomical studies, know the marvels of life! Now, I shuncrossbows, guns, chariots. I have asked Francesco to destroy those sketches.

Once again, as in Florence, as in my youth, I am putting artforemost. I am painting.

Tomorrow,Francesco and I will go along the Loire, sketching. If tomorrow is a rainy daywe will try the next day. I think he is overly concerned with the problems ofperspective. We will talk about the elimination of detail.

Painter and friend, I am lucky to have Francesco, myCecchino!

These days, I sleep longer, but, through the years, inFlorence, in Milan, I never slept more than three or four hours a night. Therewere too many plans, sketches, paintings, bronzes, portraits, models,commissions...three or four hours...that was enough...

Lie down, sleep...catch the dawn, the window shutters open.Mist on the Arno. Plunge face in icy water in that old white wash basin. Tiesketch pad onto belt. The town is sleeping; the birds are waking up. Careful,open the door qui­etly. Don’t disturb Andrea. Is that the moon, still hangingin the sky?

I made my way to the Boboli Gardens...passed the David...rowsof crooked cypress...marble satyr...pool of frogs...a beggar whined...

A town sleeps a thousand years every night.

Cloux

Occasionally, while playing chess, I imagine there are nopawns; I imagine there are no knights; the good bishop has vanished; the castlehas gone; there is no stalemate; instead, we are walking across checkeredfields, Caterina and I. Soon, we’ll sit down to supper; then, when candles haveburned low and lamps are dying down, we’ll lie in each other’s arms.

I have never been a clever chess player: I have spoiledgames by envisioning a spiral staircase, by designing a parachute or estimatingthe cost of draining a marsh instead of planning my next move. I can castbronze better than tackle chess strategy.

When King Francis and I play, I know the rules—thoseunwritten rules—and abide by them: the king must win.

Checkmate...what are the rules in life...checkmate...how toplay the final move?

Someday our earth may be burdened with people (but I willnot be there).

Numbers cheapen us.

Collective folly weakens us.

Man and art drift apart.

However, who can create man? For that matter, who can createa common pigeon? Or the mangiest dog? Or a horse?

And there is such mystery in this arm, this wrist, thesefingers as I write. I would like to be able to trace these impulses: thethought, as it takes place in the brain, the thought as it becomes the letterL, as it becomes da Vinci, as that word connects with another word.

A dot becomes a sketch. A sketch becomes a tree (a treebecomes a sketch). Must there be limitations to the mind’s probings? Experiencecan shackle us. I resent shackles. I still believe in flying.

I love the horse more than all the animals because he givesme a sense of flying. Racing across a field, half-naked, bareback, I was freeas a boy. I was above the earth. Galloping along a road, my cape fluttering, Iwas outside myself. Trotting underneath the stars I sensed another kind offreedom. The clopping of the horse was a drumbeat for liberty. I was oftencarried away.

Nuzzling my hand, I stroked his head, thanking him for thisecstasy.

March 2, 1517

Yesterday, a traveler, a Spaniard, a navy officer, a guestof the King, claimed at dinner that a Spanish explorer, Juan Ponce de León, haddiscovered a land, and named it Florida. He said that Ponce de Leon discoveredit four or five years ago.

“Where is Florida? Is it an island?”

I had a page bring my maps but the Spaniard could not locateFlorida. He was ill at ease as if he had divulged a state secret. The arrogantofficer’s face still bothers me, like the face of a diseased rat. Florida? ASpanish name: does it have a special meaning?

“Mon Capitan was hunting for Bimini...the fountain, thegreat fountain, that cures all diseases,” the officer said, pushing aside mymaps, less like a traveler than a spoiled child.

Travel...

Francesco has never read the Travels of Marco Polo,but he is reading the book to me; he reads in the afternoons, maybe when thewarm sun is in our western windows, maybe at the pergola, if it is pleasant.Sometimes, when I am tired, he reads to me by candlelight, beside my ducal bed.

I respect Marco Polo. I believe what he wrote. He was no millioni.He was fortunate to find a Rustichello to record his story. Perhaps Francescois mine. When I visited Polo’s prison cell in Genoa someone showed me thepainstaking calendar he had chiseled into the wall beside his cot...Chinesecharacters along the top section of the calendar—a dragon underneath.

In Florence, in Andrea’s home, I read Polo’s book anddreamed of crossing the Lop Desert on camelback; I imagined visiting the Khan’sgreat cities; I dreamed of sketching palaces, temples, courtiers. I wanted toclimb lofty moun­tains; I thought of mapping rivers.

I told this to Francesco; he smiled and nodded. India?China? Tibet? For him they are words. He thinks only of his Italy, his Vaprio. Iam afraid he considers that I have stolen years from his homeland by keepinghim here. He writes his mother and father faithfully; when there are lapses intheir correspondence he is troubled.

Alas—Salai and Tony have left me!

At Cloux they have spent less and less time at theirpainting on their own or under my tutelage. They have become infatuated by theKing’s women—the prostitutes. Finally, in desperation, I urged them to returnto Florence. Tony has serious family problems and is needed. Salai plans tobuild a house for himself, on my vineyard property. I will miss them... I willmiss them! They have been an important part of my life! Francesco is pleasedthere will be no more rivalry and friction. Yet, apart from that, ours was asad farewell, lingering, the wind blowing about us harshly. It was our lastgood-bye, I know. I know. They promise to write to me. When are letters alive!

NOTE—Baron Sabran visited me last week. We strolled aboutthe château, and he related another of his wild boar stories as he glanced oversome of my paintings. I enjoyed his visit, his chattiness, his effort to befriendly.

Today,I hear that he has passed away: Time...today’s friend, tomorrow’s enemy.

Cloux

How well I remember:

I was riding with other horsem*n, perhaps a dozen of us,Duke Lorenzo on his favorite mare, both of us a little to the front of theMedici pennants, flags, and jousting gear. As we approached the Duke’s stablesat a canter, he leaned toward me, and said:

“He’s yours, Leonardo... I know you like him! Tell thestable boys where you want to have him kept.”

A smile, no more.

Cheppo was a three-year-old, four-gaited, almost asdistinguished in bone and muscle as Cermonino, yet wider across the withers. Isketched him, studied him, studied him as I had studied Cermonino. Cheppo had away of shaking his mane, flopping out his upper lip—nuzzling. He was acompetent beggar: if I failed to remember a treat he would squeeze me againstthe stable wall and regard me sadly. Once I was in the saddle he was obedient,alert.

Cheppo had been Lorenzo’s favorite. Certainly no one elsecould have given him more competent training than the Duke. I was so pleased tohave him and spoiled him, until I left for Milan—never to find another hisequal.

My mirror writing came naturally; it began as a boy; I havealways been ambi­dextrous; yet my left hand’s skill surpasses that of theright. There were reasons for my mirror writing: for abbreviations and symbols,the prying of idle appren­tices, the intrusion of rivals, the circumvention ofblabbers. It also satisfied me personally—esthetically.

Tonight, I am alone, writing: the manor house is still.

It is raining hard, and has been raining hard throughout theday. The fire in the fireplace is comfortable. The lamps are well trimmed.

As I sat at my desk, continuing the journal, someone triedto pry open the door lock. Metal on metal. I waited. Again I heard theintruder. The rain beat on the door; the door shook. I heard the lock give.Picking up a broken easel leg I waited, in case the lock gave way. The manoutside coughed. He shuffled about, then left.

Perhaps I should get a dog.

Devotion is thebest quality, human devotion and devotion to one’s art. Cer­tainly my devotionto Francesco—trust and affection—has been reciprocated.

And,when I am dead, he will remember me. That is what artists need—men who care. Ifthere are those who care, it is as if one’s atelier continues on and on. And,if the apprentices think along the guidelines already laid down, that is an­othercontinuation, another defiance.

One of these days, Francesco will return to his Vaprio, topaint. He may set up a studio in Milan. Perhaps there will come a time when heplaces a canvas and sits on his stool and paints my beard, thinning hair,protruding eyebrows, strange nose and strange eyes.

He will say to himself:

“That’s how the old man looked, at Cloux.

“Shall I paint on open window behind him...shall I paintsome rock forma­tions in the distance?”

Although the King and his court go out of their way tobefriend me I could not tolerate this voluntary exile, this foreignness, thisremoteness, were it not for Francesco. When he is away, at the château, in thevillage, in Paris, traveling somewhere, I am at a loss. I glance about: whereis he? When will he return?

Often, when Cecchino comes back from one of his rambles, hehas a gift or two, a plant, a seed, a leaf, a rock...he tells me what happened,details. He’s good at verbal paintings. Excited sometimes. No matter. He mayhave sketches to show me, charcoal, pencil, chalk.

“Thisis something you must take a look at, Maestro...here, this face? Isn’t itGreek, the nose, the forehead? And this gypsy woman, what about her? And thisfellow...ever see anyone dressed like that? And this fountain...”

He sits on a bench beside my easel.

“Wemust ride to Paris...we must visit Cluny...the churches...there’s a great VanEyck...and Chambord...now is the time to visit Chambord, when the court’saway...we ought to see how your canal and irrigation jobs are comingalong...remember, Sr. Migliarotti is pretty lazy...”

Francesco hopes to make me feel like I am thirty years old.

It is May and I am in the Amboise garden, soaking up thenoon sun, courtiers milling about on the many paths; yet I am alone, with mysketchbook, to write, to think. And I am thinking about Francesco, how hearrived at my studio in the pouring rain. Drenched. He had ridden from Vaprio.I don’t forget that rain, that stormy Florentine afternoon, that eager, wetface of his, his mud-spattered horse, his servants’ horses, how they looked inthe street, as Francesco spoke to me. Cold, very cold, even for April. Tiledroofs were choked with rain. Drowned cobbles. Leaves and mud.

But there he was at my door, bowing, smiling.

“Maestro da Vinci...I want to be your pupil.”

That was seventeen years ago. Was he only fifteen? Itdoesn’t seem possible he was so young. He was my favorite from the start. Ilove Salai as a son, but this young man, this gracious young man, is friend andardent disciple. Painter! When I have been his guest at Vaprio, I am honored.Francesco’s father and mother make their villa a place of rest. I know. I havefled there, from the condottieri. I am always protected by the Melzis.

Hisillness upset the studio.

“Melzi’s sick! Francesco’s sick!”

Fever day after day, hands like ice, coma. Shivering thoughhis apartment was sunny. I thought he might have malaria. The plague. I calledin the best doctors; I sent for Francesco’s father. His uncle came instead.Other doctors came. And in his delirium, Francesco painted a large canvas, witha flock of white birds in the sky, carrying a blue tree. October, November—badmonths for sickness. But by December he was up, skinny, hungry, forever hungry.

And there was his father’s gratitude to me, his uncle’sgratitude, as if I had been the physician. That summer, as Francescoconvalesced at Vaprio, I vaca­tioned there. The family purchased my portrait ofA Boy. That rolling land, the swift Adda, those canals, the villagardens with their Roman statues and roses...roses...the women in the gardens,picking roses. But I have written about this before? ...I am getting forgetful.

We sketched and painted.

I remember a puppy lying in my lap as I dozed in one of thegardens, the one with the apple trees. Good food, good wine, summer, that wasVilla Vaprio. I learned about summer there—what summer really means.

Cloux

The King wants me to move to a spacious studio in thechâteau. I prefer a smaller room. Small rooms sometimes discipline the mind. Ihave explained that my studio, in the manor house, has everything essential tomy work: cupboards, cabinets, tables, shelves.

“Do you need pigment...oils...turpentine...brushes?” He isimpatient... you must want something!

Wehave space for our paintings. We have the right amount of light. We have quiet.And on our mantelpiece we have a place for my Greek and Roman antiq­uities—thingsI collected in Campania (along with malaria): iridescent vases, bronze andalabaster lamps, household figurines, a few coins. I have one with a porpoiseleaping. The Greeks were master minters-designers. Francesco says he knows aplace in Paris that sells Greek antiquities. If I can ever get there I want topurchase an ivory Venus for my desk. We have not surpassed those ancientartisans.

Such things make a bright enclosure.

I am fortunate...I have had many friends.

I had many friends in Florence, Milan, Rome, Genoa, andVenice. I shall name a few: Marco d’Oggiono, Vitelli, Tomaso Masini, Amalia,Father Pacioli, Ferrera, Machiavelli, Francesco, Mona, Cristofer, Andrea...andnow King Francis.

I see them inmy sketches as I leaf through them now and then: Benci, in pen and ink, besidea juniper tree; Andrea, at work on a bronze figurine; here is a pastel ofAmbrogia, puttering over his careful palette; here is red-headed Filippo Lippifinishing the background for a madonna; here is Cecelia, sipping wine, askingfor sweets...Madonna Lisa and her graceful beauty, her soft voice, pa­tience...

She and I had many hours for the gamboa...we atetogether...played cards, talked about my Anghiari...when she posed I hadsingers for her... I loaned her little sums; she lent me money; she sent mebaskets of fruit; I gave her sketches and drawings.

If all these friends could be with me, at Cloux, to walkwith me, visit the château and its gardens, prowl the mirror hallways, enjoy mystudio, my latest paintings...talk...talk...

As an apprentice I longed to fix in my mind every detail: Imust look and look, a second and a third time and a fourth. I must fill anotebook. Quickly. I must follow that bearded Corsican and draw his face.

All of us apprentices respected Andrea del Verrochio, asartisan, as teacher. We were at home in his workshop. We were proud of hisaccomplishments, proud of our own accomplishments; at the same time we wereeager, pushy, ready to challenge other artists. Ready to consider a commission,evaluate it, carry it through to perfection.

And what were my best years, the best of my mature years, Iask myself? Those dedicated to my mural, my outcry against war, years thatincluded many paintings? Or was it the time dedicated to the creation of theSforza horse—IL COLOSSO? If I could have had the metal and cast the statue itwould have been that success above others. And the years that went into TheLast Supper: Three years. There were also the years of dissection andanatomical studies. Best years? There were the easel paintings. I suppose therehave never been any best years. There were discoveries and discovery madeanother discovery possible...and so the years went along.

Last night, Francesco burst into my bedroom.

“I can’t find them,” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“I have looked everywhere...your letters are missing.”

“What letters, Francesco?”

“I have your list...letters from King Francis...from DukeLorenzo...from Christopher Columbus...Machiavelli...Father Pacioli...Beatriced’Este...Ces­are Bor­gia...Salai...”

“Did you open the trunk in the storeroom? They may be inthere. Look care­fully. I want to destroy some of them...let’s go overeverything together.”

“We had them in Milan...”

“Look again... I’m sure you’ll find them.”

(Yesterday,in the château’s hall of mirrors I saw Caterina: she was talking with a youngman, a man her age: she had on a summer gown, with one breast almost bare: shesmiled at her companion who was dressed in grey.)

Cloux

June 1, 1517

After I completed my silverpoint of Francis, he ordered histailor to cut an elegant velvet smock for me. In carnelian. Two pockets. Beltof silver lozenges hooked together on braided silver wires.

Francesco is framing the portrait and it will hang in thechâteau library, along with a Rafael, a de Predis, a Bosch, a Dürer. Francishas his eyes on Francesco’s new canvas, his Columbine, but I tell theKing it is not finished.

“Not finished? Of course it is finished, Mon Père.” ButFrancesco listens to me.

I continue with my drawings of the deluge: I go on with theterror, the falling of buildings, the erosion of life, the force of wind, theweight of torrents... I go on with this feeling... I must express it.

The gloomy air must be beaten by the wind and perpetualhail...there must be ancient trees, uprooted trees, torn to pieces by thefury...the fragments of mountains must spill into valleys...immensity mustburst the barrier of rivers.

It is my last judgment...certainly there is nothing thatdoes not have an ending ...twisted forms...fear...puny man...

I hear the resounding air, the lamentations.

Mountainsare to be torn open for their minerals...all animals will languish...all willbe pursued or destroyed...trees will be laid level...due to man’s malice therewill be great losses...how much better for man to go back to hell.

Cloux

It is late.

A fire burned all evening in my studio, and King Francis hassat by the fire with me, talking. He was depressed because bankers have beendemanding exor­bitant sums: he plans to sell royal titles to recoup funds.

“All this will take months...there are many hazards...”

Abruptly:

“Do you see something in my face, something ominous?”

“I don’t understand...”

“It seems to me...I feel that the future has somethingtragic... I’m worried... Do you believe in foretelling?”

He had been jousting: I blamed fatigue. But he would not beput aside by a few casual words.

“Mon Père...tell me...some say that you can foretell? Is thattrue?”

“I can not.”

“Who can?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Divinations...those occult doings...forget them. You mustthink clearly, your Majesty. Don’t let men hoodwink you. Nobody knowstomorrow.”

“Tonight, as I walked through the tunnel from thechâteau...tonight I had three guards... I was afraid...like aBorgia...assassinations...pretty bad...”

He laughed at himself.

It has been sunny and cool for several days: I have gone onpleasant walks, along the river, through the château gardens, through the grovethat leads into the King’s forest: paths are becoming familiar: I shake handswith old trees. At the château I have watched the King play tennis: they arehaving a tournament. Francis plays with ugly ferocity. His partners playwarily. I see that diplomacy begins on the tennis courts.

Studio

September 3, 1517

My lamp is guttering. Candle stubs are smoking.

Was it thirty years ago, in Milan, that I understood?Windows were open and heat-lightning was flickering beyond my studio. Myanatomy drawings were spread on the corner table. Then I saw. Saw clearly.Knew. Saw that man’s blood resembles the tides of the sea; from the seat of theheart it circulated throughout the body. Let an artery or vein burst or sufferinjury and blood raced to the in­jured spot. Incessant currents of the blood,passing through the arteries and veins, caused them to thicken and becomecallous. So, I had additional proof of circulation. Each dissection revealedfurther confirmation of the system. Why was I slow in grasping the obvious?

I have explained my theory to some but was often rebuffedand yet when I told her—using my drawings—she grasped the significance. Sheunderstood many things. And when she lay dying there seemed little left forme... I held her hand. Her eyes were closed. Grey eyes. She never spoke. God,how I stumbled down those rat infested stairs, stairs with a cross gouged ineach step. Ah, those flooded streets!

Some men of science and art have copies of my firsttreatise. Some. They hesitate. Resent. Last year I explained circulation toKing Francis. He was not interested; he fondled his diamond-studded belt andstared stupidly at me. I must tell Francesco that the treatise is packed in thethird trunk—the one with the smashed lock.

I must sequence my drawings:

1 - Skin

2 - Muscles

3 - Tendons

4 - Bones

Indicate effect of emotions, labor, illness, age.

Cloux

October 15, 1517

Francesco is copying this:

I have been unable to write or work for several days. Thesedays she is in my mind all of the time. Maturina begs me to eat...my appetitehas gone. The weather is perfect but I can not go outside. Here, in my studio,I have her por­trait to console me; sometimes I have to turn away from it. Ithought that she would live for many years. I thought that she was contented.Her family loved her.

The letter, written by her brother, says nothing about howMona died. Was she ill a long while? I can’t remember when she wrote me lasttime...was it as much as a year ago? Why am I confused? Did the plague killher? Was she with her family? How they will miss her! The letter took fourmonths to reach me—a hundred and twenty days! She died in Genoa, on the 2nd or3rd of July. I can’t make out the date.

The King knows of her death. Francesco told him, because Ican not ride with the hunters... I can not ride... Francis has presented mewith a small jeweled hourglass. A note accompanied it.

Life and death...old friends, old enemies.

My face is a cemetery.

Gossips said that Mona was my mistress.

We were friends.

In those days, when I was beginning her portrait, I hadGorgio play for her: she liked his viola da gamba skill. He would usuallyappear a little late, but always with a smile, a bow. Sometimes a choir boysang motets; it seems to me he re­cited poetry too. Did he always wear a browncloak?

Our sittings were often far apart: there was illness in herfamily: she was away from Florence for months at a time: on her return it washard to recapture our mood. She was patient with me but I have often stoodbefore her picture quite perplexed...especially if the light had changed...mycolors had changed.

I was late for one of our sittings and she put on an apronand scrubbed brushes and mortars, made my apprentices scurry; then laughed atmy objec­tions.

“Next time you’re late, I’ll clean your leggio,” she said,and smiled teasingly.

Her smile...I used to think of it as hiding family secrets,feminine secrets, her own loneliness (“Yes, Leonardo...yes...there aretimes...”)

I could not always arrange for a musician; when she posedduring those silences I felt the bonds of our friendship...when we atetogether, when she described her travels, it was another aspect of ourfriendship.

I was welcome at her home. Her distinguished husband boughtfine pieces of art. They were happy to share.

At her home and in my studio we often talked about my Anghiariand she was eager to follow its progression.

October 29th

Masculine skies...feminine skies...at this season of theyear they are mostly masculine, with snow falling, wind blowing. My feet arecold because of the weather, or is it because my fireplace chimney needscleaning? Cold, I have moved to the library.

As I mull over my papers I observe the great books aroundme. I must con­centrate. I must push on. There is so much to be done with theorganization of my treatises. So much.

Maturina rouses me.

“You are cold, Maestro...it is chilly in this room.”

So, I am cold!

Perhaps I have cathedral sickness!

It is good to be writing again. My journal suffers when myhand is unsteady.

Francesco is away; that troubles me.

I wish I were young and could bend horseshoes instead of twosheets of paper.

Maturina has found a bird stricken by the cold; we hoverover it. A dove. A flyer. Where are my sketches for the glider? The oneFrancesco and I tested. He must find it for me when he returns.

Interruptions...interruptions...

Francesco has adopted a stray cat, from among the dozensthat haunt the château. The cat beds under his easel, among cleaning rags. Healways stinks of turpentine and oil.

Ihave never seen a cat so eager to sleep; perhaps half of his life has gone intocarousing. He is bone white, has one orange ear, a twisted nose, one orangefoot, and a black-tipped tail. His greenish eyes glare out of skinniness.

Crabby.

Maturina hates him.

Francesco calls him “Michelangelo.”

My four-poster must have been made for a cardinal or bishop,or someone’s mistress. I am tempted to remove the garnet canopy and drapes. Butit’s a snug bed when it’s cold. I often lie there and watch the fire playingabout. It’s a chance to weigh the past—and plan ahead.

Sometimes, when I am very tired and have turned in early,Francesco rolls his easel into the room, and sits on the side of the bed and wetalk brush strokes or ways of grinding the new pigments, how much overpainting isfeasible, the dan­gers of black as an under pigment. Shop talk.

Cloux

Andrea Salaino—Whydid I adopt him in the first place?

That’s an easy answer: because I loved him!

What a waif Salai was! I took him into my household, mystudio, twenty-some years ago. It can’t be possible that so much time haslapsed.

Hestole...stole shirts, shoes, brushes, gold leaf. He stole gold leaf and soldit. He took money. I was right to christen him “Salai.” It took months tostraighten him out...if I really did. Yellow-headed, curly-headed, tall,foolish, loveable... when he puts his arm around me...

He is a capable artist, incapable of continuous effort;perhaps time can change him but I doubt it.

Now that he is gone...I often think I hear his voice... Ithink, ah, he has come back for a while...

The King and Queen have asked me how I had hoped to cast IlCavallo, so I placed my drawings on tables in the salon, and we walked fromone to another and I explained them.

“MonPère,” Francis mumbled, as he examines drawings and sketches, “Mon Père...theseare workable.”

I am silent.

“When did you begin actual casting?” the Queen asks. I tryto disregard her obvious skepticism.

She is dressed in white and gold; he has on one of his darkcloaks lined with down; he has rings set with emeralds; she reeks of cologneand sweat. Her pinched face is regally ugly—somehow provincial.

“I began casting the horse in December...’93...casting it onits side. I placed the mould in a shallow cavity. I opened it on the left side.I could have com­pleted the casting if there had been sufficient bronze. I amsure you know that cannons had priority at that time.”

They knew, too, about the Gascon bowmen.

I understand they had watched the archers, as they used myclay model for target. Watched my Cavallo disintegrate.

I watched, hating, hating those bowmen. How they cheered asarrows pierced the model.

NowI watched the King and Queen.

“In Milan, in those days, the Sforza stables were at mydisposal. I chose a magnificent horse—Cermonino—as my model. Alone, or with agroom, I would ride into the country, where it was pleasant and we were free ofgapers. I would dismount and sketch my horse. Or the groom would lead him backand forth, while I sketched, to record a sense of motion.

“Other times I would ride Cermonino, race him, sweat him;then I’d draw his distended mouth, his swollen nostrils, his wild mane...

“Leaningforward in the saddle, baton in hand, the Duke was to symbolize leadership andpower...he was pleased...his baton would have been more than thirty feet abovethe ground.”

Visitors and courtiers annoy me, though I do not show myannoyance. I have learned how to patronize. I pretend I have nothing to do...mylife is one of lei­sure. Then, at night, through most of the night, lamps andcandles burning, Francesco and I work with my drawings and texts.

Francesco realizes that I am homesick but he does not quiterealize that I am homesick for a Florence that does not exist. I don’t admit itbut I am also re­membering Vinci, the only home I ever had. I would like towalk into the ram­bling stone house and sit by a front window. I wouldlike...but why go on?

Botteghe or ateliers have their points but they arenever home. Guilds, with their rivalries, their rascalities, are continuallybroiling. Greedy apprentices. Raw apprentices. Rowdiness. So many crowns forthis piece of work, so many soldi for this job. Dissension over models.Spats about religion. Muddy sex.

Perhaps I should have lived out my life in my vineyard. Muchsun. Quietude. Animals. Olive trees in the sunset. The mistral. Peasants.Fidelity.

What delusions.

Tomorrow I look forward to working again on my Saint John.I have decided to darken the background.

I knew Sandro Botticelli well. Now that he is dead and I amfar away, leaving this personal journal to a mere boy, I can write about him.We called Sandro “Our Little Barrel.” He was fat enough, to be sure. Successfavored his belly. Drink gave him a pleasant stupor.

I thought his Primavera a piece of ostentation: thepicture flaunts showman­ship in many ways. The background is especially weak. Ihave shied away from gigantic canvases. A painting should not pretend to be amural or a fresco.

However, Sandro’s illustrations for Dante have a lightness:his lines are right.

Maybe I am not respectful of Sandro. Michelangelo dislikesmy work. Who is right?

When my fellow Florentines legally murdered Savonarola I wasrepelled. Savonarola was reformer, dictator, fanatic. His bigotry alarmed me;all bigotry alarms me. I prefer the Alpine heights and passes to heavenlypromises; I prefer rivers and lakes to the Dantesque. Savonarola’s ashes werethrown into the Arno... I anticipate further degradations...ashes... whoseashes were thrown into the river? Ours? No matter what we say in defense of religionthere seems to be another road. Some things surpass religion. My mother’sgentleness, for one thing. I say, let us worship beauty. Now, in my old age, Isay let us worship beauty.

Thinking of beauty, I hoped for many years to do a bronze ofHercules, Her­cules firing his arrow at the Stymphalian birds, head back, eyesupward, his right arm tensing the cord, fingers ready to let the arrow go:Hercules in the nude, among rocks, one knee co*cked at the same angle as his bowarm.

1518

Cloux

February 1, 1518

t is snowing again.

The ground is white. Trees are white. About two years ago,on our long ride from Milan, we stayed at the Pericord Monastery; snow wasfalling. Outside my one-eyed cell lay a deep drift. A path led nowhere throughthe snow.

Whileat Pericord, most of us ate in the refectory or the kitchen. Were there thirtymonks at the monastery? All of them were dirty and resentful. This her­mitagewanted no outsiders. Although we paid, we were gross intruders. This order hadthe Biblical fish engraved on its coat-of-arms but these men no longerremembered what that symbol meant.

Bread, cheese, dried fruit, sunflower seeds, eggs, wine,herbal tea—they of­fered us these and we tried to express our thanks.

Each enormous deal table had IHS chiseled in its center.IHS...smoke from cheap table candles mixed with kitchen smoke as we ate withshutters closed against the snow and cold.

Painted black, a large wooden cross leaned against a cornerof the refectory.

Fealty far from any hamlet—what is this monastic fealty?

As I stayed there, recovering, troubled, I compared thosethirty faces with the faces of the disciples in my Last Supper: Iunderstand more about human nature now than I did twenty years ago. So did theartist who had painted a primitive fresco of demons in the Pericord Library.His demons are Borgian nightmares.

We have more snow this winter than in many winters, I amtold. The Loire has frail ice edges and some of that ice traps leaves and twigsand resembles tor­tured stained glass. I like to walk alone, along theriver—snow tracking: fox, rab­bit, deer, raccoon, and boar.

Snow crystals in my hand, on my glove, I analyze theirgeometry.

Inthe comfort of my studio I sketch from memory: I am able to reproduce plants,birds, people, machines. Years ago I lost an important sketchbook and was ableto reproduce more than fifty drawings. Any capable artist should be able to dothis.

As the snowfall continues, I shall go on tonight, red chalkand charcoal.

Rome proved to be a harsh experience.

Livingin the Vatican was an impoverishment: the roof of my apartment leaked withevery rain; the light was bad; sewage odors were frequent. Gamins—so manygamins! Threatened. While others hunted rabbits in the Coliseum, I soughtlibraries and worked in my own laboratory. But work was difficult be­cause myold kidney complaint afflicted me. For a time I was at the Hospital Spirito. Ibecame as desolate as Hadrian’s Tomb. I ate only fruit and nuts, but fruit isoften scarce in Rome at certain seasons.

Rafael was friendly; Paciola was faithful; Bramante wasfriendly. I blame the city, its somber tufa buildings. Cities, like mistresses,betray. Fleeing Rome, I visited my vineyard; then, again lured by the wrongmagnet, I returned for more Roman punishment.

Tibullus and Ovid were there. I opened their pages and read.But my optical experiments were thwarted: a violent quarrel with my opticalexpert undid the work of months. He smashed all the equipment in my laboratory.As soon as possible, half-recovered, I joined Salai and Francesco in Milan.They had located an apartment for me, Salai lauding its grand style, itsperfect studio. But the stu­dio was not for me. Milan was not for me. AtVaprio, I began to recover in the bracing air. My friends helped deceive me: Iwas not growing old; so, I began a little fresco for the Melzis.

Throughout my life I have been willing to attempt variousdisciplines. I am alien to most men because they limit their interests. Almostall of my friends thought in terms of a single field of endeavor. Ambrogiocared nothing for geol­ogy. De Predis shunned mathematics. Boltraffio scornscartography. Fra Luca shrugs off all but church music. Luini favors frescos.Who is interested in ocean­ography? Or flying?

I think men should reach out. A rut can lead to a dead end.The portrait artist need not paint portraits all his life. Andrea was one ofthose rarities (an inspira­tion!): his world was brush, pastel, oil...marble,bronze, porphyry...cenotaph, altar, sarcophagus...portrait.

Cloux

March 12, 1518

Sleep comes hard: there is frequent pain in my back andlegs: insomnia exhausts me: I think of stairways, dikes, weaving machines,cylindrical sails, cadavers, faces...

Many times I have seen Christ’s face—as I painted him in myfresco. I remember him, lying in his ghetto... I remember him so ill he couldscarcely walk... I remember taking food to him...there, over there, on thewall, is his face in the candlelight.

Sleepless, I have gotten up and sketched those who have beendead for years. Friends, neighbors, filthy seamen on the coast, mountaineers,shepherds, brig­ands at the Borgia castle.

Here, at Cloux, I have found a girl whose profile isperfect: I have asked her to pose for a silverpoint.

Here, in the heart of France, when I am listening toFrancesco talk French I am listening to a clever Frenchman. He could speak thelanguage fairly well before coming—he has perfected his pronunciation, hispauses. He says he learned from a boyhood tutor. I ask him to correct me but henever does. Most of our château friends speak several languages. When I amexplaining technical drawings to the King or members of his court I have tohave help when it comes to the vocabulary relating to hydraulics, gears,fossils, and such.

March 18, 1518

My journal is in danger.

Time is leaving me.

I go weeks without adding a thought.

If I see a horse riddled with arrows, a mural that isscaling off—where is the joy? Where the beauty?

Let’s go to that valley along the Adda River, in May. Wewere laughing then: being alive pleased us. Let’s go to Piombino where Isketched the little ships in the harbor, ships and pounding waves. Let’s walkin the castle garden, among the senatorial statues; I played the lute and bothof us sang. And Rustici’s! What about Rustici’s and that pet porcupine of his?

In Pavia, I lost my way among narrow lanes; it was dusk; itwas summer; it became dark; a lantern appeared, another; I found myself at ahouse of prostitu­tion: the loveliness of that meeting, those unexpectedcaresses, that girl... O, sleeper, what is sleep? Sleep resembles death. Yet,there are happy dreams. And actual dreams, such as rolling the Colossusinto the square and seeing the Milan populace mill around it. And another...mymother, Caterina, embracing me when last we met.

There have been other dreams: working with wood and silk, toperfect a wing...there was that brief moment of flight...my wing...beingaloft...lifted above trees and town... I feel that lift as I write. Joy.Beauty.

There were rows of candles and water-lamps shining in frontof my Last Supper; I stepped back to contemplate my work; I lookedaround; I realized that the fresco was finished. I felt tears of joy, tearsthat never fell, yet existed. I felt another over­whelming satisfaction in my Anghiari:the horses were alive and came to me as I looked at them... I remembered theirnames.

Andrea Verrochio came through the refectory door and shookmy hand. When I write to him I will remind him...but he is dead.

I have always thought the penis handsome during copulation,otherwise piti­ful. I have never worshipped it as have some men—and women! As aboy it was tantalizing, always there, always a reminder of sex, most often amystery. I saw copulation enjoyed before I enjoyed it with a girl. It seemed tome that it wasn’t much fun. I had to mature. It seems to me that the penisoften has a life of its own, as during the night when it rouses a man, asentiency of its own perhaps. I note that women like the size of the penis aslarge as possible, but a man wants the opposite in a woman’s organ.

The Greeks and Romans werepenis worshippers. As a fertility symbol it amuses me. I wonder how theEgyptians regarded the penis? They have had centuries to think about it. Youngwomen enjoy dis­playing their breasts; some men want to show their masculinity.There is something quite amusing about these sex thoughts. Juvenile! Life hasso many serious problems: hunger, plague, crime. The ecclesiastics laud thecross and crucifixion; I suspect that some of their fervor is part of the peniscontemplation. With the penis there can be a kind of holy ecstasy, for certain.I had an ivory penis in my studio in Florence: was it African? Some thought itBabylonian. It does not matter.

Men will always fight among themselves, sexually,politically, socially. I have realized this for years. Can it be that thisrealization urged me to fly, to escape perversion and mediocrity? Flying can bea celebration of the mind.

Well, sex means little to me now. Silence means more.Friendship. Calm. Hope. Ai, those workshops of my youth were so noisy. Oncrowded streets. Near alleys. Vendors howling their wares. Mule teams.Horsem*n. One of my workshops was close to a smithy. Steel on steel mixed withpalavering.

Amboise is my silent bottega, walkways, garden,flowers. Here I have so many of my favorites: nasturtiums, ranunculas, roses,poppies, violets, iris, pansies.

Maturina keeps flowers in my studio and my bedroom.

Writing in the sun along the Loire, remembering, remembering:

Irecall details of my dissections of pigeons... Sketching, measuring, I con­centratedon bone structure of the wings, then the tail, the balancing properties of theentire bird. Using those dimensions I calculated wing lengths and wing widthsfor my glider. I laid out a narrow area for a man to lie on, exactly betweenthe wings.

I constructed the glider with the aid of my apprentices. Ilaunched it at Mount Ceceri. Ceceri seemed the likeliest hill since windcurrents had to be strong, and constant. Men lifted, pushed, yelled.

“Now...now!”

I dipped into the wind, slid with the wind, lifted. Itseemed to me that I hov­ered for a while above a big willow. Rooftops. Then, inspite of my attempts at balancing, the wing swung down, dropped, spun... Icrashed.

That wing measured 15' x 3' x 9'.

I can visualize Milan’s pink and red buildings, its fortressCastello between moats, its drawbridges, the fumbling city walls, the filthystreets. Though not as old as Rome, I often felt Milan’s shabby antiquity. Itwas a lesson in futility. So many sieges: 1497, 1500, 1512...militaryengagements that disrupted every fiber of living. (There is nothing like thefilth of a city under siege.)

During the last siege, in 1515, the cannonades drove me outof the city. In my absence my apartment—with its view of the Alps—was looted byriffraff.

The city gates...I remember them: Porta Comasina, PortaRomana, Porta Ori­entale. Near the Orientale I found a bronze figurine, on oneof my walks. Its small head had been uncovered by a recent rain. A priest, carryinga rice bowl.

HowI worked during those Milanese years: apses, loggias, transepts, win­dows,frescos! Survival jobs. “This door needs immediate repair...place thatmedallion lower...no red marble here...” I could not equal Donato Bramante’sarchitectural skill. Friend, I wished him well.

Did I spend almost three years in the Castello, in thosemaddening salas, those perfumed rooms? The only place to avoid the stench ofsewage. I urged the Duke to plan a city with upper and lower thoroughfares, acity where there was air space to lessen the danger of plague. Fifty thousanddead in ’09.

Sieges...death...

Milan...all focused on my cenasolo...my Mariadelle Grazie...that refectory...that was my world...those faces, thoseoutspread hands, that table...there is more than one way to break bread...morethan one cup.

Cloux

It is satisfying to return to my study of curvilateralstars: evenings, after I have had supper, I begin—if there are no royalinterruptions. The cat now curls at my feet, as I sit at my desk among mylamps.

Perhaps Michelangelo and I can become friends.

To amuse him I roll balls of paper and snap them across thefloor. He responds—with an obvious effort.

Iwork to reduce a segment of a circle proportionally so I can make any number ofidentical segments which in sum are equal to a segment subtended by a side of ahexagon inscribed in the circle. I can make any number of curvilateral stars ofwhich the sum of the triangles is equal to the sum of the segments sub­tendedby the side of a hexagon inscribed in a given circle.

I much prefer doing this to working on the plans for thechâteau at Romo­rantin.

The point of the center, where there is no movement,suggests peace.

Cloux

April 9th

Today, I had a brief letter from Salai.

I remember the Arno at sunset, the yellow and the gold, theyellow under­neath the gold, the gold identical to gold leaf, a metallic sunsetoverlaid with misty hues, the bridges silhouetted, the darkest spans cut out ofcharred steel. The force of sunlight lay between each bridge and turned theriver banks violet, the violet merging into cobalt.

Ai, to walk there, to think there, again!

As a boy I used to fish there, but never had much luck. Papainsisted that the tastiest fish came from the Arno. He was a good fisherman andshould have known. Maybe fishing was better in his day. I wonder if there areany fish in the Arno now?

Fishing or wading or splashing in the river—that was a halfcentury ago.

April 11th

IL CAVALLO

I solved all the construction problemsin 1493. Bronze horse. Bronze rider. Weight of horse: 185,000 pounds. Horse tomeasure 23 feet from hoof to mane. Total height: 34 feet from hoof to helmet ofrider. Total weight of horse and rider: 205,000 pounds.

The Horse:

We began to pour the metal at night, a team of sixteen men.We had metal from salvage. Our caldrons blazed as the metals combined. We hadour supply of wood stacked under a thatch, another supply in a shed. As weworked the shed ignited and burned. Shouts. Orders. Warnings.

Shortly before dawn some militiamen arrived—drums, notsunrise. The com­mandante of the city fortresses—on the Duke’sorders—requisitioned all bronze for armament. I read the Duke’s order... Iread, and stepped aside.

And the Duke lost his city, and his life. His horse.

Cloux

April 12th

Albiera Amadori—Myfriend Albiera was as beautiful as her name, beauti­ful to me, beautiful to herfamily, her friends—all who knew her. In my sketches she appears as an angelicone, an ideal woman. She was delicate. Always. Busy with her large family, herhousework, yet stealing time for her lute. There in her garden, among heririses. There in her garden, by her fountain. Singing as she played. Dark hair,dark tint under her eyes. Her voice a little frail. Perhaps she was too goodfor us, although we loved her dearly.

After she died I used to visit her grave and bring orarrange flowers. Her little bronze bust had a special place in my studio.

“Albiera,” I hear Florentine voices calling.

Somewhere perhaps in the château garden—a bird sings andseems to say: “Al - bi - era.”

Cloux

April 14, ’18

Tomorrow evening, Pietro Papini will play his lira dabraccio for us, music I composed in Milan, when friend Atalante and I playedand sang. Papini is Court maestro and master of the lira. He’ll be playing hisamusing instrument—mous­tached mascherone on the sound box.

Good Francesco has searched through my manuscripts forrebuses and nota­tions, and he and Papini have put together a song that begins:

Amore sol la mi fa remirare, la sol mi fa sollecita.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Princess d’Arezzo will wear a gold mask I designed for her.Pity to hide beauty behind a mask. The King is wearing my skeleton cloak. Threedwarfs will appear as miniature elephants. I will wear a replica of a camel’shead. Francesco is to impersonate a Hindu seer. Countess Benci—sixteen yearsold—will be na­ked except for silver slippers and an Etruscan helmet of silverfoil.

Itwill be gala!

Cloux

I did not know it was raining until one of the King’s pagesbrought me a rain-spattered note, ink and coat-of-arms smudged.

“What is it?” Francesco asked, standing by me protectively,holding the door.

The page grinned and wiped rain off his face. Probably hewas perplexed since he could not understand Italian.

“The King is sick,” I said, reading the note. “He wants meto come to the château and talk to him.”

“In this awful rain!”

Water was sluicing off the page’s cap.

“I won’t let you go out...in this cold rain,” protestedMaturina. “You have no umbrella...it’s being fixed.”

Francesco tugged my sleeve.

“The tunnel,” he said. “We’ll walk through the tunnel, tothe château. It’s been worked on...we’ll keep dry... Shall we?”

So, with torches, the page, and a couple of my servants, weentered the old shaft. Almost at once our torches died out; there was a briskdraft; some of our torches were wet. Somebody went back to the manor house forcandles. The passage was difficult for a tall man. I had forgotten there wereseveral curves. Bats annoyed us. We had to wade across rain pools where water wasoozing in. I stumbled over bricks and stumbled over a rusty cuirass someone hadleaned against the wall.

Holding up my torch I made out crude foreign names andinitials and dates... VITELLI...was it really VITELLI? I thought I saw 1502 onthe wall. Latin names. Gascon. 1601. 1502 again. Cesare Borgia, that Papalbastard had had Vitelli strangled on December 1, 1502. His name went on and on,as we tramped through the tunnel.

My hatred was everywhere.

The page opened the château door, and we ascended severalflights of stairs, walked along halls, were stopped by guards at the King’ssuite.

“His Majesty is asleep now,” a guard said.

Borrowing umbrellas and raincoats, we returned to the manor,preferring the paths and the road to the tunnel route.

How fitfully I slept while in Cesare Borgia’s camp...likeAlexander the Great I slept with the Iliad and a dagger under my pillow.

Itwas Niccolò Machiavelli who stole horses for us—made our escape possi­ble...horses...rain...allnight the two of us rode through the rain.

Fibonacci’s dog-eared book, Liber Abaci, stillinterests me: what tattered cov­ers, foxed pages, and scribbled margins! Toomany fingers have flipped through this book. No matter... I have tried hisfamous rabbit problem once more and then once more. I see that each number isthe sum of the two preceding num­bers, continuing ad infinitum. And itis true I can divide Fibonacci’s number (after the fourteenth in his sequence)by the next highest in number: it is precisely .618034 to 1.

.618034 is nature’s proportion—her golden mean: it exists insunflower seeds, shell spirals, spider webs, ferns, the perfect rectangle, inplaying cards, the Parthenon’s façade.

Another night of memories, a night for murder. Incessantwind, rain...

Vitelli...

Butthere was more than this young man’s death. There was Giamina Andres daFerrara. GAF.

The officials of Milan murdered GAF...the officials!: Theyhad him hung, drawn, and quartered, in the Public Square.

GAF.

I fled to Mantua, as if I could forget in Mantua!

So much of life is fleeing.

So much is trying to forget.

Rain...

Those youthful faces...Vitelli, 24 years old...Ferrara, 33years old...artists... good men...friends.

Perhaps there is something to be said about this remotechâteau, this little manor house, these woodlands, paths, fields, this Loire; Ishould be able to put these things together and say something; when I am alonehere, or alone with Francesco and Maturina, when I sit in my studio or in thelibrary or walk in the fields or along the Loire, I hear something like wisdom:it seems to suggest greater dedication, calm, calmness, like a stag in aclearing, alert, watching.

August 15, 1518

Another summer at Cloux.

(I have not written my journal for months).

Birds—orioles and finches—are singing along the river.Willows and birds for miles. Old trees, some of them half-drowned by a heavyrain, seem deter­mined to flourish. Where the Loire widens, meadows of waterform islands.

Yesterday or the day before, Francesco and I spent most of amorning searching for a species of frog that interests me. We crossed andrecrossed the river at shallow points.

Close to the château, by the tenth century bridge, I wadedover slippery rock. There I fell. Old shanks!

I’ll just lie here...the pain won’t last...

“Maestro, your sketchbook is ruined...let me help you!”

I was overcome by my own weakness, by the ugliness of mybony legs. It’s true I’m an old man!

August 20, ’18

Sometimes France becomes alive—not in the geographic sense:it comes alive as a fresco of bogged willows, a row of pencil-pointed cypress,a field of yellow rye, a woodland village, a pagan altar, a tired bridge, aflock of charcoal ravens ...these are the enchantment, along with Augustcicadas and August storms.

Swans and cygnets are also there, and a knight in armor!

I stand at my studio window: there, below me, stretches thegarden and the garden leads to the woodland and just inside the first fringe oftrees is a stag.

From the château I watch the blue water of the Loire flowingby; the blue water changes to grey: the Seine.

I taste the antique taste of time and illusion: my telescopefocuses on wayfar­ers: I see them in mirrors: years of princes, priests,soldiers, artists.

Maturina is Italy: toothless, sickly, yet eager to carry-on!Smiling, smelling of grease and herbs, she offers me her famous soup, herharicot beans, her red jam, her Vinci cheese.

Behind her, as she sets my table for supper, gawks a youngMidi apprentice (a possum-faced individual). The Midian is talking aboutBrussels sprouts, how her mother used to prepare them. When she takesMaturina’s place and her teeth fall out, she will be ready to impart herculinary skills to someone else.

Cloux

September 14

Suddenly, Francis appeared in my studio.

He was dressed entirely in black, his suit sewn with pinstripes of diamonds and pearls. We embraced warmly. We had not seen each otherfor several weeks...

‘‘What has happened to you?” I asked, shocked by hisappearance, for his hair had been scorched and trimmed; his forehead was livid;his cheek was scarred by burns; his chin had been gashed.

“It happened at Romorantin,” he said, laughing loudly at me.“Didn’t you hear about the accident?”

“I heard something about an accident but I didn’t know itwas serious. I’ve been in Paris, with Francesco. What happened to you at thechâteau?”

“Come, don’t take it so seriously, Mon Père. I’m all right.The scars will dis­appear. My hair will grow back. I came to talk with you, toget away from the roisterers at the château... I need a little peace andquiet.”

“But what happened to you at Romorantin?”

“Games...we were playing games in the field alongside thechâteau. It was dark. I shoved a wicker basket over my head and one of mycronies set fire to it with his torch... I couldn’t yank off the basket.”Francis showed me his burned fingers. “This is what I get for playing the fool.

“Come...let’s go into the studio, where you keep yourfossils from the Alps. I want you to explain again how you have estimated theage of the earth from your shells and ferns. I can’t seem to grasp that theearth is as old as you say it is.

“Look at this rock, Maestro, with the snail imbedded in it.Where did you find it? Did you find it in the Argentière Pass?”

“No, I found it when I climbed Monte Rosa, when I was makingnotes on the quality of light among the glaciers and snowfields. You see thatsnail came from the ocean...it’s an ocean snail...”

Today the new barber trimmed my hair and beard.

He is chief barber for the King, a Corsican, red-faced,rotund, about forty; he seems in the prime of life. As he trimmed my beard heranted about autonomies, puny city against puny city.

“War is a sewer,” he kept repeating. “Man is crap...he isgreat. But he must stop fighting.” All very private, in his red-carpeted shop,mirrored, hung with dirks. One of many small rooms along a château corridor.

As I was about to leave, he said:

“I sing...you like music, I know... I sing for you... I aman exile too, but I sing.”

His tenor voice was at its prime. He poured out song aftersong, as others gathered in the corridor and room to hear him.

(Tomorrow, he will extract a molar for Francesco.)

As I write in my studio, rain splashes across leaded glassand sputters on my autumn fire. I dictate. Francesco nods at his desk; it islate, well after midnight.

Fame, in the figure ofa bird, should be depicted as covered with little tongues instead of feathers.

Pleasure and pain arebest shown as twins, back to back, since they are inseparable.

“No, no,” Francesco objects. “I think we should write downimportant things.”

I agree.

I pick up a paper and read aboutheat...fire...vapors...water sucked from the ocean.

Yes, I must discriminate. I have over a hundred treatises towork on...the days are passing quickly.

“Let’s stop for now... I know it’s late. Tomorrow I willarrange fifteen figures, fifteen nudes, in sequence. On the basis of thosedrawings I will make various comparisons, the horse with man, the legs of frogswith the legs of men.”

Cloux

October 6, 1518

This is my second autumn at the château—cold, cold! Windy.Bundled up, I walk. Maple, oak, chestnut, pine...lightning-scarred oak,crippled pine, friends... I walk alone or with Francesco or the King, paths forevery direction. Alone, or with Francesco, I am aware of the past.

Tonight, at supper, by our studio fire, talking withFrancesco, I talked about my maestro, Andrea.

“I was twenty, like you, Francesco. And I was alwayshungry—like you. An­drea was thirty-five then, maybethirty-six...twenty...thirty-six. I was lucky to have him for maestro.”

His skill with jewelry was something to remember. I rememberhis setting a fire opal in a gold brooch... I’d been his apprentice for severalmonths, maybe a year. Not a word was said while he worked, an entire afternoon.A smile, a nod...

The opal was rectangular and its blob of fire was at itsbase—resembling a setting sun—the gem surrounded by finely woven wires.

And there was a day when Andrea’s famous sphere was polishedand ready. How it glistened! How proud he was, how proud all of us artistswere! We crowded around; we left the workshop to sing a te deum anddrink wine as it was hoisted aloft, to embellish the dome of the cathedral.

“Verrochio...Andrea Verrochio,” we yelped.

And the copper sphere is still there, above the red tiles,unharmed by light­ning.

He was a flawless craftsman with the porphyry and marblewalls of the Medici sarcophagus. And his beautiful putto, boy anddolphin, are loved by everyone.

F’s drawings of Andrea’s David, and his silverpointstudy of Andrea’s great bronze horse are treasures of mine.

Well, his bottega was a place of magic...subtletiesin metal and wood.

Againit’s late. Francesco is playing cards at the château—Parisian girls. The cathas disappeared. Lamps need fixing on my table. Will I every finish revisingthese treatises, re-arranging them?

Di me se mai fu fatta alcuna cosa.

Andrea dead at fifty-three!

Di me se mai...four words...scattered among mymathematical papers, among my drawings: Is anything ever done!

I was twenty...he was thirty-six...genial.

He believed art was the zenith. He asked: What do menrespect most? Laws? Writings? They respect the bronze horse, the jewelednecklace...the alabaster vase...the cameo...the bas-relief...greatmurals...antiquities!

Old thoughts now, but new then, important then.

Andrea often praised such accomplishments. How often wetalked in his small garden, trellised with wisteria and grape, his sister,Margharita, looking after us. He had a scar across his right cheek, a specialsmile because of it. What an aura there was at his home—like nowhere else.Simple, family accord, everyone doing his part.

I remember something Andrea said:

“When I shivered as a child, I knew an angel had passed by.”

Cloux

Manor House

Early morning. Good light. Francesco and I worked at our easelsuntil lunch. Cold.

At lunch, F said:

“I lost again at cards last night... I can’t speak Frenchwell enough to win. It’s lucky for me that everyone’s leaving here thisweekend...off for Paris.”

We talked about Paris and the King’s departure (how desolatehe would leave the château!): we talked about the Alps. I mentioned my climbsand the fossils I found...the caves...with shells on the floor... I showed F mymemory-sketch of huge male bison painted on the granite walls of a cave,painted there before any Florentine painted. I tried to find a primitivecarving on a piece of bone but couldn’t locate it: I wanted him to realize howclever those ancient artists were.

F was interested in the avalanches, and asked me the bestseason for a climb. He will ask his father to accompany him on an Alpinetrip...he’s eager to return to his beautiful Vaprio. I certainly understand.Last month the Melzis renewed their in­vitation but I lack the strength to makeanother move; perhaps, in a year or two, I might leave here without offendingthe King—perhaps I can obtain a commission in Milan; then I could use the VillaVaprio for my base.

In the afternoon, because it was sunny and inviting, we hadour horses sad­dled and rode through the bois...a fox plumed his tail infront of us... I tried to sketch on horseback but my sorrel was very restless.What fascinating shadows in the woodland—when the sun is low! How to blendthem.

I am confused, cold.

I wrote in my journal a day or two ago, it seems; yet,tonight, I can’t recall the date; I seem to be in an unknown country, notFrance, not Switzerland. This place is not my place. I am somewhere by a warmfireplace fire. What confusion. The fire stares at me.

Through the open doorway I see my canvas of St. John...thepainting assures me. Ah, the King has gone. F has gone. It is as if I had beenasleep.

An assistant and I are making and repairing brushes; we arealso grinding pigments (how hard it is to find someone who cares to do qualitywork); having discovered that my scale is inaccurate I am checking thegrinding. It is no won­der my Saint John colors blend poorly. A faultyscale is a great hindrance.

I am troubled by the shading in John’s face: underneath hiseyes—so impor­tant.

“Patience,” I say to myself.

I have heard that admonition through the years, hollow,utterly sad*stic.

The pleasure in painting is perfection!

I have heard that.

Pleasure and perfection are illusions, friend!

An artist frames his illusions and gilds the frames andpeople gape at the illu­sions and then foster more illusions.

Years ago, as a youngster, I liked to sit in front of themarble façade of Santa Maria Novella.

In the wintertime it could be a balmy spot.

Girls...but I would sit there and imagine that the twinobelisks in front of the church were being lugged off on the backs of theirimmense bronze turtles, four turtles for each obelisk. (What mad sculptordesigned turtles to hold up obe­lisks!) Ai, the marble columns tottered acrossthe piazza; the monks and priests, with penises dangling, dashed out of churchand monastery, shrieking to heaven for help.

Maybe it was helpful to think such ridiculous thoughts;maybe it erased problems; there were always problems...on Sunday no hawkerswere permitted in the piazza...pigeons took over, kids, wings, laughter.

Francis, so young, so arrogant, showers me with praise atevery opportunity. He introduces me to his friends: “My Leonard!” He introducesme as “Mon Père.” He calls me “Maestro...architect...engineer...he’s designingthe main stair­case at Chambord...this is Count de Senlis, a connoisseur ofart.” The Count, an old man, is one of Francis’ “oldest friends.” MonsignorMarais admires my paintings. Lingers. Cardinal Chambiges compliments my workwith sincerity, makes an offer on behalf of his church in Rheims. There areartisans from Suresnes. There is an Italian group, enroute to Paris. However,it is not so much the visitors, the guests, as the King himself—his fondnessfor me.

Surely Cloux is everything I need.

Old paths, old benches, newly pollarded trees, beds offlowers, autumn leaves, moonlight...at night I hear the owls talking.

Cloux

Studio

Winter evenings, cold evenings, before a roaring fire in mywalk-in fireplace, my lamps lit, I sometimes read aloud two or three of myfables. Guests applaud. We enjoy hors d’oeuvres, sip claret. What lavishtrays arrive from the King’s kitch­ens!

The King has a poet in residence who likes to recite femalepoetry—for the pomades and perfumes! He is a hunchback, with a sharp tongue andtragic grey eyes in his young blond face. Courtiers tell me he has completed anepic poem about my Battle of the Anghieri...

Acouple of weeks ago, Galeazzo, a local hunter, dragged a bear cub into mystudio. He was quite docile for a while and then became too frisky, and had tobe led away. Galeazzo promises to bring him again, and I will sketch him.

Francesco found this fable of mine in an old notebook, oneof those I used to keep in Italy:

Astone lay on a mound where an attractive woodland shaded it. Herbs and flowersof many colors grew around. As the stone looked about, at the stones in theroad winding below, it wanted to drop down onto the road.

The stone said to itself: “What am I doing, sitting here,among these plants all day long? I want to be with the other stones, my sistersand brothers.”

So, during a heavy rain, it managed to roll down and stopamong the rocks of the road. In a short while it began to feel the weight ofthe cart wheels, the crack of horse and mule hooves, the tramp of cattle, thekick of travelers’ shoes. A man knocked the stone to one side, another spilledtrash on it. A cart wheel chipped it. The dung of a cow splattered it. Theroadway became very hot.

The stone gazed back at the placeit had left—its place of solitude.

This is what happens to those who think they can livetranquilly in cities.

Francesco feels this is my best fable, although he does notthink much of any of them:

“Remember, Maestro, you are not Aesop.”

A nut, carried by a raven to the top of a tall campanile,fell into a chink. As it lay there, it asked the wall, by the grace of God andthe fine bells in the tower, to help it survive since it had fallen into achink without any soil. The wall was sympathetic and was glad to help the nutroll into a place where there was soil. After a time, the nut began to splitand send out roots. Soon the roots worked their way between the stones of thetower. As it grew stronger it began to destroy the campanile.

The old tower bewailed its destruction, but itwas too late!

Tonight, Francesco and I have been working for hours: hesits at his big desk with two water-lamps close to his bearded face, hissilhouette on the wall. He is only twenty-two, but appears to be older in thelamplight.

He will be a great painter, when he is free of my influence.He should set up an atelier of his own in Florence or Milan. He comes alive inMilan. He endures this exile out of respect for me: for him I am both maestroand father (in his own father’s eyes the world of art is unimportant). In hispatient, almost ecclesi­astical voice, Francesco repeated the outline we haveprepared; here are items we have sorted out for further evaluation:

1 - The inequality in the concavity of a ship.

2 - Inequalities in the curves of the sides of ships.

3 - Investigations as to the best positions of the tiller.

4 - The meetings and unions of water coming from differentdirections.

5 - A study of shoals formed under river sluices.

6 - The configuration of the shores of rivers and theirpermanency.

These studies should be of value to mariners.

Francesco finds that much of the information I had recordedis spotty.

Tomorrow we will begin with item 1.

October 28, ’18

A lavish autumn!

Gold leaves float on the river, and, as I walk along,admiring them, a hand­some riderless horse crosses, shakes his mane vigorously,plunges wherever the water is deep, then stands on the shore for a few moments,regarding me.

Again and again the fog becomes total master here: blanketedby this Loire curtain, we are obliterated almost nightly: a visitor would havea hard time locating the château. King Francis, and his retinue and parasites,have fled to Paris for the winter.

I have hours to contemplate his Italian plunder: in hissalons, his superb col­lection of Mazzoni marbles—twenty-one major pieces.

I study and admire the King’s Bataille tapestries. Myprivate gallery. My autumn sun, as well. Sometimes Francesco makes the gallerya gallery for two. With autumn rain or wind. He sketches a Mazzoni bust; Isketch a Mazzoni fig­ure. I am learning to appreciate the man’s skill: it helpsmy exile.

Yesterday, as I left the château, the handsome horsere-appeared, trotting along a path that leads into the forest. Bobbing his headas if in recognition, he walked toward the manor house with me. He’s a grey,with mixed mane. It was growing dark and his color blurred into the dusk.

I came to Amboise three, or was it four years ago?

The easel of time totters against invisible walls.

I grow thinner.

Maturina urges me to eat more.

“Give up your vegetarian food. Let me fix you a strong beefsoup...let me casserole a chicken!”

A letter from Salai.

He is completing his house on the vineyard property. Asusual, his letter is brief—painfully brief. Where is the love we once shared? Iknow that friendships are like old clothes, they wear out. But we were morethan friends.

If we live long enough we may achieve maturity: we will havethe past to guide us: we will confront the future more wisely: I write this,wondering about myself: is this something, this saying, that applies to someoneelse? I know that blind courage sustains me. I know that somehow we mustcircumvent the Cesares and Savonarolas.

December 2nd

At Vinci, winter, spring, summer, we used to attend earlyMass: Mother had her favorite seat, near the altar, close to her Jesus: Iremember her somber clothes, her yellow hair in a spiral. Her face was the faceof a madonna, and the way she looked at me lit up my face; so, we walked, handin hand, or with her hand on my shoulder. Through the years I have seen uswalking there, at Vinci, a hundred times: were we always alone together? Itseems that way. Was the church beautiful? It seems so.

She disapproved of the sermons:

“Latin rote...I can teach you...listen to me.”

I listened.

“There are three things for you to remember. One isgentleness. The other: honesty. The third: beauty. Look...look at this sky, theclouds, the birds, our cypress trees, our church.”

I looked.

December 4th

Alone, walking in the fog along the Loire, in the earlymorning, I saw him. Magnifico. Crossing. Splashing. Approaching.

Thatnight he appeared in a dream: the Christ of my mural was walking along besidehim, His hand buried in Magnifico’s thick mane. Christ was saying somethingabout feeding him: plenty of grain in your stall, we must see to that.

A week or so ago, Judas visited me. In the dream he seemedto be standing at the foot of my bed: he complained about the cold, the fallingsnow: his face had become scarred; he appeared much older. Feeble.

Alone...I have learned there is something sacred about beingalone. I was...

For next Saturday and Sunday

Write to Machiavelli—invite him again

Draw steering armature for bicycle

Collect leaf specimens along Loire

Re-sketch stairway at Romorantin

Invite the King—arrange sketches for him—show himFrancesco’s copy of

my Salvator

Cloux

Visiting here, the Parisian architect, Pierre Arconati,admires my canvas of Saint John and my Mona. What a genial man, a student ofthe masters, devoted to all of the arts, dapper, young, fluent in Italian, hebrought a portfolio of exqui­site architectural renderings of Parisiancommissions.

I showed him my drawings for the Chambord and Romorantinchâteaux. We went over them in detail and he was especially interested in myspiral staircase. He, too, is a vegetarian. We had lunch together and swappeddietary ideas. Of course he can find unique foods in Paris—things we can’tobtain at Amboise.

As I showed him around the château and manor house, he wasenthusiastic about living in the country...when the gardeners’ pet fawn ate outof his hand, he turned to me:

“I find the city difficult... I hope Amboise is right foryou,” he said. “How did you like Rome?”

Here is my list of drawings and sketches at Cloux, work Iwish retained:

Façade of aresidence.

Dome of a church,with cupolas.

Lock on a canal.

Motor, with fallingweight and ratchet arrangement.

Proportions of man(Vitruvius).

Star of Bethlehemplant and spurge.

Machine forgrinding telescopic mirrors.

Life preserver.

Parabolic compass.

Sforza horse(Cermonino).

20 silverpointdrawings of horses.

Sketch ofsailboat. Weaving machine.

Pincers forhoisting heavy objects.

Sketch ofwindmill.

Planetary clock.

Parachute.

Birds in flight—30.

Man in flight.

Gliders.

Helicopter.

Insects.

Drawing of GinevraBenci.

Crayon of CeciliaGallerani.

Silverpoints ofBoltraffio, Salai, Marco d’Oggiono, Francesco Melzi.

Head of Christ.

Disciples.

Series of LastSupper drawings.

Astronomy:distance of sun and earth.

Anatomy: 60drawings—

Musclesof upper limbs,

musclesof legs,

musclesof back.

Bonestructures,

veins.

Completeskeleton, skull, hands.

Studies of horsesfor Adoration of the Magi.

Preliminaries for Leda.

Studies for Anne.

Saint John.

Geologic studies.

Deluge drawings.

Châteaux drawings.

Fifty Years of Work:

N.B. I have destroyed188 drawings. I have retained several maps, and I may retain several drawingsof people here at Amboise. Francesco is to destroy most of the militarysketches and drawings because many are lifted from old books and manu­scripts.It was my intention to compile an encyclopedia of machines of all kinds.

1519

Cloux

January 3, 1519

am very tiredafter a long horseback ride. Francesco and I rode miles along theriver—exploring. Where the ground became swampy we road through forest (theKing’s Forest), following vague roads and paths. Somewhere, in the thick of thewoods, we roused an elk. The animal crashed into a ravine, and disappeared. Wesaw fox and squirrel, ravens, an owl. The bird was dumbwitted on a stump, toosleepy, too careless to fly. At a clearing we alarmed poachers who raced off,leaving their slaughtered buck, their bows and quivers beside it.

Tired of the thick shade and themonotony of old trees, we headed for Amboise, but soon found out that we werelost. It was a tedious ride before Francesco detected the sound of water; itwas good to dismount and drink at the Loire.

Back in our saddles, we trottedalong a sandy road, wide enough for a car­riage. Cecchino began to sing andwhistle. There was sunlight. Evening clouds built up a sunset. Presently we sawthe hulk of Amboise in the distance.

So we began the new year!

“Bonne Année!” Francescoyelled at the château walls.

January 7, 1519

Beatriced’Este—Painting Beatrice d’Este was troublesome because she seldom kepther sittings. She was moody, flighty. Her sallow features defied changes in lightand shade. I wanted to impart a special quality to her portrait, a sense ofyouth, interest beyond the face itself. I tried animals in her arms, birds,flowers.

“You’re too fussy, Leonard...allthis bother...let’s get the ugly thing finished! You don’t remember that I’mbusy. When I’m late, you fuss at me. Scowl. To­morrow is the Spring Ball, yes,yes, it’s tomorrow!” And she would babble on, in French, in Italian, stamp herfoot, gesture, swear. Child-wife, she was child-model.

She felt I should concentrate on herfavorite jewels, her rubies, her pearl snood, her diamond shoulder-pin!

“I insist,” she would storm.

It was Boltraffio who painted herjewelry—when she was away from the stu­dio.

“I hope the paint cracks on herjewels,” he snorted, disliking her.

When she died, in ’96, I tried tovisit the Duke, to present the finished por­trait. He refused to see me.Inconsolable, I was told.

Beatrice was twenty-two ortwenty-three when she died; she had been mar­ried to Ludovico for seven years.Everyone said the Duke loved her profoundly. He also adored his mistress,Lucrezia. He also adored Cecilia. Love, for Duke Ludovico, was living.

Inconsolable?How long was he inconsolable?

Ginevrade Benci—I painted her in the autumn and painted autumn into her hair,painted it into the juniper trees in the background, in the dress she wore, inher eyes.

I was twenty-two!

She was a sickly person, cold;yet I admired her: she posed with patience, understanding my tedious brushstrokes, praising my skill. A woman of scientific inclination, she had learnedmuch from my friend Amerigo, her geographer father.

When I studied geography withAmerigo, at his home, she would appear from time to time, and I would try tomemorize the contours of her face, the coloring of her skin in differentlights, her bearing. I wanted to appreciate her personality.

Sometimes, in the studio, Ginevrawould preach her father’s ideas; I think she was trying to see how much Irespected his concepts as cartographer. She could be rude, blunt. She tried tosail to the New World. She wanted to be the first woman to circumnavigate theworld. She thought I had no right to discourage her.

“You are no sailor... I have sailed morethan you!”

In her boldness, she dictatedchanges in her father’s maps. This was forty-five years ago, when some of usbelieved Virtutem Forma Decorat.

Cloux

January 10, 1519

CeciliaGallerani—It was totally different with Cecilia’s portrait: the paintingand the sittings went well.

As Ludovico’s fourth or fifthmistress, she had learned artfulness: she was smiles, warm hands, long, slenderfingers, warm embraces, kisses. Always in agreement. Soft-voiced. Fond ofpoetry. Music. Enjoyed eating, sipping wine, walking, flowers. When we were inbed together, she knew how, when. Her breasts were small. Ivory. Her body wascompact, delightful. The shape of her skull was more to my liking than anywoman’s.

I like to think that all of mymodels are still alive...

Here is Cecilia’s ermine, eatingfrom his dish...he’s very much alive...here he comes, trotting across thefloor, jumping into her lap, cuddling, ready for another pose.

Cloux

February 2, 1519

Tomorrow there is to be asumptuous banquet in the château, again royalty. Three hundred guests, I hear:Germans, Dutch, Austrian, Swiss, two or three British, a Greek potentate; themajority will be Parisians and the château people. I will have one of mypuppets, dressed as a hunter, in fur cap, etc., relate my fable about the greatelk of Scandinavia.

I have constructed a papier-mâchélion—in yellow, black, and pink. He will walk a few steps down the center aisleof the banquet room, growl at the guests, then open his mouth to reveal abouquet of white lilies.

Last week I was ill (my wholebody ached), and I could not attend the masque ball.

At the ball, boxers fought in anarena, sawdust-floored; there were Swiss dancers and yodelers; sword swallowersperformed: they are the rage now.

Michelangelo sleeps on my lap.

Cloux

February 11

Outside, as I write, a girl issinging, in the chilly, windy afternoon:

Châtaignespiquantes!

Châtaigneschatouillantes!

Quechatouillent la cuisse,

Maisqui piquent la poche!

Now I hear another child—an Italian, aboy of six or seven, way back in time, singing, as he runs an errand.

When I was a boy...it’s true...Iwas happy: Mother made me happy: hand in hand we walked, at sunset time...sheliked to sing as she worked in her kitchen...we sometimes sang together, “breadsongs,” she called them.

I made drawings for her, littlegifts, on scraps of paper, a flowering geranium, a lizard, the figure of a claydog...

Vinci...its hills, its sun, thetrees, the caves, the rocks...they made me happy...grapes made me happy, the clairette,pinkish and very sweet; the yellow-green muscats, so fat...grapes,laughter...kindness...

I still taste those grapes onMaturina’s table.

Cloux

In the afternoon heat, it was along drive to Pliny’s Villa, outside Rome. Enroute, I witnessed some of thewretchedness of Rome’s slums; we were detained by waifs and by a number ofmentally retarded. My driver’s glib humor, levelled at the poor, gnawed at meuntil we reached the villa among its cypress and olive. There I walked throughderelict rooms, some with views of the Tyr­rhenian Sea...summer rooms...winterrooms...dining rooms...library. I saw swim­ming pools, fountain, turrets,Numidian columns, Luna marble. The sea boomed and Pliny, the upright Roman,governor, senator, consul, killer of Christians, stood before me in his whitetoga:

P - I respect your portico muralbut it must be finished by the New Year. Our banquet hall will be ready at thattime...we are preparing festivities—you understand. Your unicorn motif isoverdone in color...several sea creatures are neglected, it seems to me.

LdV - Then you are dissatisfied?

P - I wouldn’t say that, butchanges, changes might be made.

LdV - A matter of details,perhaps?

P - Correct. A matter of details.You are to consult with Valerius. He will...

LdV - And your payments? I mustremind you...they’re in arrears.

P - You will speak to Antonius, mysecretary. This is a bad season...the har­vests are poor... I haveobligations...charities. It was exceedingly hot in Rome today...good evening.

And those walls, mosaics,turrets, frescoes, pillars, arches; what sort of luck had their artisans, fifteenhundred years ago? The opulence of Pliny...the opulent sea...millions ofsesterces...banquets...Nero...Otho...Titus... Can Rome become an art center?

After exploring the villa, I atemy bread and cheese by the shore, sitting on the sand. Sketchbook on my lap, Isketched seabirds and a torn shoreline tree.

Kicking aside leaves from amosaic floor, I visioned a mosaic: in my mosaic of green, brown and white weresquared circles, spirals, nudes, sea horses.

A pretty girl passed by, sellingfigs from a shoulder basket. I bought six, three for me, and three for thedriver.

Cloux

Was it ten years ago, atPiombino, that green shadows sprawled across the walls of bayside houses, withsun, hot sun, on the bay? Sun on the moat of the town’s doddering fortress, onthe plumed helmets of its entry guards.

I made sketches at the harborsideinn, made them on a long balcony table; I made harbor maps and drawings for awindmill; I added sketches of a spool-winding machine; I remember I evolved mymachine for polishing crystals. My sketchbook filled...my ellipsograph, my newperspectograph, a pair of improved compasses.

Yesterday, as I sorted thesesketches, memories came back.

And here at the château, I mustsee to it that the pale, long-legged, crooked-nosed Frog finishes my brasscompass. He has kept me waiting for more than a month—these dilatory French!Can the artist live forever—like a Pope!

At Piombino, a fisherman helpedme locate fossils on the beach. A small liz­ard, a multi-veined leaf. What wasthe fisherman’s name? Giorgio? Paolo? Doesn’t matter. We became friends.Bearded rogue. Fat. In his rowboat, we sailed the harbor, weathering calms andwild gusts, in and out of bays, eating cheese and bread, sipping port, catchingfish, his oars a pair of misshapen flip­pers. With his tools, at his home,above the bay, I designed oars, shaped them, edged them with thin copper. Whenhe tested them he found that he rowed with ease.

“Fine...Maestro, fine!”

Blue rowboat, blue bay.

We rigged a sail, a drab hunk butit worked. His name? Not Paolo, but Rimini. Obese fishmonger Rimini. Excellentbread was baked by his young, mute wife. Bread, cheese, wine. Rimini oftensang, with his Piombino slurring, sang as we drifted, sang and rowed. We sailedfar away from the odious wars, from weaponry, forts, and death.

Rimini’s gulls, black-tippedgulls, followed his boat, ate out of his hands—perched on my shoulders. Ah,those wings! Those flights!

Occasionally, I slept at Rimini’sthatch, where ducks always woke me. It was pleasant to wake to the quackings ofRimini’s pets. His drake had been his pet for years, I won’t guess how many.But I remember his glossy plumage and proud head, and how gluttonous he was.

When Rimini’s pretty wife (woman)became bedridden I prescribed omitting meat. She agreed, through our signlanguage. Within a week she was out of bed. Rimini had a festa, to honorher recovery. Poor man, he thought me something of a wizard, an ogre, because Icould explain to him what the interior of the stomach was like.

February 13

Francesco and I have spent hoursat the Château Romorantin, where remod­eling of the old rambling building goesbadly. The weather is mean. Cough weather. Stormy. Romorantin is no place tolive in February. My drawing papers go limp there.

The King is seldom around; hisdisreputable workers look as if they had come out of a tenth century nightmare.Some have quit because of the weather; I am told that the head architect issick.

My supervision nets me nothing,does not help the King.

Francesco groans as we make therounds of inspection.

Enroute to Cloux the carriagebreaks an axle as we near the château and manor house. Rain. A few days laterwe backtrack to Romorantin on horses. Carriages would not get through. The suncomes out... Francesco and I work in the main salon.

As I work on my rendering of thenew staircase, an old pine tree crashes against a window, shattering it.Workers snigg*r as I jump and drop my pad. The present stair may collapse atany moment.

We eat lunch before a handsomeGothic fireplace. A woodcutter tosses on chunks... I continue working...theKing appears...he is gone before I can speak to him.

Romorantin again: the Queenoccupies a wing that has been recently reno­vated—she and her court. I havelearned that when the King is too preoccupied with his current mistress, theQueen moves in. Up go her tapestries. Up go her pictures. In go her dogs, cats,guards, maids, pages—and favorite chef.

As Francesco and I strolledthrough corridors, hunting for the illusive archi­tect (now recovered), we finddoors open into the Queen’s suites; there is sun; the weather has improved; atone of the open doorways, Francesco grabbed my arm, and exclaimed:

“Maestro...look...look in there!”

“Where?”

“To the right...through thedoor...on that easel...that’s your painting, your Leda and her swan!”

I can’t believe what I see!

“Yes...yes...” I mumble.

“It’s your painting, your missingcanvas. How did the Queen get it?”

“Come...we’ll find out aboutit...come away...don’t go inside.”

“But it’s yours.”

It was seven or eight years agothat my Leda painting dis­appeared. We blamed this one and that one. Weoffered a reward. The Duke promised to help...

Back at Cloux we have talked andtalked about Leda. What can I say to the King?

Why has he never mentioned thepicture? Had he purchased it from some­one? Had his father purchased it? Was ita gift? Or is it a copy? We could ascer­tain that if we could inspect thepainting. There were too many questions for the moment. We needed to think. Weneeded to concentrate on our work for a few days.

We will talk to people atRomorantin...some of the Queen’s girls will talk...perhaps what Francesco sawis an excellent copy.

The weather improves...but I amdepressed: I will not return to Romorantin.

In the sun (cold sun), Francescoand I ride slowly along the Loire. I hope to see Magnifico.

Horses...

Francis has some of the finest horses inFrance. His stables are comparable to those of the Medici’s.

Though I seldom ride now, exceptto walk the horse or shake my depression, I still visit the stables: I canspend hours there among their warm bodies: I note ears, nostrils, teeth, manes,tails, rumps, shoulders, hides, colors.

Colts.

Mares.

Stallions.

Favorites!

Sickly animals become mine: Ifeed them, pamper them, talk to them, comb and brush them...hostlers aresometimes irritated... I do not care...in that stabled world I become one withanimal life.

I gather grain and fill a trough.

An old girl needs water: howgrateful she is! This beautiful pinto needs lini­ment.

Horses...

My drawings show theirillustrious qualities, their courage, their stamina.

Cloux

A young Parisian portrait artistvisited me; he was wearing a new grey velvet suit (in the King’s honor, hepointed out). With arms crossed on his boyish chest he defended his dedicationto portraiture.

He examined my paintings withfriendly admiration but bristled when I said that it is not enough to paint onething well. I said that anyone studying a single aspect of art for a lifetimecan attain a measure of perfection! An accomplished artist must paint nudes,seascapes, animals, birds, plants.

Spitting into my fireplace,coughing, the fellow said:

“Do you call your Mona Lisa andyour Saint John landscapes?”

I could sense that he was annoyed by myFrench.

So, his handsome, goateed,disappointed face went out in the rain—rain on his velvet suit.

And I began rethinking: why haveI painted few landscapes, seascapes (in the Dutch tradition); why have Ipainted so many madonnas? I should paint deluge scenes, glaciers, Vinci.

Rain on his velvet suit.

How can I continue my journalwhen it grows increasingly difficult to write? Left hand or right hand, I amtroubled. I am troubled in other ways: I walk into another room and can’tremember why I left my desk. Where is that sable brush Francesco brought mefrom Paris? I am unable to recall names. And F—sits there, perturbed, as Iattempt to remember. I also forget facts, and I am at a seri­ous loss. What isto be the outcome? As I review my treatises, I am aware that they are worthy;it seems to me I have an adequate grasp of language; yet. Writ­ing is not my métier:I prefer a silverpoint or a chalk drawing or the infinite pleas­ure of oilcolors. Sitting in the cold window sun, I sip Chablis...

Francesco, wearing his newlytailored suit, continues his portrait of a young woman—progressing nicely. Hehates to lay down his brushes. If I have a sug­gestion it is a minor one; heabsorbs whatever I say with pleasure.

As I stand in his room, beforehis easel, watching his brush, appreciating the light, I think:

“We are moderns...we arescientific artists. The face, a. b. c. d., responds to light on opaque pigment,as we have determined. We realize that a shadow can distort; we must estimatethe value of each overlay...”

Then, sitting down, aware of thepleasant viridian background in Francesco’s painting, my eyes blur: I feel likeI am falling asleep: then, the river horse, my Magnifico, appears inside thepigment.

Yesterday, or the day before,Francesco learned that my Leda is a copy, pur­chased by the King’sfather, five or six years ago.

I do not miss the dirt and stink of the bottegheor the sink holes of Florence, Milan, and Rome. Too often they smelled alike. Botteghewas spilled glue, dust, roaches, flies, antique casts (how quickly they gotbroken), rusted pots, rags, gold leaf (always being stolen), sketches, frames,saws, chalk, nails, rats. Someone was always leaving food around, wine bottles;there were broken bottles, cracked pestles, chunks of clay, mineral samples, stools,grease, brooms (that nobody wanted to use), mauled papers, wastepaper...brushes...brushes...brushes.

To paint, to write, to think.

Life’s chiaroscuro!

Under chestnut trees, in thegrove near the château, I sat alone on a bench, aware of the evening’s beauty;as I sat there, the sun became a red ball behind a string of pines. I felt thatCaterina was beside me, she and Magnifico. I think I
stood and shoved my fingers into Magnifico’s tangled mane as Caterina whis­peredto both of us. It was almost dark but I could outline the oval of her face—hermouth and eyes smiling. Around us, in the grove, the wind was dropping leaves.The night promised to be cold...

Cold.

I looked at the Milky Way, asCaterina and I had in Italy, from our bench in our small garden, while the cityslept. She said something to me about our daughter.

“Who will...”

For some reason, a reason I cannot understand very well (a fumbling rea­son), I have gone through some of myluggage. I have come across some drawn work Mother made: flowers and angels, inperfection: punto en aria. How white the threads—after all these years!I see no lace like hers. She was first or second at every annual festa.

And my father left me a legacyalso: his is a literary legacy of four curt letters, notary letters: our homelife, under his coercion, slowly disintegrated. Coercion and promiscuity. Fatalcombinations. But why glance at ruins? I glance at them because they are a partof me.

Francesco has repaired myportable bathtub. Soon I will be able to luxuriate again.

I hope there are sunny daysahead... I am reading Aesop... Confused, I feel I am repeating myself in myjournal; I must check through my pages. Weariness says I must stop writing andyet as I write I think of the sun in the garden below and the peaco*cks belowand I think of the sun that has burned for me for many years and I think of theshadows I have observed, the shadows of weeping wil­lows, the shadow of alifted marble arm and hand, the shadows of birds... I think of spring foliagecoming...the first spring flowers and there is a wonderful haze in thesethoughts tied in with the sun...the haze makes me feel I am young; I am
able to climb hills, ride Magnifico; tomorrow I start a painting of Herculesfiring his arrows at the Stymphalian birds. As I put away my journal some ofthat light blurs in perspective, and I think how light bends at night whenlamps are lit.

I seem...

Cloux

The date, does it matter?

My right arm has becomeparalyzed. Gradually. It has happened gradually. Now I can not manipulate myfingers. For a while I could manipulate one or two. I hoped they would recover.I think this affliction began on the strenuous ride from Milan to Amboise. Ithink it began in the monastery where I was stricken for a while.

The King’s physicians have triedto help...they are trying to bring back mus­cular control. They have prescribedherbs, poultices, hot concoctions. Strange, very strange, to have a hand thathangs by my side, a hand that does nothing, that is already dead.

Cloux

March 2, 1519

The greater one is, the greaterone’s capacity for suffering. It should be that the greater one is, the greateris one’s capacity for courage and understanding. Why do we suffer?

Nec spe nec metu.

Cloux

March 5

Fifty years ago...fifty!

Whether it was chiaroscuro,sfumoto, encaustic, or other technique, I was sincere. Few days werelong enough.

Florence, fifty years ago...itwas my town. I fitted in. The place is no longer the same. The guilds aredifferent. The workshops are different. Most of my friends are dead or gone.There is another kind of politics.

A half century ago life wasadventure: life was new: friends were new, work was new: there was love. When Iwas accused of hom*osexuality some of that libel pervaded my thinking for years.A personal plague. How easy it was to brand a man in those days: the “telltale”box hung on the church door. You wrote your accusation and dropped it in theslot and scurried off.

So much of life is focused onsex, is wasted on sex. I have been a masturba­tion man. For long my body hasnothing to share with any woman or man. I am immersed in thought. In my bed Ihave loneliness as mate. I patronize no one.

One of the château gardeners, aVenetian, who has been very friendly with me, has presented me with a cagedoriole. In a woven reed cage, painted black.

Black!

I carried the cage outdoors, intothe morning mist; I set it down. The bird fluttered, trembled. How long had itbeen captive? I knelt. I could see where he had chipped off black paint with hisbeak.

Black!

I opened the door.

A male, he battered the reedswith all his strength, found the opening, and hurtled into the sky.

I have forgotten more than I canrecall: perhaps this is true of most of us who have lived a long life. Many ofthe things I have forgotten I have wished to forget. I find it hard to live andharbor grudges, but it is also lack of wisdom to erase the mind; then it may benecessary to experience our mistakes again: that’s being trapped twice; a foxavoids that.

As for survival, I have survivedbecause I found something to discover: dis­covery is the key: new sinew, newmineral, new color, new face, new canal, new lamp.

In Andrea’s studio I discoveredperspective. There is so much about per­spective that eludes one—a continual challenge.

Perspective may be the mostimportant of all the art dis­ciplines. In this branch of science, the beam oflight is best explained by mathematics and phys­ics. Since the axioms are longI will abridge them now:

There are three branches ofperspective: 1 - The first deals with the reasons for the diminution of objectsas they recede, and is known as diminishing per­spective. 2 - The second dealswith the way colors vary as they recede. 3 - The third is concerned with theway objects in a picture must be finished in relation to their proximity. Iamplify these three in my treatise on perspective.

I have admired hands, respectedthem for their capabilities. As I dissected, I marveled at their intricacy andperfection... I admire all classes: the feminine, the masculine, children’shands. I made drawings of my own hands, in the days I could squeeze thecrabprongs of a horseshoe with ease. I remember Mother’s loving hands,Caterina’s sensual hands, Andrea’s clever, slender fingers. There have beenclay and bronze and marble hands. The hands of beautiful women have appeared inmy dreams. I can perceive, as I write, the hands of Christ and those of Hisdisciples.

Perhaps there will be a few,reading this journal, who may care to know some of my thoughts about painting:

a - All colors, when placed inthe shade, seem of equal degree of darkness. b - All colors, when placed infull light, seldom vary from their essential hue. c - The eyes, out-of-doors,in a illuminated atmosphere, perceive darkness behind the windows of houseswhich nevertheless are light. d - The eyes perceive and rec­ognize objects withgreater intensity in proportion as the pupil is dilated.

Sleep is a curiousthing—resembling death.

Sometimes it is totally blank, asdeath must be; sometimes we see destruction. Flames rise. Buildings collapse.Sometimes we hear animals talk. Without mov­ing, they run away from us.Sometimes we fall from great heights—without harm. Sometimes we talk to thosewho are unseen. Sometimes we meet those who can’t speak. If we do not sensedeath in our sleep we may sense confusion. Confusion in black and white. Orgrey. We dream of bucolic scenes in grey, a grey stream, a grey tree, greyboulders. We stroll through grey air, grey birds in the sky.

Now, in color, a great hawkthreatens us. Angels appear. There is a cave with a ragged mouth. It wants toswallow us. Now cadavers threaten. Enemies besiege us.

Now, a friend appears—a childhoodfriend, unchanged by time.

Christ descends from therefectory wall—leaving a terrible hole.

Cloux

March 4, 1519

I am writing very slowly now.

While painting The LastSupper I lived at the Santa Maria delle Grazie some of the time, workingday after day, often sleeping on the floor, on a bench. I painted by day and atnight, with the help of lamps and candles, placing lights on benches, ontables, on my scaffolding. I was altering forms, changing colors, impartinggreater age to a face, lessening the impact of a gesture.

I might stay an hour, or remainfor days: Ai, Matthew’s eyes might move; Luke might raise his arm; John mightturn his head—or so it seemed. I was always there when the light was good;during inclement weather I might shove my key into the lock, and shut the door.A few grapes, some nuts, bread and wine... I didn’t need much food. With abasket or a bowl beside me on the scaf­folding I would go on painting.

I was forty-three.

When Christ’s model became illand finally died, I retouched His face, imparting what I had learned whileobserving the dying man. I remember: to soften the shading I retouched with alamp in my hand, holding it close to His face.

As I painted there were two deadmen watching me.

I discovered Judas when he wasdrunk. I found him in a borghetto, slumped at a table, a big tablesticky with spilled food and wine. Flies. Sipping wine at another table, Isketched him. So it was: I would not have to hunt any longer. That night,although he was drunk and unsteady, I got him to my studio and put a robe overhis rags. We talked, we ate. His name: Carlo Macchini.

Carlo came and went. He neveraccepted a soldi.

Came and went, usually a little drunk.Kindly.

He was an assistant baker. Hatedhis boss, hated his job. Hated.

When I had completed his face inthe fresco, he contemplated it for a while, shrugged, patted me on theshoulder, walked away...not a word... I never saw him again.

Before I finished the fresco,Luke had died. The last I heard about Peter was the news that he had addedanother child to his big family. Ninth. As for Mark...he was living with a prostitute.Sick. No job.

I made many sketches of each man: filledsketchbooks. I worked them into my cartoon...slowly, slowly. I wanted the facesto express the gravity of life; the clothes that they wore must not distract;the food on the table must not distract. I made the tableware similar to thatused by the monks as they ate in the room. It took me almost a month to arrangethe food and dishes. Twenty-six hands must tell their story but notoverdramatize.

I strove for simplicity: thatresolution haunted me. So many times, when rain drummed on the roof of therefectory, as I sat alone, I heard that word: simplic­ity, simplicity of color,design, shadowed by the past.

And while I painted, thebeautiful refectory was flooded by a storm: I saw water two feet deep: pigmentswere washed away, brushes were lost.

Ai, I see it now: at least one ofthe disciples should have had a scarred face, should have been crippledperhaps. Life, in those Galilean days, did not let one escape unscathed. Out ofthe twelve, one would have suffered.

But there, there they are, withtheir Lord.

I had a brief letter from Salaitoday. If he had remained, we would have made our bicycle.

Tomorrow, I...

On my birthday, my friends,Father Luco Pacioli, Phillip, Donato Bramante, Abbaco Alberti, Peter,Francesco, John, Toscanelli, Andrea, Luini, Credi, friars, priests and manyartists, gathered at the Grazie, and we burned lamps and can­dles for the firstshowing of The Last Supper. Standing on a bench, Father Luco said:

“Milan is indebted to ourLeo...to him and Il Moro and the prior and his people. We have watched thefresco come to life. For three years we’ve seen it move along. It has meantsomething special to each one of us. It is Leonardo da Vinci’s miracle. Asymbol of man’s desire for a better life.”

How well I remember those words!

In Milan, my Salvator Mundi attractedcrowds when it was exhibited in my studio. King Louis had expressed his publicapproval of the painting and the curious had to be satisfied. Since General deGalen had come to Milan to deliver the painting to the King, I asked hisprotection. Onlookers came out of the alleys as well as the palace. Alley folkjeered. They shouted “Christ the Juggler;” they called Him “El Puto”...“theglassy-eyed Gascon.”

Riffraff threw mud and garbage.

I had to cover the painting...butthat was yesterday...the jeers and criticism should remain in the past.

Here, at Amboise, at Cloux, allis respect, a respect that originates with King Francis. Courtiers and guestsand workers often approach me in the gardens; we pass the time of day. I getalong best with the gardeners because there are new plants and flowers toexamine and sketch. Sit me on a bench and I am lost by a bed of flowers. An oldmaestro, toothless, stooped, a man from Padua, knows how to please me with aleaf, a flower, a seed.

“These roses I grew in my owngarden...what colors!”

Thinking ofJesus, here in repose, I realize the Savior lacks an aura of gentle mysticism,the aura of my Jesus at the supper table. The globe He holds in His hand lacksthe obvious meaning of brotherhood—the great concern of the dis­ciples. MySavior’s eyes are not the eyes of a shepherd from the hills. He has a cityman’s face. He is younger than the Christ at the table. His benediction is forall men and yet carries a sense of restraint, perhaps a sense of doubt. Perhapsit is my own doubt, a doubt that I feel keenly at Amboise, a doubt that seemsbased on my inability to bring together the meaning inherent in my studies, myoptics, my hydraulics, my engineering work.

Dreams...dreams...

It is evening, and the kitecomes. He grips me in his talons and helps me fly, over the Arno, over thetown; he becomes my black-brown-grey kite with wings 18 feet long, wings ofwood, cloth, wire. I hear the wind.

Francesco has been amused when Idescribe my experience with the kite; however, it is too old a dream, orexperience, for me to dismiss. How many times it has encouraged me.

As I write, I hear someonecalling my name.

April 2, 1519

Again, my health is failing rapidly. Ican not continue my work with my trea­tises. I can not write my journal.Sometimes I can not speak. My vision is going. Francesco and I had begun tobring ends together; I had hoped for days ahead because there is so much toaccomplish.

At night, in my room, the wallsbecome a mural of Amboise, the manor house, the Loire, old bridges, royalty,paintings, rearing horses, Francesco, wings, rocks, caves, Galileanfaces...like maddened bees.

Cloux

April 3

Yes, most of my years were years withoutsexual intimacy. I experienced ecstasy but it was often bitter later on. So, Icomforted myself with sham com­fort. I gained time through my solitary livingand lost time that could have made me more human.

Yes, I had a woman for threeyears.

My own illegitimacy was oftenslammed at me...bastard da Vinci...that stigma harms the mind.

Dedicate?

Of course, dedication...but Ihave explained...art, music, sculpture, geology, mechanics...not one isbastard.

DEDICATE:

A priest outlaws distractions.What is an artist but a priest! Joyous children, sick children, they are partof most married lives...that little girl on your lap, sucking her thumb,kissing you, stroking your beard...she...she is dead.

Here, at the château, there arehall mirrors, mirrors in ornate frames: the art­ist observes himself in thosemirrors: he also sees a rusty spatula and shredded brushes: sometimes, lateafternoons, I see in those mirrors, someone in Milan, I see her smiling, I seethe spiral of her yellow hair.

I hear her laughter.

I hear...but that is ourstaircase creaking. Or is it Francesco working in his studio?

Food has become tasteless.

What is wrong with my châteauwine?

Maturina scolds.

I think of those hungry days asapprentice, when eating was such a pleasure! I think of our kitchen, at Vinci.Mother’s. Fresh bread. Milk from that blue pitcher.

Paix, paix, Satan, allez,paix!

Machiavelli is here. Unexpected.

He is enroute to Paris to collecta bad debt. A man owes him 600 livres. I have offered money. Niccolò is proud,too proud.

He has malaria and shuffles aboutin a great coat though it is warm. Last night by a studio fire he huddled inhis coat. Perhaps Dr. Pedretti can help him. We’ll see tomorrow. As we sat bythe fire, sipping wine, he railed about politics at home—-wretched deceptions.Scoundrels!

Most of his three days have beenspent in bed. In his elegant clothes he bowed before the King. The two gotalong well. Lying and vying. Francis has offered one of his carriages for thetrip to Paris.

Niccolò has lost weight. He wasalways skinny but now he is a shadow of himself. He resents my paralyzedarm...says it is God who is to blame. Then laughed—or was it a sneer?

He thinks Amboise is a truehaven.

He is wonderfully clever with histongue, Latin, French or Italian.

Sometimes loneliness hasembittered me.

Last night I asked Francesco tocome to my bedroom, though it was late. He came and sat by my bed. Heunderstands my sickness; and he also knows he is going back to his Vaprio.

It was a cold night. A fire burnedin my fireplace.

Francesco wore his grey woolgown, stared at me sleepily, flames on his thin cheek bones, on his hands,bringing out their veins.

Cloux was forgotten as I talkedof home and my mother and my first days in Florence, at the Verrochio, firstdays so different from Francesco’s first days when Florence had more patina. Irambled on about Milan and my paintings and the siege and Milan’s bombardmentand deaths—pell-mell thoughts. Francesco brought cups of wine. For us this wasa father/son relationship. We two had been father and son since we left Italy,since Francesco cared for me during the big snow at the monastery. It pleaseshim that King Francis often addresses me as “Mon Père.”

Ivory-faced madonnas...regalpomp...commissions that failed, com­missions that succeeded...my flyingwing...I was reliving my life! Francesco asked about the men who had posed for TheLast Supper. Faces, thoughts, words...flooded. We talked about Peter andJames and Matthew; we found drawings of Jesus and He seemed real in thefirelight.

Francesco added two or three logsto the fire.

He brought in a wine bottle andrefilled our glasses.

Wind gusted smoke into the room.

We talked about Paris and ourtrip there. I told him that Rome was far more interesting than Paris. I relatedthe story of the mirror-man, at the Vatican apartment: that story involved mein anguish. I stopped talking, to listen to the wind.

We talked of fishing in theLoire...when?

“Tomorrow,” I suggested.

“It’s tomorrow now,” he said,laughing.

“How time gets away from us.”

“Maturina will be rattling thebreakfast dishes soon.”

“Then you had better get somesleep.”

“Good night, Mon Père,” Francescosaid, and laughed that good laugh of his.

So, you won’t paint again! Whereyou are going you won’t hear the pestle grinding pigment. How insignificant my sketches,my trees, faces, water...as a boy I thought every sketch would open up theworld a little more.

It was only a month ago I madethe four small bronze horses, moulded the graceful contours of Andrea’sface...it was only a year ago that...

I hate the body’s frailty, thatdead arm! Work was life, but no, there were hours to prowl the hills, to climbthe Alps, to sit by the sea. Maturity came dur­ing those hours as well asduring the hours of work. I remember, while painting The Supper...

I remember a little plant in theevening light, that frail light that shadowed the corolla. I remember a sorrelleaf, I remember a small fern. Small? What is small versus big? I should know.

A madonna in the eveninglight—her smile.

And the world shrugs.

Pigments reveal how I haveerred...tell me green, tell me saffron, tell me roy­alty, tell me death.

And you, red chalk, speak!

Cloux

We think we are learning how tolive but we are only learning how to die.

I, Francesco Melzi, write:

Maestro Leonardo da Vinci is dead.

He died at Cloux, in the manor house,

on May 2, 1619.

He was sixty-seven years old.

Cloux

April 4, 1519

DURING THE LASTWEEKS OF

LEONARDO DAVINCI’S LIFE,

I, FRANCESCOMELZI,

RECORDED THEMAESTRO’S THOUGHTS,

AS HE DICTATEDTHEM:

ou ask me what myapartment was like in Milan? It was an apartment of tapestries and antiquefurniture, paintings, mine and others. Sculptured pieces. I bought many thingsat the Thieves’ Market. My Camjac tapestries covered three walls. Made the roomwarmer. My paintings covered the fourth. This was my sala. A largestained glass window faced the street. You remember that street, of course.Lodi Street. Western exposure. Hot in summer. Dusty. But my apartment was onthe fourth floor, had a wide, shaded balcony. There was a small courtyard ofplants and a pair of little tiled fountains with squirting fish. Sometimes thecourtyard was a refuge. Cypress. Old ones.

“With my big iron key, I steppedinto my rooms. Five. My studio had good light. Of course I painted the wallsblack. You would have admired my Roman pieces, heads, busts. You, my friend,were living in Vaprio then.”

We moved his bed into the sun,and pulled open the drapes. He enjoyed lying there. “Spring is beautiful,” hesaid.

Cloux

April 5, 1519

Da Vinci talks to me withdifficulty. However, I go on:

“Perhaps those years in Milan were the busiest years of mylife. Irrigation projects, The Last Supper mural, easel paintings, thehorse...yes, the horse... cartoons. I tried to interest the authorities in anideal city. I made models for them. Planned double-decked streets. Vehicleswould use the lower level, pedestrians the upper. There would be proper sewage.I wanted to show men that the plague might be avoided through sanitation.”

He has eaten a little fruit, and sipped some wine.

“In Milan, I went on with my anatomical studies, this timeworking in a clean hospital, with proper light. I had adequate leisure. Idissected male and female ...eight or ten cadavers...over the years. Made mydrawings in various media.

“Illness laid me low...

“I never trusted physicians. They know nothing of anatomyand less about illnesses. I suffered alone—with my servants. They fed me,administered my concoctions...my kidneys. Nature cured me. After about six orseven months I was able to get about, to walk, stride along. There was kindnessthen...but kind­ness is your specialty...your kindness has never failed me.”

Cloux

April 6, 1519

“Remember this—I was forced to work for Cesare Borgia.Remember, Vitelli and I tried to refuse him. Refusal was impossible. We werelike hostages in Bor­gia’s camps. Of course we wanted to escape...planned...wewere afraid. Pay was high. So...we continued ours jobs as cartographers. Closefriends, fellow artists, we looked to each other for support.

“As I sketched Borgia I realized his animosity. Vitelli andI were aware that his soldiers disliked us. They made it pretty obvious most ofthe time. I talked to Niccolò Machiavelli about this antagonism. He scoffed.Laughed at me.

“Yet Borgia, always demanding, arrogant, worried us. He wentout of his way to annoy Vitelli. I tried to play down his swaggering. I triedto play down our apprehensions. Then...then, he had Vitelli strangled.Strangled in Borgia’s tent. Enraged, afraid, I left that night. Niccolòprovided my horse. He rode with me. We escaped through the rain. Our horsesfast. Solitary roads...hoof beats... I remember. Vitelli murdered. In the tent.

“We said little as we rode.

“At an inn we dismounted, drank, warmed ourselves. Niccolòcould not jus­tify his Prince.

“Ai, that murderous rain! His name, his face, that Borgiaface, assassination rain!”

It is late as I finish writing down his words. He is inpain. Last night he slept very little.

April 7, 1519

“No, not purgatory and not hell...

“I esteem the horse and the dog because they are free ofperversions...no misa, no confessional...

“Animals exact little...make no covenants.

“I can’t forget the Papal wars, the crusades, the Savonarolafanaticisms.

“When did robe and aspergillum exorcise evil?

“I’m still searching...but, in this world of ambiguity, Ithink there is no answer.”

Today...only these words, as I sat by his bed. Visitorsannoyed him. Several times he asked for his mother.

Cloux

April 9, 1519

It is afternoon. The sun is low. Da Vinci speaks:

“When the old French King saw my Last Supper he wasdetermined to remove the entire wall of the refectory, and have it transportedto Paris. He discussed it with engineers and architects who said it wasimpossible.

“What a study...the King is scarlet, pompous, in a very badhumor, his syphi­litic face grey. Flailing his arms, as he stood before mymural, he roared at the men around him, kicked a dog that had wandered in.

“ ‘Your frescocan’t remain in this wretched refectory!’ Everyone was amused.

“Later, when I painted his portrait, he was affable. Ipainted him in profile, a good study, in good light. He insisted on having abook on his lap. Ovid. I remember he said:

“ ‘In Amboise, Ihave a collection of fine books...Ovids.’

“Hewas willing to pay any price for my Madonnaof the Yarn Winder. So,he paid...and carried it off to Paris.”

Stroking his beard, da Vinci watched rain streak hiswindows. Lifting one arm, he said: “No more today, Francesco, no more talk.”

Cloux

April 10, 1519

“Come, let’s get on with it...I have something to say:

“My deluge drawings express weight, gravity, power, fury,terror. The over­turned, whirling chunks of masonry, the enormous waves, defy.This is the end of man. I believe such a cataclysm is going to overcome theearth.

“The drawings were inspired by my visits to the sea, by mytrips to the mountains where I saw avalanches. Sound...the crash of fallingboulders, the crash of a raging ocean...they warn. Finality—in one form oranother—sur­rounds. We can’t escape.

“Rage, rage...much of life is rage...desperate rage.

“Here, far inland, I can hear the tumultuous sea!”

Sometimes I can barely make out his words. I served hissupper. He ate very little. He remarked about the pigeons cooing on the roof.

Cloux

April 12, 1519

Royalty have visited us. Alone with me, da Vinci said:

“Yesterday, I dreamed that the sun was coming through mywindow at Vinci...there were bunches of grapes on our table...bare table, inthe sun. Caterina was sitting opposite me, her hands in the sun. I seemed to beabout thirty years old. She seemed to be about the same age. Our dog lay on thefloor, waiting for me to take him out.

“I felt imprisoned by the sunlight, happily imprisoned... Iwas imprisoned by the beauty in Caterina’s face. My eyes followed the grain ofthe table, mixed with the bunches of grapes, went out into the street, returnedto her face, her smile.

“...You have asked me abouthappiness. Does anyone know what happiness is? It is so often illusory. Foryou, Francesco, it’s a woman...or a swim in the lake. For me it was alwayswork. If a great discipline haunts a man throughout his life...well, he’slucky. You have seen me happy. You didn’t throw in your lot with a bitter man.

“We see King Francis...we watch him...he is eaten up withregrets...he is scheming, plotting...worrying...battlefields gnaw his guts...ifwe want sanity there are Vaprios, little rivers, little hills.”

He asked me for another cover.

Cloux

This was our last conversation—on April 23rd.

Melzi - I heard that you created a mirror machine while youwere in Rome.

Da Vinci - I tried to amplify the stars—study them.

Melzi - Please explain.

Da Vinci - A series of mirrors and lens.

Melzi - To catch the light?

DaVinci - I could position the mirrors and the lens. You have to visualize them,in a shallow cradle, some pieces one and two inches square, some pieces two andthree inches square, most of them concave, all specially ground, to fit togetherlike an eye, to focus like the eye. They could be raised or lowered, tilted,under a lens which I could also focus.

Melzi - They brought the sky closer?

Da Vinci - All of the mirrors and lens were destroyed by theman who had cut and polished them. He smashed them. Malice...fear...envy...

Melzi - A bitter experience, Maestro!

Da Vinci - That’s how it was...in Rome. The Pope learned ofthese experi­ments and ousted me from the Vatican.

He fell asleep.

Cloux

May 20, 1519

s requested in Maestro Leonardo daVinci’s will, sixty men, each carrying a lighted taper, accompanied his coffinto St. Hubert’s chapel, on the evening of May the 4th. Royalty, château-pages,soldiers, visitors, servants made up the procession from the manor house to theAmboise chapel. It was a cloudy, threatening evening. The chapel bell tolled.

A bearded priest, in black vestments, performed the requiem.Royalty crammed the chapel. The royal green flag, sewn with hundreds of whitesala­manders, blanketed the casket. Wreathes of roses and carnations leanedagainst wall cabinets where there were lighted candles. Men chanted a Gregorianchant.

The Maestro was buried close to the chapel, under chestnutand cypress, buried by torch and taper light. The chapel doors were wide open assomeone played the organ. Six men lowered the coffin.

Leonardo’s death was the saddest moment of my life.

When King Francis returned to Amboise, later in May, Iwalked with him to the burial place and he laid flowers on “Mon Père’s” grave.Fog filtered the grove and dripped on us. A hard day for the monarch.

King Francis has retained all of da Vinci’s paintings.

I was willed his drawings, sketches, journal, treatises,music, and correspon­dence.

Soldiers accompanied me on my return to Vaprio.

Villa Vaprio

July 13, 1519

My father and mother welcomed me home.

Father gave me a northlight room, on the third floor. I willplace my easel near the windows that face the Adda, face the little bridgewhere the Maestro used to fish for temolo.

I have hung my copy of his Mona Lisa on the entrywall and have laid his red velvet cloak over the back of a chair.

I am arranging some of his drawings on a center table.

There is ample space for his Anghiari cartoon on theinside wall. I have ordered broad shelves for his books and his small bronzes,his drawings and treatises, his brushes and pigments. I will purchase a leatherbox for his corre­spondence.

Iwill do what I can to bring order to his writings.

Under this stone are the

remains collected during

excavations outside the

royal chapel of Amboise.

It is surmised these are

the bones of

Leonard da Vincy

1452 – 1519

Author’s note:

This epitaph was placed on da Vinci’s grave in later years.

Shakespeare’s Journal

To my Elizabeth,

for her loyalty, love and genius

Henley Street

January 28, 1615

o invent can become an aberration, amystery, at times a queru­lous searching to remedy an irremediable loss. Shallwe say there is a larger purpose? Must there always be a purpose and justifica­tion?I can not believe that. Then, there can be stumbling, burial, burial violetsaround a grave, an absence. These thoughts must be weighed, re-assessed,subtracted from physical ailment and sickness of mind. Surely the stage was notintended for a single player.

.. .

Stratford

February 2nd, Candlemas – 1615

On Christmas last I sang carols with Ellen and her friends,in her London apartment, candlelight on her frosted windows where trees, likemenhirs, lis­tened. Some of her friends were drunk and raucous parasites; somewere manikins; some were overly friendly; some, Countess Bardolph, Lord Fenton,Lady Page, were perfumed bores; the Irishmen were troublemakers...

The Captain of the Guard requested a dance, and musiciansappeared on a small wreathed stage, a candlelit tree at one side. Sprigs ofribboned mistle­toe decorated the window drapes and the frames of all Ellen’spaintings; she wore a sprig and her Scot mouth met mine under the portrait of ahighlander. Caroling and wine went on and on:

Joseph and Mary walked

Through an orchard green,

Where were cherries and berries

As thick as might be seen...

Mummers paid Ellen a call, accompanied by a dancing jesterwearing furs. By now it was snowing and the storm sprinkled the jester and thecostumes of the torchlit merrymakers with him, as they trailed about, singing. Aglass of wine with Ellen... Egypt, it seemed an easy dive to the bottom of thedeep, to pluck drowned honor, but there was Ann, pinch-faced, wanting to scourge,and sting with pismires.

Joseph and Mary walked through their orchard bewitched, andEllen’s thick tree burned with its candles; the Yule log burned and cat-spat;thick-eyed musing came with scalding wassail; then more dancing and then sleepat their side... Later, I’ll tell her about my play, my plans, secrets of thestage, boyhood delights... I’ll reveal the wildness of the world, and beyondthis, the tranquility of poetry itself.

She’ll share her Edinburgh, her theatre, her books, her homeby the lake, her work for the priory library.

She told me:

“Life is to hold warmly in our hands. It is to be madebetter for our passing.”

Her intense face considered mine: the fine lines of hermouth, those eyes, lochs, and then there were her dark, dark hair, her perfume,the pressing of her fingers into my sex...necessities and no better...

Carols continued while snow stuck to her window panes and thepine boughs put resin on the air...a day and then another, her hair on herpillow like a fern...and nothing else was needed.

On the blue frozen Thames

skaters zip past people, booths, flags.

A giant ox roasts on a giant spit.

Arm in arm, Shakespeare and Ellen skate:

Over a glassy spot in the ice they peer down

where a blue cloak floats:

fish below.

Singing carolers pass on skates.

Henley Street

February 8, 1615

ne year the Thames froze and aboveLondon Bridge it became a market, hobbled with ragged booths, stalls, flags andstreamers, peopled with courtiers, beggars, soldiers, priests, merchantmen andtheir families. An ox was roasted—and as it steamed and smoked—walkersclustered around the carcass as if it were Holland. Skaters spun close,stopping to chat or buy and eat, then spun away over the ice.

For days the surface was free of snow and one afternoon Ibrought Ellen, and we skated arm in arm, the sky unblemished; we swishedbetween ice-bound frigates, toqued sailors leaning over, waving and jeering. Itwas almost Christmas and carolers sang around bonfires. Royalty had set uptents and we were wel­comed there, the tents and flags reflected in the ice,purple, red, yellow—pen­nants squares gay—men and wenches tippling—musicianstrying to keep their feet warm, strumming bravely.

Ellen, in plaid scarf, yellow cloak and jeweled tam, standsalongside a striped purple and gold tent, laughs alongside the scabby hulk of afrigate, warms her hands before a fire. Ellen...your face is real... I canreach out and take your hands...you smile and sway in the wind.

Singing with the carolers, your breath puffs its toadstoolalongside my mush­room, and we laugh and hug each other. Inside a carpetedtent, we toast “Was­sail!” and glance at velvet cushions heaped in a corner.

Henley Street

Stratford

Mine was the wish to bind society together, expose the floorof heaven, make immortal real, show man’s folly and labor, extol faith anduphold beauty. Beauty, as I felt it at the outset of my career, is no longerhere: it is a long way from Ve­nus and Adonis to Henry VIII:there were grim diversions, rude and costly failures: my goal it seems isbeggared: if I had the capacity I would reach back to beauty and carry itforward with greater maturity: I am thinking of poetic beauty.

Farewell! You were too dear for my possessing,

for such riches where is my deserving...?

Ilost sensibility and communion in pursuit of plot and character for the rico­chetof horror and death, for the mockery of crime and subterfuge.

At times, I was in sleep a king—but on waking, no such man.

I have been awake to my losses a long while: there was no recoupingthem in France and Italy, alone with hegemony of rocks, promontories, beaches,hierar­chy of seas assailing nakedness...here in Stratford, here I have illnessas exchange.

Sallow yellow:

Men, women and children dying in the streets:

Church bells tolling.

Three men drag a dead youth to the Avon River,

pitch him in.

Church steeple, reflected in the water, sways:

The church registry lists column after column of dead:

Not a sound.

n Stratford, the plague moved downMill Lane, Butt Lane, Rother Street, jumped to Henley and then Church Street.Father and I worked on Mill Lane: finding Charles collapsed by the whippingpost, we lugged him out of the sun...shivering...sweating...vomit­ing...and wecould not find anything to cover him, and he begged us for a cover.

“Something to cover me, Will...just something?”

“But there’s nothing left for you.”

“Everything used up?”

“All used, Charles.”

“Somany of us sick?”

“Lie still. I’ll bring you hot sack. That’ll help you feelbetter...there’s a rug...”

“I’ll see if I can find something to cover him.”

“No, you’re tired. I’ll bring hot sack and a cover.”

Pigeons swooped low, then rose: were they afraid?

Six people had died that day.

During the week twenty-six died, men, women, and children.Our town heard the bell toll morning and afternoon and evening. At times thetolling seemed to be right in my ears; at times I forgot it, bringing water orfood, medicine or cover, anything to help. Father and I worked together as muchas possible...his word or nod kept me going.

The Avon seemed blotched and diseased for there, there wasthe plague’s mucous caulking the water and the water was grey and beaten andunmoving, locked in its own foetidness, dead by the weir, dead by the church andunder­neath the bridge.

Stratford

February 14, 1615

I remember the plague, how, with our theatre closed, Iworked to aid the sick and cart away the London dead. Appleton...I remember hisred beard, his cough, his scared grin. Meerie, talking Irish, blamed us, saying“there’s narra a plague in Ireland—it’s your filthy London—you damn filthyforeigners!” Miller cursed the altar and the saints behind his head, as hestruggled to breathe. And that gar­goyle-like fellow, Fackler, crawled off todie or recover, we never learned: he said the open field was the proper placeto get well, or die.

The Cheney twins died right outside the Globe: they had beenworking as stage hands: clever lads from Sussex, faithful, hard-working: theygot sick on Tuesday; as the bells tolled on Thursday evening they were dead,dying a few minutes apart, their hands clasped, eighteen years old,flax-headed, tall.

Why did that young woman, with hair to her waist, run aboutlaughing, eating handfuls of earth? Why did that Dorsetshire man stab himselfwith a dirk? How did the graves of the Boothby children get left open, desertedfor days? Was God in the heavenly lectern those days...to save us of our sins!

For days the sun chewed us in Blackwell. It gave us a chanceto kill some of the rats. Caesar, don’t let one bite you! Worms crawled out ofthe earth. Caesar, beware! Whenever I passed our cemetery I smelled new, rawearth—as terrifying as the death smell. ’Sblood, how many deaths does it taketo satisfy the earth?

Youth—

What is this vomit, this black gunk pouring out of yourmouth? Are you only fourteen...with death on your face?

This is our boy, Slade, who walked to school last week andfished where I fished.

“Papa, let’s carry him into the shade. We’ll cool his hotface and give him water. Our medicine has to make him well. We need him, togrow up and catch perch and pike, and marry Jenny.”

Papa is washing his face. There’s fruit. There’s sleep.There’s tomorrow. There’s kindness. There’s forgetfulness.

Best to cover him.

I’ll cover him. There, that blanket may keep him fromshivering. His mother’s sick too. I’ll rub his hands and arms. Water, Papa,give him some. There!

“Papa, you get some rest, while I stay with Slade. You’dbetter go home and turn in. You didn’t sleep much last night. Things are betternow. No. I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.”

I’ll sit with you, boy, and we’ll deny harsh fortune. Didyou ever see a play, boy? The play’s the thing: it takes you out of yourself.Listen...I’ll recite some lines for you...

Farewell! a long farewell, to all this...

This is the state of man: today he puts forth

The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;

And, when he thinks, good easy man, fully surely

His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders

This many summers in a sea...

Farewell, he’s dead.

Papa, you and I have lost him. He’ll never race across thefields or pack his creel or kiss a girl on the bridge. The plague has killedhim.

Was it you who wanted a new cap?

Now you’ll have a cap of dirt.

I throw my heart against the flint of time. O sun, burn yourgreat spheres... I importune death a while. The passing of so small a thingshould make a crack at least. Stained with his own blood...

Grey yelping dogs chase a coach through London fog:

Fog drips from coach lamps, from trees, iron railings.

Someone in the fog screams and

a cloaked figure stabs Ellen

as she gets into her coach.

Ellen’s cloak, blood, fog,

Shakespeare’s anguished face.

Henley Street

February 20, 1615

og, that old-year-treachery, stealsround my house, thief at every window: renegade, despot, carrion-maker.

That night the fog mauled us after we left the theatre, Ellenand I. I thought of throwing my cloak around both of us, as we walked along: darkblue cloak in white fog. Instead of covering both of us I cov­ered her...

The play had been well played, Alleyn up to form, Marlowe’slines appreci­ated by a better than usual audience, some of them royalty. Tambourlaineusually appeals to royalty. This was Crown night, Christ’s crown, hell’s crown,fog on every thorn, thorns sticking through our laughter, to be remembered, inthat cloak, bastard thorns.

Like dogs they followed us as we left the theatre, late, ourarms around each other, the cloak flapping, fog leaving us inconspicuous. I sawher carriage ap­proaching, inching the fog, fog through the spokes of herwheels. And then out­cries, and Ellen beside me, falling, and as she fell Iturned and saw my cloak slide with her, lantern and dagger on the road, misericord.

Here it is now: yes, here it is: I have it, pricking thingfor future pricking, if need be: long, needle-pointed: Toledo steel: the rightlength to kill her—or me.

Laughter and fog, spines and theatre, the royalty of crimein a London gutter; time doesn’t remove them, can not remove them.

When we could we located guards—trustworthy men—and with aconstable informed her servants and posted guards. Later, Jonson and I sat withher doc­tors and learned a little more about pain. I went for Ellen’s brotherand he came, a cold young man who resembled Ellen, a slight fellow in handsomeblack. Hand on sword, he drew himself up, face ashen, mouth trembling...

“I’ll comb London for them...get them...”

Jonson often visited her, his words and thoughts the stufffor those days, my brain run dry, bats coasting out, Enobarbus memories:

Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleasestheir deities to take a man’s woman from him, it shows the tailors of theearth; comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out, there are members tomake new...so grief is crowned with consolation.

Did I write that?

Henley Street

February 26, 1615

Iam not able to write poetry and yet I must write, must tell the teller, crushthe shards of illness. What is life, the undone and the done, the foolish andthe great? I hate drowning in real and invented apprehensions but mine is thestum­bling, after the play, after the com­pliments and the celebration, amixture more brew than sanity admits.

My pen jerks and my hand wavers and my head aches, and Iwatch faint light creep into the sky, exacting a promise from me to defy pain.

I hate sleeplessness on a foggy night like this, for thereis something in the fog that makes death come alive, that sears the sordid intothe mind...what was the cause: contorted memories? Am I afraid to die, be laidin straw or committed to a sulfurous pit?

Give me my rope, put on my crown...

Memory is for me acting in a dissolve, cloud of rain,concatenation of noth­ings, performing yet recalcitrant, ambiguous and poor.Here, in this town, this room smelling of spilled wine, the candles ugly, I seea woman, the filaments of yesterday’s straw tangled in her hair—selling lovefor a price. Why is love obtuse, ruthless, rain-buried, eerie and demanding,slinking one to the other?

Stratford

March 2, 1615

I write with rain across my oriel, and the fire almost outin my fireplace, and my loneness sniveling in its pot. I am sick of self-pity.I taste with wretched ap­petite, so be it! To be generous, hungry, guiltless,and free...what would I give!

Pincers, pinch harder at the rushes, keep the light burningas long as possible, for each of us.

At my age, I am guilty of longings that I can never realize:dreams hawsered to nowhere. I have been guilty of this all my life. I copulatedwith commas. I hunted dreams on paper—cheap privateer! I was priest, pharaoh,general, slave, glutton. Paper is a sickness, a sweltering fever, clammyforehead, thudding pulse, ague within ague: so I am a man of paper, elongated,soggy, contorted, multiple of calligraphic speculation: paper bones, paperheart, paper skull, paper blood, paper penis.

Listen, isn’t that time rustling a sheath of paper?

Snow buffets Shakespeare’s cottage:

Snow enters a window.

There are varnished ceiling beams,

varnished furniture,

books and manuscripts.

A stunning woman appears, smiles, fades,

beckons seductively, disappears.

Henley Street

March 5, 1615

esterday it snowed, and during theafternoon I fell asleep and dreamed I saw King Henry and Shallow crossing thefields be­yond my windows.

“O God, that one might read the book of fate,” I heard KingHenry say, as I followed, hidden from view. “I wish to see the revolution ofthe times make mountains level, and the continents, weary of solid firmness,melt itself into the sea and, other times, to see the beach girdle the ocean...”

“There is a history in all men’s lives, figuring the natureof the times de­ceased...”

Was it Shallow who said that?

Though I am confused, I recall the gaunt face of Alleyn ashe spoke those lines, that stormy night, when our theatre rattled. He wasinfirm with fever and yet played on; he seldom let us down.

Winter is here again, to make our beds uneasy. Oh, for amuse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention, and return meto my youth!

This is a document in madness because pain seldom leavesme...

Oh, to be young and tumble a naked woman on a bed, quarreldesperately and make up, burn the night learning and unlearning lines, defy theelements, dally along the Thames, out-shout the gulls, see a mermaid behind arock.

Youth has such powers! Youth’s rule rules his own court bychampioning a hundred causes, ordaining and cancelling, defying andacknowledging, digging canals, raising temples.

Slave of every beautiful woman he meets, he presents herwith lasting riches and eternal potency. He conquers every country for her: hisgrail, his fleet bat­tering an endless Armada to bring her into port, no galetoo wild.

Henley Street

Monday, ’15

When I taught school at Snitterfield, Jonson came now andthen to prime my Greek and Latin. He used to say, “You should have done a lotless fishing in the Avon, boy! Why, these fellows will never learn, not the wayyou teach. See, they grin at you. They love you. Call them churls, cane them;make them scat when you appear!”

Away from school, Jonson would slip into theatre talk andurge me to rejoin him: “Your poems are remembered. You have to come back, Will!I’ll find you a patron. Now’s the time to write plays... I’ll help you put themon the stage.”

I told him I was afraid of the London plague. He scorched mewith a “haw-haw.” “Teaching’s your plague, man!”

Henley Street

April 20, 1615

Teaching was forgotten at Fair time, good food, acrobats,co*ckfights, gam­bling—there was something to keep us spellbound spellinglaughter! Games and dances went on at all hours. Cinquepace was the fast, newstep. How I liked it! There were plenty of pickpockets but I had nothing topick but my loneliness. When I danced with a red-cheeked girl there was spermin every movement—those giddy curls and hot hands, the smoke of sizzling fish,howls of the stinking bear baiters.

Stratford

Trumpets blared... I heard them days after the Fair.

I stayed on as long as possible in Snitterfield, tocontribute what I could to my family’s upkeep in Stratford. Then came the daywhen the school board asked me to find another job; so it was back to Londonagain, to Jonson and his half-ass promises, back to city trumpets, strumpets,rattle of carriages, pismire poverty, paunched patrons and perfumed snowballsfor the Queen’s masque...

Stratford

While I was at Snitterfield, I had the companionship of agirl whose fourteen years should have been double fourteen to equal her doublesight for fox, hawk, raven and snail: she was unreal because she could bring meto the brink of fan­tasy by gesture or word: “Hush, there, over there, in thegrass by the stile.” Her flip-smile had the best of both pook and pagan. Whatshe wore seemed a part of her blondeness, a blondeness often eerie with aneeriness that worried me, to be quickly saved by her smile or laughter. Her lowvoice set the stage for confi­dences—thread between goldenrod, rabbit lying inthe entry of its burrow, lark rising.

Faith and I had lingering afternoons and saw the first offog before dark, heard the last of bird sounds before sleep: her house nextdoor to mine taught me, by window and door, the wretchedness of her life: herfather’s drunken beatings, kickings, savagery: so, to escape the village clodwe escaped together, to sit by a woodland stream and hear words by leaves asthey sifted down. Faith had her legs in the water, up to her knees, or lay onthe embankment, the color of her flesh gleaming. Her beauty was not a pair ofbreasts but a pair of hazel eyes and a dimple in her chin. She was tall, acathedral figure in caenstone, the stone so alive yet ecclesiastical, erect,her posture one of graceful expectation: repose flowed from her: her thin handslifted to her thin face: her hair straggled to her shoulders and down her backor was combed into a flaxen hayco*ck. I thought my teaching infinitely poorerthan hers and went with her whenever possible, helping her withstand thedisgrace at home.

I thought many times of going back to see Faith Stanton buteven the changeless changes and woodland jewels, claiming socketless eyes,reflect only images of the mind. Drunkenness outlives beauty—the clod buryinghayco*ck, bog and girl.

Henley Street

Goddamn my hair!

My hair, with its copper and red, used to say: This is yourworld, boy!

Damn my wrinkles! My gallows neck!

My face was once all right.

Now one cheek has begun to cave in under my eye, the winceof lechery, no doubt, and meteors, no less. Lines around my mouth give theimpression that I have never had a good time—never laughed. My eyes, when Iswivel them in a mirror, warn me that grave changes are taking place inside andthat denials will get me no­where: grey hairs, wrinkles, poor vi­sion...theyare the roistering gift of time, markings on the stone, to remind myself that Iam here, that escape is never, that courage is all that counts, humor with itsleg lifted on the monument, peeing on vanity.

The sullen bell called me to school and I went reluctantly,leaving my fishing pole behind the door, pike and trout lost to me. Earlymorning was almost beyond endur­ance; I rubbed my eyes and stumbled downstairs,to eat amid yappings, survive, survive.

I did not resent school when Hunt read aloud in Latin,reading masterfully, giving us Caesar, Antony, and Cleopatra. When he read, Iwandered beside the pyramids, the Nile dotted with boats, ibis, and heron; Itramped battlefields, fought with black spears piercing the hot, dusty air. Itwas along the Avon that I sensed man’s struggle. I saw. Heard. As the watergrew greener and greener and deeper and deeper, the air motionless, the pastwas there, Hunt’s past, Cleopatra’s...her barge, like a burnished throne, burnton the water; the poop beaten gold, purple the sails, so perfumed that thewinds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, which to the time offlutes kept stroke...

When I dared I got away early and went to fish or loafed atthe mill pool where I hung my feet in the Avon and counted dragonflies, my linethrown as far as I could throw it. Sitting on a mossy mound, I heard thewarblers and lark spell morning into warm sun.

Thirty-five years ago!

Summer:

Naked swimmers, five boys, penis fun, laughter:

Naked girls in bushes along the same river bank:

Church bells in distance:

Behind a copse boy and girl kiss and squirm.

Henley Street

May 4, 1615

rowing up, our greatest fun wasswimming, our greatest anguish church. From church, as quickly possible, we gotinto nakedness, rival of summer lightning. We swam the Avon in laughter and row­diness,three, four or five of us, and if others were at our favorite pool we chasedthem off, our penises flying, rocks and yells going everywhere. We scared themhalf to death, or, if we were in proper mood, we adopted them, kids like us; weswam and climbed on them and trampled the ooze of plants, and the ooze slickedour bodies over their bodies: I can feel it almost like a lover getting readyto make love: and that’s about what we did: we made love to the day and we madelove to the water: we yelled and slapped it and cuffed it into obedience, andorg*smed it, and tore our legs till blood pricked, and then we swam and I waspretty good and I out-swam some though some out-swam me, and we swam until wefelt cool and easy, and then lay on the grass by the mill, to watch theswallows and gape and groan, like lovers after their bout in bed: our spirits ebbingfor the nonce, then rising to dress and yell and pull and sing and chase each otherhome.

How I reveled in summer haying.

Usually, I loaded a small wagon pulled by Burt, Burt eyingme, snuffling at me as I pitched the hay: he was getting old and the grey ofhis wooly hide was shedding outrageously; he lifted each black hoof slowly,often fetching a fart. He liked working the field alone but I preferred workingwith others. Stripped to the waist, hatless, I forked and grunted and Burtpulled and farted. Some of the time I had to sing, the smell of hay and suninspiring my songs: sometimes, when I worked with others, all of us sang,horses perkier for our merriment.

Mildred was as good at the fork as I: working side by side,we often bumped and her blue eyes would widen and light up: pretty, blonde,barefooted, she wore a blouse, skirt and Dutch apron: our field ended at theriver, an apple grove along the other sides. Two or three of us, in teams,harvested Papa’s hay each season: I still smell the timothy and the girl.

Wonderful, wonderful and most wonderful...and yet another.

Henley Street

May 10, 1615

Choir singing was boring—just sucking melancholy out ofsong—and when­ever I could, I skipped it and went off with Becky. No matter howicy, there was fun, hands linked, our runny noses beatific: Becky, whose gigglealerted every boy, was my girl whenever we could steal away and turtlehunt—that was our joy: tirelessly, we combed the creeks and river, staying longpast staying time, scolded but not caring.

I see her giddy black eyes, brown mop, skinny legs, tinyhands and tiny feet—barefooted beside me, wetting herself to the legpits,screeching or silent, often too silent, wading lustily. She loved to steal apples,raspberries, strawberries, turnips, hungry from morning till night. I peeledturnips for her and we munched them on a stile, then raced one another,slithered downstream:

“There’s one, see, on that log. Be quiet!”

“I’ll get ’im.”

“No, let me. It’s my turn. He’s tiny. He’s for me.”

“Go slowly.”

A few times Becky and I rang the church bells for thesexton; together, we stole buns and cookies at home, but best of all we stolehappiness, books in running brooks.

She married a seaman and lives in London: I warrant youthere are eight chil­dren, a happy family—God bless t’em! I would not changethe story.

Henley Street

Mother—memories of you are mostly memories of songs you usedto sing when sleep was near, lovingly, patiently, sung in my room, close to thevarnished beams, curtains drawn, as you sat or lay beside me or rested in anearby chair.

Our favorite song was “Happy be thou, heavenly queen...man’scomfort and angel’s bliss...of all women thou hast the prize...”

And I remember each word of Sanctus—and hear each word asyou sang it lingeringly; sometimes your hand kept time; sometimes your fingerscovered mine.

Stabat Mater Dolorosa...

So many years have lapsed that I have forgotten how youlooked, only your eyes and thin figure and voice remain: I hear you when youcalled us in from play: “Too-lee-looly-loo,” you called, shepherding your sixfor supper and bed.

I roam about, room to room, stooping for a bedroom doorway,floors creaking, the varnished beams always the same, three floors of thinkingabout me, windows you used to look out of, beds you used to make—or was that an­otherhouse, another time, another illusion? My house, your house, our house—who owns,who makes traitorous gifts, decisions, contracts, to pile millions of acres ofdirt on top of us later?

At the Globe, when I was young, I received quite a visitor!Ben Jonson brought Sir Francis Drake. Ben was a sharer of friends. I wasdumbfounded but “El Draque,” contemptuously at ease, sat on my backstage table,his plumed hat and red gloves flung on top of a litter of plays. He and Bendiscussed a masque Jonson was to produce.

Young as I was, it took courage to speak to “El Draque”because even his purple hat shocked me. But I managed to ask about his attackon Cadiz. Lines warped his mouth, and he said, stroking his corn husk chin:

“It was a matter of guns...we singed the King’s whiskersthrough our superior armament. Ah, good winds too. We had great luck! Don’t youbelieve in luck? When you write a play, isn’t it luck, lucky weather, luck withyour players, luck with your attendance, the right kind of royalty attending atthe right time?”

I saw him again after the defeat of the Armada, at a crowdedThames an­chorage. Wounded, he looked older, livid scar on his cheek, the firedead in his eyes, his expression one of cynicism and fatigue. He wore a squat,official hat. No rings. Leaning against a spattered capstan, he seemed smallerthan I had remembered him; he did not recognize me.

“Our fire ships forced the Armada out of anchorage, broke uptheir plan!” he said, talking to a group of officers.

“Put yourself on a fire ship,” he boomed. “You’re at therudder. She’s aflame—flames are roaring aft! Your whole ship’s blazing butsomehow you bugger her against a Spanish hull. You’re beaten off. They’reafraid you have a powder mine in your hold. There’s cannon shot! You diveoverboard. It’s a long, icy swim. Most men never make it out of that water...

“What we needed was more gun shot, more ammunition, kegs andkegs of powder; then, by God, we’d have run them clean to Spain, run them, notwaited, our guns useless. We had to sit it out, wait—no powder. We didn’t dare takea chance. Think of it, everything to our advantage but we dared not move. Wehad to bluff.”

I wrote down his words—but I still hear them, it might befive or six years ago, not thirty!

Deceptions of mind bother me: unrehearsed, the brainbedevils and stacks lie on lie...in the lays of time. I turn my glass and amalone, the cuckold of myself reflected in three hundred sixty-five mirrors. Myspirits, as in a dream, are bound up, and like the Armada, strewn on shores andstill more rocky shores...

Henley Street

May 18, 1615

Memory’s snowfall rattles every door and window in my house.Was it the once lost winter thirty years ago in London? From door to door, Ibegged for work: my hands blue, legs quaking, face frost-galled. Belly empty,pocket empty, I harried taverns, bakeries, homes. People mistrusted me, thatwild-haired kid, goat-bearded—doors slammed in my face. Blinded by snow, I headedfor the Thames, for the bridge—shelter there. On the way, I passed a tavern andopened a door: a crowd of young men faced me: I asked for work and was given ascul­lery job, supper and a mat by the stove: I’ll never forget the warmth ofthat mat by that stove: I wanted nothing more: cherry voices and warmth: it allcomes back!

A piece of bread in one hand, I fell contentedly asleep. Anelephantine man, with florid face and scraggly beard, wakened me roughly.

“Next time you go to sleep don’t let the rats share yourbread,” Falstaff guf­fawed.

Stratford

May 23

Falstaff helped me find an old cloak and helped me borrowboots and gloves. He got me a stagehand job. Later, he showed me where I couldpurchase stolen things, sharing his room with him: ribaldry, punning,gargantuan laughter, thiev­ery, friends, foolishness, foppery, wit and wine.Little did I think of using him in a play during the weeks I lived with him. Inthose days, I had never written a line.

Like an umbrella, his character sheltered me fromdepression: he introduced me to Marlowe, Kyd, Jonson. Years later, I introducedhim to Alleyn and Bur­bage; Burbage wanted him on stage but Falstaff had hisown stage where he could dupe and bedevil, unmolested by paid gapers. By then,he was getting old and liked puttering and sleeping best.

Those were mad times, those days with Falstaff, and yet, behindevery laugh lay the threat of poverty, the knife blade of quarrels, reason goneunreasonable. Night after night we went to sleep hungry. With glue and nail wepieced our shoes together, for one more day. With needle and thread we patchedour clothes. Falstaff pulled my wisdom tooth to save the barber’s fee: “Openwide, yell! There, I’ve got it, Will, spit now. Spit, boy.”

In a few ways Falstaff resembled my father: both wereunassuming, generous, dilatory: their fat portraits hang side by side in mymind: the last I heard from my friend was a brief word from Dover where he wasworking for a shipbuilder and lived in a shanty by the sea.

He would have roared at his role in my plays: he would haveobjected to his cowardice, upheld his zeal, begged me for a thousand pounds,and tried to bribe me for the address of a pretty woman.

Friend...you were eel-fish, bull’s pizzle, dried neat’stongue and stockfish! When you were born the front of heaven was full of fieryshapes and the goats ran from the mountains.

Henley Street

May 25, 1615

A co*ckroach creeps about my room, an X on its back, the onlyroach branded in my roost. I see it in the morning, when I sit down to write.It favors a corner, where there is a deep crack, in case of an intruder orwrath on my part. It has a stiff carriage—much more so than any of the others.Ruler, no doubt, with excessive responsibilities! So I have decided to call itBill. Certainly all other roaches seem afraid of this Conqueror. When I find iton my table, I make a pass at it and it leaps with a scut. It eats paper—oldand new. It munches leftovers, liking cheese best, though I think the cheese ispretty well divided between the roaches and the mice.

Henley Street

May 26, 1615

Why am I disliked in Stratford? Is it because I drive a hardbargain? Is it be­cause I have assumed, at least at times, an actor’s air? Theysay I stand aloof but is it possible to cross the Avon to their side? My sideis Ptolemy’s, Priam’s, Cleo­patra’s, Coriolanus’. We four are difficult toappraise as we walk along Henley Street. The local folk have never heard thecreak of chariot wheels.

Lonely...I have been lonely and am lonelier now, but which islonelier, the pod with one pea or the pod with aliens? True, I have sued formoney; true, I have acquired property. And the city man and country manmistrust one another: the writer fits in nowhere: yet, since this is home, Itry to accommodate myself, say “yes” to Mr. Combe, and help if I can. “Yes, M.”

I never could introduce Ann to Londoners and she has beenunable to intro­duce me to Stratford people. If I were well, if I could write,I would spit on Avon.

Combe is the only person in S. who has seen any of my plays;however, when I talk with him, he confuses scenes and characters; hisappreciation is based on pride that says “I can speak of Shakespeare.” A Puritan,he patronizes incoming Puritans more than most, helping them infest this town,making it a sawtooth of moral crud, chair and whip in line, summoning whisperedinquisitions.

Monday

What fools we mortals are, for I who wrote of shrews marrieda shrew who is more shrewful than any Kate from Padua. I laugh at my owndefeat, a shrew beside a shrew, players nodding at my marital bewilderment, I,the drunkard drunk on illusions. Shall we list her infidelities—country-man atFair, con-man, neighbor? Shall we name names?

Shakespeare and Ann, at ruins of Kenilworth castle,

copulating in the grass, happy in their bucolic lust.

The two trudge, hand in hand:

Ann ups her skirt and they flop again, giggling:

“Twins,” she says.

Henley Street

married a shrew and yet thirtyyears ago, Ann and I knew hot jol­lity at Kenilworth, the grass a hide underus, pigeons reconnoitering castle walls, a falcon lawing the sun. Since Ann andI had a few days for ourselves, we had ridden to K. She was Sweet Villain, andwhen we pastured the horses and unstuffed our knapsacks, we stuffed ourselves,and sacked ourselves, gorging in sun, the horses stomping and snuffling beyondus. Sweet Villain pulled up her skirts after we had drunk more than we shouldand I was glad I had not married another. She said “Your hair’s redder,” and Isaid “Your hair’s yellower,” meaning where, and our laughter went bounding.

We sacked that old busky castle from wall to wall, writingon scalded plaster, pushing over abutments, throwing rocks at a fox. From somecrater corner, we looked up, our heads dusty, holding each other sexround, ourfierceness there while falcons fought, clipping each other, beaking oneanother, feathers falling. Kenilworth and kings: we smelled unsavory dungeonsbut pushed our falconry over them, our naked seel better than intercourse ofpower and time: among the marl, we viewed puffs of smoke from country homes,saw water gleaming, a windmill turning, sheep among sheep, their woolly backshumping toward a rainy sunset.

Soon, soon, time was to tear away our love, but we did notsuspect: we were the confidents, our jollity amusing because fastened tolaughter, no wrack or confusion: it was slap of hands on bare buttocks, “ah”over breast, mouth suck­ing, suckling, surprising, surfeiting, back again formore: the taste of love’s bite the waist around, the hand up, down, and thegrass its hide browner, browner than our flesh, her flesh ignited from within,so burned for me.

Stratford-on-Avon

June 1, 1615

We ate off wooden plates, tulips blooming in the garden,blue and white Chi­nese plates hanging on the wall, and lilacs blooming in thegarden...in a dream I confronted him and he was monarch and he said to me: I amHamnet, come, we’ll go to the guild chapel and hear the sermon...it was a coldsermon but hon­eysuckle was blooming in the garden...orioles were singing abovethe oriel. Col­umbine, ferns, and lilies were on the cabinet: she said to me:Come, Will, eat! I said to her: listen, I hear the pegs moving inside thebeams: that is for integrity. Ivy grew on the east wall of my house in thosedays.

Henley Street

June 3, 1615

Alone, following the Roman wall, as it girdled London, Iused to speculate where the Roman gods had gone; thinking, as well, of those ofEgypt and Greece...time with a scroll on his back, asking alms. Smashed bricks,memento mori, along that vast, yellow, unweeded garden, werequestions in their own right, broken, to be kicked aside, as are our ownquestions concerning mortality.

Gazing at the Thames, I hoped for hope from the wide wall,wider river and broader mystery. I went over myplays...Ulysses...Cleopatra...Prospero... The wall, with its imperialism andlegion of whispers, said “no, master, no,” speaking in the voice of Lear’sfool.

Ellen and I climbed the castle where Caesar lived, thetallest site in London, the Thames below, flowers and vines crawling overruins, the walls of yesterday saying “Et tu Brutus.”

Danger knows full well that hate is doubly dangerous: we aretwo lions lit­tered in a day, and the litter of stones crumbles underfoot, butEllen cries out to me, and I catch her by the arm.

There is a white sail on the river...

Ay, me, how fine a thing the heart of woman! I thought itthen and think it still, the very best of her is gentle subtlety: it is thisthat takes a man in.

A flock of blackbirds lit below us, covering the fallenstones like black hail.

We went many times to that castle and walked along itsancient yellow walls; she asked me for poetry and I repeated lines: what werethey, I wonder?

Now...most noble one...the gods stand friendly today, thatwe may, lovers in peace, lead on our days to age:

I am constant as the northern star, of whose true-fixed andresting Quality there is no fellow in the firmament...the skies are paintedwith unnumbered sparks...they are all afire, and every one doth shine; but there’sbut one in all doth hold his place: so in the world...

The stars came out, a summer’s night on Caesar’s place, andwe heard frogs and the tittering of lovers, ourselves loving that place, ourflesh, that empirical wisdom. We went so often we called it “our castle.”

Henley Street

June 5, 1615

At Christmas skirling bagpipers, piping a waulkingsong, greeted us at Dunira. Ellen’s room, in a squat tower, faced a narrow lakewith ragged shore pines and a small island, wild geese and ducks resting on thewater, cold, cold, moss blue water.

Sun crossed the bear rugs and tiles of her floor.

Her bed was canopied with green velvetembroidered with golden shields and crossed spears, seen on her coat-of-arms.

She called my attention to the pulls on the heavy drapes,each pull a carved ivory ball enclosing a ball inside another.

Hand in mine, she showed me her collection of silver, gold,and ivory fans, fans from Egypt, Greece and India, arranged on her walls, someopen, some in cases, flabellum with bone handles, Venetian lace fans, tomb fanswith gold-encrusted ribs, a Greek fan like an acanthus leaf. I can see themovement of her lips as she described them; I can see her hand, pointing.

We often walked around the lake and through the pollardedgarden, its cy­presses like stone columns: we walked the moors until Christmascold sent us shivering to the big fireplaces where we talked and ate and sangand drank.

Someone kept the fire blazing in her fireplace and we wouldsink down on her bed or lie on the bear rug and make love, the firelightskirling her ivory, her fans and the canopy’s yellow silk lining.

Hugh opened our door one morning very early, while we werebusy making love, and with a boisterous laugh he said:

“I just finished with my woman; when you’re done, we’ll gohunting. The horses are saddled. Better lock your door next time!”

Hugh—his huge body on a huge hunter—led us hunting along aloch, where the ocean, squeezed as in a glass case, shuddered, as thoughresentful of its trap, as though it considered everyone as intruder. I was awedby the water’s dark and the chasms menacing it. Deer eluded us and while wefollowed the loch, I lost interest in the hunt for the quarry of sea and earth,spirit and well-being.

Hunting, walking, eating, drinking, love-making, this wasthe happiest time of my life. Her brother’s acceptance amounted to adoption; heoften came to my room and talked at length, sharing intimacies; the onlymisadventure during my stay was an attack of hungry peasants who swarmed thecastle court, shrilly de­manding food, some in kilts with silent bagpipes.

Ellen and I visited the ruins of a sprawling Cistercianabbey on her Dunira property; there, under the vaulted archway, where rosesclimbed, I felt inspired, and, staying on I wrote Cymbeline, scenes andwords coming easily, happiness a constant companion: the sweetness of herpersonality seemed altogether mine. Words and flesh—they were mine, in that sunand cloud world of Dunira.

The weather settled into a steady spell, my room overlookinggarden, lake and bluecap forest. London might have been at the bottom of thesea: I could not have cared less. Its dirt and beauty—I never missed them.

Visiting the abbey frequently, we met several of the monkswho resided in a section of the refectory; their geniality contented us and welingered with them, in their herb garden, by a fountain—pigeons about. A marvelouslytiny man, spry though old, gave us a parchment book, one he had rubricated,pleased to see us in love.

Hugh accompanied us occasionally to bring food for thebrothers, making the short trip with donkeys carrying loaded panniers. He, too,would linger, sharing our mood.

Abbey garden, fountains, vegetables and herbs in rows:

a collection of rare fans on a wall:

Hugh and Shakespeare drink at a refectory table:

a peasant enters and Hugh beats the man

who is asking for alms:

skirl of bagpipes.

n the Scottish coast the sunsetprowled the lowtide combers, roll­ing cloud into cloud, wave into wave. Theclouds absorbed orange with yellow and the yellow took on red, the red broominglow, sweeping shoreward, reaching the sand at our feet.

Is it true that we saw the sunset together, her arms aroundme, the rocks be­yond us red, the sunset extending for miles? The moon rose outof a rust-colored sky?

Stratford-on-Avon

June 11, 1615

“Darling, ours is a supreme happiness and we must cherish*t,” she wrote me long ago.

For years I kept her letters in my desk at Blackfriar’shouse, to lose them when the place burned: waxed, ribboned and perfumedletters, from France, Italy, and Scotland. I could rewrite some of them frommemory—some.

At the time I received her letters I thought that a numberof them had been detained much too long and I thought several of them had beentampered with. I put this aside as fancy for I was willing to be blind. As Ithink back it’s odd I never suspected censorship. And why was it I never knewtill later that she and her family opposed the Queen?

The knife of one’s own stupidity cuts deepest!

A year or two after the attack on her, when she was back inScotland, she wrote that Hugh was assassinated in Glasgow—an Elizabethancourtesy, some­one said. The shock was more of a shock coming from her: Hughdead, big Hugh, with his cleft beard, bushy eyebrows, and mop of greying hair:the bigness of his Dunira castle comes to me, along with his hospitality.

For years I was driven half insane by a dream of anenveloping cloak: the cloak swallowed my house, trees, sun, and stars: Iheard a woman scream inside this luminous thing. Behind the folds was a beardedface, coming closer and closer.

Henley Street

I was headed for home when I met Ellen and the autumn sunfavored us, potentates meeting by a river, our kingdom the leaves along theshore, the ash red, our introduction friends, our hopes instantaneous. I sawbeneath her gloves to her veined hands; I saw her veined breasts beneath herdress; I saw beneath her smiles the invitation, rebuffs, wiles...

Yet who dares to know royalty outside the theatre!

Home, I reminded myself, is Stratford; but, who among usremembers home and fidelity?

I loved home once, my Ann, my children, and the sharing ofthe things a man wants to share. I loved these in my groin and the raves ofsweetness summoned me, over and over, till I was worn out and imperiousinsomnia stalked and kept me at my desk or sent me.

How can it be, in the midst of aged foolishness, Ellenappears, to convince, to distract—those devil eyes of hers and that black hairand her white, white skin begging love. When she speaks, I listen: I turn andlisten: I turn and listen again for she is theatre, its hush, its compassion,its folly.

Jonson was right to introduce us; he thought to kill my penand wit. It was his plot to make me plotless—great jest! He was right, forsleepless nights swept around and the pulsing indirection of sex carried me toher for yet another ren­dezvous.

Did I ever come to my senses: was it a week, month, or year?Was it she who nailed the fog over my soul? Ah, crucifix between her breasts, sosoft, so im­paled! What graciousness!

Londonwas too small for us for everyone perceived the unperceivable, im­paired ourpairing and yet...but all this is past and the last seat empty.

We thought to escape to Rome, that eternal place for eternalmouths. She of­fered me money and I refused. At the theatre she begged me toaccept, for us, for time, for love...and I accepted. On stage I swore totestify but I hugged my testament and my lines faltered.

We have played our parts too often, our thighs packed withwax, our mouths with honey; we bring it to the hive; and, like the bees, aremurdered for our pains.

Henley Street

June 18, 1615

For months I kept at the writing of Antony and Cleopatra—Ellenseldom out of my mind. Yet the writing was an abatement of anguish, sceneslifting me out of maelstroms, Antony’s turbulence alleviating mine. Apartmentand theatre were all I allowed myself, sharing time with Jonson, dividingmutual crusts.

Rain—rain—when has it rained more! It was well I had theEgyptian sun to keep my bones warm.

Some scenes evolved easily; others fought me, full of soundand fury. I could not visualize certain scenes on the stage and sometimesstrange actors walked the boards and stole my lines, fixing them with their ownpersonalities. Alleyn stalked as Caesar, and I had to re-write again and again.

Baxter affronted me with his buffoonery and I had to crossout his lines. Phips—our cheerful hom*osexual—had Cleopatra in his perfumedarms, jeering at me. Kempe jigged.

Ontop of all this, insomnia set in and never left me for weeks. March – April –May, it was the warmth of May that unlocked its crossbow and shot me out­doors,to sit and sit for hours.

There, in the sun, my shirt open, shoes off, grass alive,lilacs alive, birds twirping, I knew I could make Antony and Cleopatrasuccessful. There in the sun people and river came alive. The sun’s gnomon wrote.I bowed my head and waited. At my desk, I hurled my sentiency... alive, it mustcome alive, to hurl aside life’s muddle: alive: these people from the past mustspeak: nothing is more remote than yesterday: speak to them: make themchroniclers: break their sleep.

The Thames with anchored and sailing ships:

Ellen and Shakespeare on board a coaster,

leaning on the taffrail:

She settles her tam and quotes from TwoGentlemen of Verona.

They talk of Naples as sailors leer at them

from on top a stack of boxes.

Henley Street

June 20, 1615

llen and I sailed the Thames, thewater stippled with gulls; our hands locked, we stood at the stern and hopedfor a smooth voy­age, with love, our rudderbar credulous to us, the wind mildand lasting. In Venetian wine there would be happiness, we promised eachother...

But why are you lost to me and I alive?

Ellen—what is this, that reaches round us and never arrives;what is this that promises return?

Ours was a proper departure, landing us on the Italianshore, love in a town of disinterested people.

Perhaps I want the impossible: yes, yes, I want that timewhen we were there in Naples, when we strolled the seaside; when we sailed thewaterlanes and walked Roman streets and her fountains watched us with sleepyeyes, spray beaded on some bronze arm.

I dislike borrowing things and yet I’m borrowing memories,borrowing time, those bronzes, our return, our boat bucking seas, sending usnorth, ice off the larboard, back to reality, debts, conniving. We saidgood-bye but our good-bye was postponement. Our wheel became St. Catherine’s.At a gypsy teller’s tent there was a kind of double silence.

I lived for my work, starved for it.

With my pen I quartered the earth and green pastures andmade them live for her and the witchcraft of hope, to shake off sadness andburst the anarchies of soul.

Incorrect to heaven, some say.

June 22, 1615

What a co*cked up play, my Coriolanus. To fill mypocket! To fob off bad for good, that was it. I leaned on one crutch and foughtwith another—and fell. Too many of my plays were crutched. I borrowed too muchfrom Plutarch and oth­ers. I worshipped royalty. I was too conventional, tooromantic, borrowing plots, borrowing, borrowing, double sure, never sure,co*cksure.

Henley

Midsummer-day

And I must guess the identity of her attackers—or why theywanted her life. Christ, we had our list of suspects. And what came of our grimsuppositions? Nothing. We said: was it robbery, I prithee? Jealousy? Hatred?Politics? We said. We have said and I go on saying. Thrift, Horatio,thrift...and I have not saved.

Henley Street

June 26, 1615

Hamnet...

Today is your death day.

After you died I went to the shore and the sea’s clods ofwood and detritus infused in me a loneliness that nothing has every wiped out:a wrangle of foam goes on and on inside me; the grey that topped the abyss ofocean finds a darker grey in me; the gulls are sleep-flying for you.

Hamnet, my son...

Prince of my house, I loved you. We had such fun. Good day,sweet boy, how dost thou, good boy? May flights of angels sing you on your way.When you died, Stratford teemed with monsters. Your hand in mine, such a coldhand, you said adieu. What God was this to snuff you out at eleven. Griefstiffened me: I feel it today, when there should have been a birthday party nota remembrance. The sea rolls back on me as I sit here, my legs unable to move,pain working in me.

The Queen and her killings...time and its murders...they arealike! The unfair­ness of life, O what angels sing the truth? What angels! Go,fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in’t.

God took him from me...damn the God that steals your son.

King of grief they might have called me. Now, all is mendedby many years: ours be your patience, your gentle hand lead us, and take ourhearts.

I had thought to leave him something beside my father’scoat-of-arms. I had thought to introduce him to the theatre, have him thinkabout my plays, have him know the better part of London. He would have been afriend of Drake’s; perhaps he might have sailed on Raleigh’s Virginia voyages.Perhaps Jonson might have taught him Latin. Perhaps is my treadmill, and I wearit thin.

He went to a few plays with me and thrilled to them. Herespected me. Loved me. What were his thoughts, as he died? To be such a short,short time on stage! Was he resentful, bewildered? I think he was confusedbecause of the great fever. Good God, what was the use of his flowering? It wasan error of the moon...it makes men mad.

To thine own self be true, they say, and I, still harping, Iask your credent ear to listen: we shall not look upon his like again?

Speak... I go no further.

Stratford-on-Avon

Flowers in my hand, I thought to visit his grave, but as Ilimped across the yard, thinking of the bone house and how each of us endsthere, remembering those underneath my shoes, under the tree, under thethreatening sky, I laid the flowers on another’s grave, and the dove carved onthat granite nodded, as it were, pecked me across the grass, among the weeds,reminding me of other men’s grief.

That woman, over there on her knees, isn’t that NancyRichards? I recognize her shoulders and the back of her head. Her father diedlast month.

What stupidity, this crawling, mewing, kneeling, thisunresurrectable world, with weeds that smell of dust.

I remember a king’s grave in Denmark, with falcons carved onit, falcons of black marble, perched on top a branch, carved black centuriesago.

I walked through the rain, moving as fast as my legs wouldlet me, my soul full of discord and dismay, wishing I had not gone, resolved toconfine myself to myself, incarcerate my grief in my writing, or, if I couldnot write, be ennobled, not afflicted as other men are with contagion.

The fault, dear Brutus...

Afterhis death, the dissentious Judith and Ann used to side against me: “He’s nogood, Judith,” Ann preached vehemently. “What does he care for any of us! He’salways away in London. You’ve heard him say that life’s but a walkin’ shadow.We’re just so many shadows to him!”

I would stare at Judith after one of Ann’s outbursts; Iwould look at her and through some sort of necromancy I would see Hamnet’sface—I would remem­ber our fun, our fishing, our swimming in the Avon.

It was not the constant conspiracy of Ann and Judith thatdrove the final nail; it was Judith’s resemblance, same color and texture ofhair, same blue eyes, same half smile, same propensity to giggles, same way of rubbingher hands on her clothes. I had always favored Hamnet because he and I hadshared more. Now, now that Judith lived, I could not accept his death. Ofcourse I never wanted her to die. As long as the twins lived there was accord.If death must steal one of them...but I couldn’t, wouldn’t choose. Yet, inugliest anger, I had shouted my preference. And she knew I often saw Hamnetwhen I looked at her: I’ve seen her run when I stared at her: I’ve heard hercry: “Mama, he’s looking at me that way!”

“These are my twins,” I used to say, showing them to people.Twins—for how long!

I bought her a goonhilly pony, an excellent pacer, and taughther to ride. I got her a lamb and a puppy, I brought her gifts from London. Ibrought her things from France and Italy. There was little chance to getthrough to her because of Ann. If I won Judith for a while, I lost her when atwork in London. She never wrote to me...or Ann destroyed those letters. Duringmy years in the theatre, in London and touring the provinces, all those years,I re­ceived no note. She never expressed a desire to see one of my plays,seemed disinterested in my life in the city—unless it was to suggest I bringsomething when I came home.

Home?

July 1, 1615

I am that wanderer of night, full many a morning have I seenflatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye...

There’s memory, that’s for remembrance; pray, you, love,remember...and there is pansies; that’s for thought...there’s fennel for you,and columbine; there’s rue...you must wear your rue with a difference.

Through the years they mangled those lines! How cold to hearthem back­stage! How cold to hear them now, here, in my room, echoing fromvarnished beams, off-stage in my oriel of yesterday.

But I should not have gotten sick: I should have stayed inLondon to the end, fought the Puritans, fought the King, the tax collectors,the players of the shrew’s men!

Pain shut me out: the body must have its moments ofsolace—the mind its soothsayer!

I would give you violets...but they are planted around agravestone.

I was a young man when I wrote those lines; like Ophelia Iride on bawdy repetitions, error on error.

The table of my memory is dusted with crumbs.

Off-stage, the wind gushes; on-stage, there’s a frenziedpitch of “no!”

Chorus, players!

This love, this royalty by jackanapes brought to earth, thestage to my back: what can a man affirm in such a position: flight? I speak toher and she puts her fingers on my lips and holds her beauty like a whip overme. The curtain came down quickly: fie, the curtain often comes down swiftly,manipulated by fury, a last sound snapped out, muffling resolution, coveringcourage...

There is a curtain for love and one for hate: there is acurtain for youth and another for age. And when we finally realize these thingswe are dotards, and our realization laughs.

The executioner’s curtain is no doubt the swiftest. The jigmaker’s safest. The priest’s dullest. The mariner’s loneliest. The lover’ssaddest.

Henley Street

July 8, ’15

These pages are so unlike my plays and sonnets and yet Ihave to struggle to get anything down! Here is my mock dukedom; since I can notwrite any longer I look back across time from the shelf of my memory, longingto improve my existence: I am certain that the old word-chattels gladlydeserted me, looking for a young man, no doubt, an upstart from Snitterfield,enroute to London, riding a brood mare, humming...hey, non nonny...

...Heaven mend all!

Henley Street

July 9, 1615

Elsinore has a tongue of land that licks at time, a place thatends with defeat, its castle and its people falling into apparitions.

Usurping night, Elsinore made me face the northern ocean,irresolution. There was no illusion to being there: rain cusped out of sky: thesnow fell: it was a bitter time to see the place, a blastment. I had shaken offthat incessant pain that stabbed the roof of my skull each time I leaned over,that writhed through my eyes: I would rub my eyes and feel something click inmy brain as if it had fallen into place again. But I was still weak from thisailment and tired from long journeys and longer thoughts. I was filled with newdreads, especially here, under the rain. Irresolution: it is wrong to deny itfor there is no denying its power.

There is something like death, being alone in a foreignland. With determina­tion grappling, the loneliness and death-sense gripharder. So I felt that I was borrowing from everything around me.

It is a custom for some of us to think and yet I turnagainst that custom. It is better to live, simply as simple people live. Iwanted to live without the paper-world, to shun its distortions, escape itsdeath head, the charnel house of yester­day.

As I stood on that tongue of land, I heard the slobber ofthe sea: I heard old men whisper: I heard old passions. My blood was young andyet I could not get away. The porches of my ears wanted friendship, I, the kindhand, the kinder mouth.

“If you were here there would be reason enough. Without you,there is no more than walls and sky and food. To be sure, I eat. To be sure, Imove about. You understand what I mean. I find that there is so much in lifethat never gets said. When I am with you I am unable to say it...old plaint. Itry to convey with my presence—that is help. You, too, have this desire, andhave expressed it. When we were in bed, mating, there was a beauty in thatunion that suf­ficed...until tomorrow. Then, caught up in time, I sensed theold longing, to share the unshareable, to reach the unreachable. Here, in thiscold room, I am trying to make life a little more livable, for you, for me.”

So I wrote her.

Stratford

Years Ago

At Oxford, it is pleasant to recall, I stopped at Duvenant’sinn frequently, the rooms and meals much to my taste. Madame Duvenant, dressinglike someone from an Inigo Jones’ masque, her rosy sex refreshing, greeted mewith a favor­able eye. Veal, shoulder of mutton, rabbit, greenfish...gingerbread...straw­ber­ries...claret: she knew my favorites, sharing mymeals and bed. When I arrived, tired by travel, she had someone look after me,prepare my meal; then, we en­joyed each other’s company in the dining room shekept for private use. A Lon­doner and play-goer, she fixed her lusty eyes onme, hand on my arm, and made me feel I had never been away. She asked nopromises, required no letter-writing, no payment. “It’s late. Will, shall we goup to bed?” Why are there so few generous women?

Henley Street

July 13, 1615

I’d like one more ferry trip across the Thames, in themorning, the water dark, Sly at the oars, telling me about the latest girl, ofthe girls he has ferried, girls he wanted to love but could never love, old,old Sly.

“There’s one, Will, you just can’t beat. She’s about thistall, tiny around the waist, and she makes you know, before you know it, thatshe can be had for very little, very sweetly done too, that’s the game ofit...that’s the game of her, that little one, Portia, they call her. Portia,the one with grey eyes and small mouth. When she stands up beside me in theboat to pay her fare, I groan. It’s terrible being old, Will, when you can’t doit any more. And I want to do it to her, to be young again. That Portia, shecomes mostly in the evenings, I guess you know why. But she’s not always alone,but when she’s alone, we talk. That she, she is little around the waist but hasmelon breasts, the kind, you know how they are. I will give you her address, ifyou want. Shillings, now Will! But she’s not one you’ll forget, I warn ye. Thatmouth of hers and them eyes of hers. fa*ggots for her, that’s it, Will, fa*ggotsfor men who see her...”

The boat shifts, Sly’s oars are cracked, his old face crispedfrom the sunny crossings, the winds and fogs. He’s been boatman for forty-oddyears, he says. He has worn out a dozen boats, which he builds himself, to makethem stout enough. Sun on his boat, the water dark...

I’d like to cross once more with him, though he’s been deada long time, cross with other boats around, small boats and schooners, somewith sails un­furled, seaward bound.

St. Swithin’s Day

If I knew where I was going to die I wouldn’t go near theplace.

Stratford

July 20, 1615

Today, warm sun and silence were mine and pain alleviated: Ihoped for re­covery, hoped to write again, hoped that my memory might outlivedeath half a year; so shall I progress, ant-wise, day by day: ants, as youcreep over the wood­work, stumble against the grain, think of me and the wordsI summon: convic­tion me to another Rosalind: the Touchstone will unblacken andreveal pure, pure gold: alchemy of ruffians and angels:

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree

For the souls of friend and friend...

The sword in my chimney corner has not been unsheathed foryears: when I bought it I thought I had the keenest blade in London, sharperthan my rapier: when I carried it I liked to give it a flick now and then, tocatch the eye of a woman: I kept it polished: it saved my life in a streetfracas: Hamnet liked it: he used to shoulder it and parade about: I thought itwould keep me young forever: I thought it would cut across time, loosenparchment and paper, let flood a bevy of immortal words above a sea of faces...

...for Thomas Combe.

The Roebuck on theAtlantic, bucking water,

sailors topmast, Raleigh in his cabin,

one eye on the compass, another on a manuscript:

Books line the walls; a monkey chitters:

the Roebuck pitches:

Raleigh’s jewels flash on his hands:

“Mermaid,” yells a bow sailor.

Henley Street

July 24, 1615

had thirty-five days at sea withRaleigh:

How he commands, respected by his seamen, each crewman calledby name. There is adequate leisure aboard his frigate. I never saw anythingdone “on the double” as aboard an Essex ship where the captaincy seemedinsecure.

On board the Roebuck I kept at my writing, lollingand writing on deck or passing hours in his cabin where I gave up to his bookedwalls: volumes in French, English, Italian, Greek, manuscripts in Latin andHebrew, his literary world broader than mine.

In his cabin, under his table lantern duringbad weather, during squalls, I wrote an act and then, at Raleigh’s urg­ing,read it aloud. Feet propped on a mother-of-pearl chest, he listened gravely,smoking his clay pipe, brandy in reach, his comments as mellow as his drink,Oxford accent to my liking.

Ere we were ten days old at sea I had written severalscenes—writing in the sun and spray, sitting on coils of rope, a gun lashed infront of me, gulls mewing.

“Mermaid...mermaid,” a sailor yelled aloft, and we scuttledto the starboard rail, to see something break water and then submerge, itspearly back toward us.

She swam and dove, flipping in and out of swells, thebubbles foaming around her, making off at a 40 degree angle from our stern,pearl or green grey, though I never saw her distinctly.

The excited sailor who had spotted her claimed that he had seenher face... “such a beautiful face!”

Raleigh appeared.

“They’re deep swimmers,” he said, as we leaned far over,hoping she might reappear. “She’ll likely stay down a long time. Must havepowerful lungs, those mermaids.”

He told of other mermaids: he had heard one call through fogand mist on the Orinoco river; he had seen one off the Cape, near a smallisland; he said that seeing a mermaid spells luck.

He went on talking of a trip upriver, jungle river, heat,crocodiles, green birds, monkeys with beards, butterflies, solid whitebutterflies, bigger than your hands: his descriptions sent my brain going: Itoo was the Queen’s favorite, Shepherd of the Ocean, sailing a Golden Hind:I would find El Dorado in Manoa.

Hisaccent sometimes thickened to a brogue and it was difficult to follow. Talkingof his travels, his eyes grew nervous, searching, searching, seeing inside,greying: his arms gestured.

We leaned against the taffrail, as the ship heeled under awind, white caps racing after.

His Roebuck is splendid, new, well-equipped, fasterthan others of design. He and his navy draughtsmen spent months on her, and shecost him a fortune.

On this run we fired new cannon, firing them to test theirrecoil, trying a de­vice designed by his chief gunner: for Mr. Ames the firingtook place after dawn, when the ocean was smooth; I was wakened five or sixmornings; the great ship rolled in protest and rigging and beams creaked. Onemorning I was on deck to witness the testing.

Legs spread, soap on him, he rode the swells, while a sailorthrew water over him, a sexful man, proud, and that same pride was at dinner inhis cabin while being served among his officers and it was there while he readto me at the same table, eatables cleared, read me from the Greek poets, Pindar’sode on boxing, Simonides and his Perseus imprisoned in a chest at sea,Anakreon: reading the Greek and then translating as if it were his tongues.

It seemed to me he might be fit to govern the new world...agreat, wise colo­nist...

On our trip we visited Madeira Island, disembarking at noon,the cambers keeling us into warm, shallow water, the weather perfect. I had acarcanet that I was determined to give a girl, in exchange. The priest, in thetown, was very de­termined to detain me: to please him, I had to see the hairsof the Virgin, treas­ured in a box: the coil of hair kept the convent free offamine, he insisted: with his gigantic paunch I felt he might cause a famine ofhis own: he had a tree-filled, bird-filled cage he wanted me to see, strungwith brass wires, where hundreds of birds lived. Negro girls, naked except forthe cloth pad underneath the calabash shells they carried on their heads,wandered past the cage to see the birds, and found me most amusing. Theirsmooth, dark features, slick jet hair, round waists and small breasts weredelightful. The priest had to leave—called by the convent bell. I gave theyoungest my carcanet: the bushes slid about us, our hands to­gether, the leavescool, the cool stream cool beside us, giving us water in our hands: birds inthe aviary whistled and sang, while she fondled the carcanet and lay with me: Ihad never had anyone so young, accomplished, kindly, wooing, mouth tasting offruit: she peeled fruit taken from a bush and we ate together: she filled hercalabash at the stream and left me, lying, dreaming of her smiles and strokinghands...

Stay illusion.

I liked sprawling in my bunk, the ocean light illuminatingthe ceiling, a book or two beside me.

From above came the pad-pad of barefoot sailors, shift ofrigging and cord­age, yaw of boom, sough of wind and flap of canvas; from belowcame the gur­gle of seas and jab of crested rollers that sometimes held theship suspended for a moment and then permitted her to careen as she drove downinclines steep enough to shake the reaches of the sails.

When I dozed I felt the vastness, ringed vastness, and I wasmonarch through nearly closed lids: I was ruler of my inconsistencies: Idreamed an island, chained by surf and reef, where life was incredibly carefree,a warmth of flowers, fruit—women.

At night, in the bunk, oil lamp swinging, I imagined theuncharted waters be­neath us, porpoise and whale, creatures that pursued us aswe floated across a valley, across a hill where coral studded the top: I sawmonsters pass and re-pass, dark blue, grey, orange, fins fluted like fans closeto our keel. Streamers of kelp and seaweed tangled crab and shark and I fellasleep, my play forgotten, the lamp burning, burning, burning...

Screaming, a seaman plunged from our topgallant, to die ondeck while we were outrunning a storm.

Raleigh had his body wrapped in canvas and tossed overboard.No ceremony. Giant, wind-wracked combers.

“Do you know his name? Is there any record?” I asked.

“Timothy Parkes.”

“Where was he from?”

“Dover. He was wanted there for murdering two women.”

“Was he a good seaman?”

“No. And he was eaten up with scurvy.”

And Raleigh’s face said: “What kind of ship can an officercommand sailored by rogues?” But he was all man: I saw him, in his canvas sack,as all men, fal­ling...falling.

There was never another voyage for me after Raleigh’s...norwas there ever another Sir Walter. I should have been his champion. He neededme to fight for him. I have often shut my eyes and seen his books and sensedthe cradling lull of his ship and felt the grace and power of him standingbeside me: books, beams, a pointed beard, a swinging lamp, smell of oakum andocean.

To think that I witnessed his trial and made no attempt to defendhim...to think that I saw him in prison...to think...cold venison! Cry yourmercy!

Henley Street

July 28, 1615

At the Mermaid Tavern, Raleigh laughed over his ale, hislanky body screwed on a rickety chair, the wind and rain howling, people comingand going, their clothes soggy, the wind gusting inside with each arrival. Mostnewcomers made for the fireplace, stamping and shaking out their coats; bootsand leggings steamed.

Grinning, Raleigh lit his pipe, a dozen men around ourtable, elbowing Ben Jonson and me.

“Come on, Ben, smoke another, and you, too, Will.”

Raleigh’s coat was ripped, where a sword or cutlass hadslashed; he pushed a tobacco pouch and pipe toward me.

“I’ll drink with you—but not smoke,” I said.

“Try again. You’ll learn to like it.”

“You experiment,” I said. “Once was enough.”

“But I’m not experimenting. I’ve smoked on the long watches.It settles the blood and calms the mind. The Indians...”

“We know about the Indians,” Jonson said. “Just remember,we’re not Indi­ans!”

“You might better be! Here, lad, bring us more ale! Let’sdrink!”

“Here’s to your return! London’s London with you around.”

“Have you seen my new play?”

“What play is it?”

“The Winter’s Tale,” I said.

“What—achilly play on top of this miserable weather! Why a month ago I was basking inthe sun...you and your plays! Is this Denmark and another Ham­let? Tell me,Will, was Hamlet named for your son—are those lines in his honor?”

Jonson interrupted and answered for me:

“When my boy died I wrote something for him. I was in prisonthen and the jailer grabbed my manuscript and spat on it. Bah, that’s the kindof crassness that shakes you. I’ve forfeited goods in payment of my stupiditiesbut I haven’t for­feited my hatred of injustice! It’s another kind of injusticewhen a boy, a stripling, dies. Will made Hamnet into Hamlet, an outcryagainst this world.”

He drank his ale and I saw him examine his thumb, where theyhad branded it when he was in prison; he nodded to himself; I suppose histhoughts were of his boy, a victim of the plague...

Jonson eats poorly. Prison treatment has hurt him. His hairis greying, par­ticularly on one side, sweeping down, showing when he talkswith gusto. Teeth are missing. Today he wears a suit of black wool, his cuffsclean, his collar clean. He hardly seems one of us.

Raleigh’s sword scrapes against the table as he leansforward, talking of his voyages. His is a perpetual struggle with storms andmutinies and his flashing eyes convey a courage one has to take into account.He has sent the idlers pack­ing and smokes with his pipe in the bowl of hispalm, its brown the color of his hands, the five or six rings on his fingersblazing: opals and rubies, I am told.

I am also told that if he sold the jewels he wears he couldpay for the con­struction of a ship-of-the-line.

Henley Street

July 30, 1615

I came across several old letters this morning. Raleigh’s ishard to decipher:

Portsmouth

March 9, 1608

Will Shakespear—

We have taken an old carrack, the Madrede Dios, and spoils clutter her deck as we lie at anchor in Portsmouth Bay,spoils, things the Queen would grow sullen over, wanting them. Some of thembloody and soaked with spray, they have a cheapness about them, a liar’s eye.You and Ben would know how to laugh and knock them about. Here’s a green gem ina brooch a negro queen must have worn, its horse’s eye staring through a slashof sail canvas. Here’s a rope of skulls carved in brownish ivory; here’s atiara ornamented with pale yellow gems I can’t iden­tify...a pile of brassbracelets alongside a smashed cutlass. As for me, I’ll take the wind in therigging and a clear landfall.

How are your plays going this season?Sometimes, when a sea rages, Macbeth howls in my ear, Othello lifts his hand asstars dive below the washed horizon.

Shun the Queen’s condemnations. It isusually her free­dom—seldom ours. Stay clean!

But if I could write like you I wouldtry to destroy political chicanery, though meddling with the Crown may spell mydoom.

Well, I will make London late nextmonth, and see you at the Tavern.

Raleigh’s pen dug into the paper, and the signature hasalmost disappeared for lack of ink.

The Tower

Will Shakespear—

When I scribbled verses on a window,our Queen was pleased. I did not know—my crystal would not divulge that I wouldbecome a chemist in the Tower, alchemist of solitude. I thought the compassmine, shrewdly boxed...

London

April 9, 1593

Will—

For years I have been planning anexpedition up the Ori­noco, to locate a gold mine. The fabled mine is nearSpanish settlements and these may present hazards to any English force. ASpaniard, a Captain Berrio, is entrenched there, along the River. Theexpedition will tax my resources but I am deter­mined for the sake of theCrown: to carry out my plans I will require several shallow draft frigates andseveral small boats; there are no accurate maps and the mine is in feverjungle. Cer­tes a month or two will go into exploration, hacking this way andthat. The roguish crew of prison perverts will contribute their share of com­plications,no doubt of that, my friend. Con­sole yourself that you will never know such anexperience as dealing with deckloads of cutthroats. To be a voyageur you mustcondone scapegoats, assassins, rapists, thieves...but you know our maritimehistory. I have been accused of bad voy­ages...who has not made bad voyages whodared voyages? If this expedition can be materialed the victualing will be amatter of months. Wish me well...wish me God’s speed.

I am contributing £3,000, and itseemeth to me this Empire is reserved for Her Majesty and the Nation. I canfind the gold King of Cundinamarca: el hombre dorado. Who knows, as inSergas de Esplandián, we may reach the Island of California, in­habited byAmazon women with passionate hearts and great strength, where there is abundantgold.

There were other letters in this vein, about his future. Asexplorer he was to the manner born. Thou canst not be false to any man—hisletters seemed to say.

TheTower

Like our ship Revenge I amsurrounded by an armada of enemies, all my pikes splintered. In the beginningof the fight I had a hundred for me; volleys, boardings, and enterings havedone their damage...this composition and exile are the dullest and longest inthe history of our Tower; the book I am writing is for Prince Frederick, aslow, slow tacking about; yet you, who respect writing, realize the salvation.Tell me, friend, that I will fare well with my History of the World...

It is still my error that I never assisted him: it was myerror to have shut my mind: there are many I could have helped as I went along.But to pass by some­one great—that is great misfortune.

I hear him telling about how he burned the town of San José;I hear him telling about the treachery of the Tarawa Indians; his terriblethirst when his ship ran out of water at sea; he is boarding a Spanish frigate,raiding for guns...

’Sblood, the Spanish are a cruel lot, chaining the caciques,scorching their naked bodies with hot bacon, beating them, starving them,decapitating them...

TheTower

Write to me, lad, before thought’srelicts utterly obsess me and the ghouls remove me in their stinking chains. Ihave seen and heard them, ghouls and ghosts of this town and tower, seen andheard them cringe and bully, nightlong. Stones multiply their menace. There’san old seadog from Dublin crumpled in a cell here, a grumbling bag: he claimshe used to sail with me; by his own confession he is the murderer of hiscrippled father. He is to be freed in the Spring. Freed? Free—are we ever free,my lad? When I sniff the brined air I am hard put not to cast myself off theTower—I still hope to see the sails double-reefed and porpoises rising off thebow...

Later he wrote bread—bread—bread. “Time drives the flocks,”he said: “I am reading the Amoretti... have you read Spenser recently?

“None can call again the passed time,” he wrote. Irepeated those seven words. I repeat his bread...bread...bread...it is notbread we want. I did not care. Who cares now?

Henley Street

August 1, ’15

What times we had, Raleigh, Marlowe, Jonson, and I, Marloweand his wit, Raleigh and his tales of the sea, Jonson and his satiricalpomposities in Latin or Greek. Then, then...Marlowe’s murder crept through ourveins and left us dumb or feverish, our very gatherings viewed withdisapproval.

Haildrubbed our windows, the chill of complicity and duplicity spread over cobbles,the clatter of horses’ hooves meant torture on the spit of tomorrow: these werehitched to our beads of sweat.

We had seen our share of slings and arrows. Was it importantwho killed Marlowe? We weren’t sure. All threads of evidence were thin threads!We praised Marlowe, shuffled through our worn pockets to bury him—Raleigh atsea now. We excused, blamed, made our exodus.

Annsaid, with scorn:

“It’s the company you keep! London! Always London!”

As if our plays could be produced in Stratford!

“It’s men who blaspheme God who find the gutter! Listen towhat people say about Raleigh! He’ll have a bad end!” So they prophesied oversour beer.

Chris Marlowe was squat, dark, tousle-headed, many-freckled,with wretched teeth and poor eyes. He weighed far too much for a small man—hisclothes were sacks at times—his body lost inside for all its bulk. He hadcharacter and a voice that conveyed character—his speech superior to manyactors. He could memo­rize lines quickly, and speak them sincerely,interpreting with sound thinking behind them. When nervous he picked his teethand jogged his foot, when writ­ing or talking, not on the stage. He slumped inhis chair habitually, as if he had been on his feet for days. When he spoke,there was Marlowe, bringing you to attention, his eyes serious, the warmth ofhim coming to you, a piece of cur­rency.

Stratford

Marlowe and I worked throughout the night, troubled by reekycandles, rain and chill. He kept us grinding by saying we’d soon see the suncross the roof tops.

The sun...where was it?

Our playwriting went badly as we worked at rephrasing,changing, cutting, adding. I would write a scene and he would recompose it, orhe would start out and then I would revise. We had to have our three actsfinished by noon, for our players.

Red-eyed, Marlowe sipped ale, his quill chronicling,squeaking, or head on his arms, he snatched a fragment of sleep.

Rain over the house, over the mansard, clicking against theglass, sounding colder and colder, dampening our spirits and our paper, makingmy knees and ankles ache...rain.

I wanted to toss myself on the cot and smother myself withblankets and call it a day. Marlowe said we’d soon see the dawn. God’s bodkins!

In that four-square room, cluttered with Greek and Romanmasks, posters, books, and dirt, we wrote Titus over and over. When themanuscripts were ready for the theatre even the rain sounded tired.

In those days, for economy’s sake, we often cut each other’shair, sitting in the doorway or on the steps, when the weather was good. Drapedin sheet or towel, I sat on a chair while Marlowe snipped. Scissors and combusually put him in a whistling mood. Gently puffing a tune, he scissoredaway—the slowest bar­ber in London. He liked to complain about the color of myhair, saying he wished it was as black as Othello’s so he could see it easily.

“I’ve cut so many bad lines from your plays this job shouldbe easy.”

Chris was better at barbering than I. He said I didn’t keepmy mind on my work.

“If I had the money, I’d certainly excuse you. Come on, nomore time out for jotting down lines. Let’s get through this mess. Presently,it will be dark. I never trust you by candlelight.”

In separate crimson frames:

Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, Ben Jonson, Shakespeare:

A mirage of Armada, sails rattling, guns roaring...

At sea, Sir Francis tells yarn of brave seamanship:

a man stabs another in the eye with a dagger.

Silence.

Stratford

August 5, 1615

pelling God backward gets dull aftera while: at the clandestine meetings where Raleigh, Greene, Marlowe, Drake,Jonson and others crucified everyone’s beliefs, they gradually dulled their ar­rows,for me: I thought: Lucifer can smell too strongly of sulfur too often. “Am Inot a mighty man who bears a hundred souls on his back!”—talk like this was tolittle purpose, to my way of thinking. How much saner to keep convictions toone’s self: Yet some, surly as a butcher’s dog, paraded their beliefs. Gulled,I never went too often: the suite, in the Duke’s Thames house, had about it anair of trouble brewing, trickery, and the abrupt appearance of men-at-arms. Thetalkers walked or sat about, under brilliant chandeliers, shad­owing theirshadows on the polished floors, starched cuffs thrown back over satin sofas.Whiffs of cologne and perfume over-topped the whiff of garret. Rapiersshimmered. The Queen, if she chose, could do away with each of us: a nod of herwig. I seriously suspected all their pattery, branding it half-heartedconspiracy, mistrust and defamation. The passage of time has confirmed, notdenied my feelings: perspective has brought out the folly of guffawings atcreeds.

St. Grouse’s Day

1615

For weeks, after Marlowe’s murder, I avoided the Mermaid Tavern.When a courtier from the Queen’s court came to me at my apartment andsuggested, with coughs behind his perfumed handkerchief, that I leave Londonfor a while, I agreed... I was rather unaccustomed to such visits!

Meeting Jonson, as I left the city, sensing evasion on hispart, I felt ill at ease, suspicion stepping in. Later, he visited me atStratford, brief visits, but he was aware of my doubts; my reserve must havetold him.

Jonson said:

“The Queen has been spying...last week your London apartmentwas searched...if you’re smart, stay away...she’s making up her mind...”

I turned that over.

What could I pin on the Queen? What could she pin on me?Which play? A broadside? A pamphlet? With Jonson back in London I sent outfeelers. When I was convinced that he was loyal I would remember that he hadkilled two men. Queen? Pawn? Right? Wrong?

September first

1615

Months after Marlowe’s murder, I learned that the Queen hadhad hirelings kill him. I confided in Raleigh as we stood on a pier, near oneof his frigates...the Thames wind whipping our clothes.

How well I recall his expression when I told him. Mouthtense, eyes afire, he grabbed at the hilt of his sword and exclaimed:

“I command nine ships. How many cutthroats do you think Ihave at my beck and call? In a fortnight, Marlowe’s murderers will be dead. OurQueen will know that she has been out-maneuvered, that there are plotterskeener than she. She killed Marlowe because he was too rabid an atheist...”

Those were vain words on Raleigh’s part: he did nothing: Idid nothing. How gutter-cheap we are in times of stress, how obliterative,given to expediency, wedded to her and safety!

Next Day

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dales and fields

Woods or steepy mountain yields...

And I will make thee a bed of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies...

Chris never knew what it was to have a bed of roses, noteven for a fortnight.

He might have gone on to splendid heights. His verses meanmuch to me. I liked him for his clowning, his patience, his kind words, hispersuasive pen. Glover’s son and shoemaker’s boy—we had many a boisterous time.Of his plays I think best of Tambourlaine and Faustus.

From jigging veins of riming mother wits

And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay

We’ll lead you to the stately tent of war...

As we collaborated on our plays, he was constantly fightingdebts, his mis­tress riding him hard. Our tankards full we worked in my placeor his. I shied away from his association with the School of Atheists, leavingthat to him and Raleigh.

No writer could have had a better guide for Titus, Henryand Richard. M__ had learned to smoke and like R__ had to putter withtobacco, pipe and flint.

One afternoon he used a scrap of poetry to light his pipe.Letting the paper burn and then char on the floor, he said:

“That was a poem well used.”

Was it another “Shepherd’s Song”?

I should have collected his works and seen them published.Now I could not track down his pieces. Ah, the shoulds of life...

This is the anniversary of his death, another churlishscruff of day with wretched rain...the rain it raineth every day...true, boy,come bring us to this hovel...the tyranny of the world is too rough attimes...give me your hand.

Jonson received a letter from Ellen, Ellen in Edinburgh,writing at home, ex­pressing her friendly concern for me:

“Will has written me but I am worried. Can you look afterhim?” She was afraid after Marlowe’s death. “Will you write and reassure me?”she asked. “Ed­inburgh is far... I’m sick with a cold...so much rain.”

And it was raining as Jonson read me her letter, in hisapartment. I opened a book of his and leafed through it, standing by hiswindow, the rain leaded on the pages, long, grey, thin lines, tracing problemsthat threatened us, a bond tying in with her concern, lessening that distancebetween us.

The wall felt damp to my shoulder and I smelled stale breadand stale cheese on Jonson’s desk.

“What came between us?” I asked.

“Are you talking to me...or to her?”

“To you.”

“Bad luck...the thing that comes between most lovers.”

“And what do I do to change it?”

“You know London’s soothsayers...they’re ready to help you.Pay them.”

“How much?”

“Pay...oh, with your life, your work. Pay and she’s yours.”

“It’s stupid to talk like that.”

“It’s stupid to fall in love. Just f*ck and go.”

Stratford

September 9, 1615

When Raleigh was brought to trial by the Crown and condemnedto life im­prisonment, I began a play, thinking to defend him, troubled by theroyal hatred leveled at him, for his loyalty to England was unquestionable.

His trial was pure sham.

SHEPHERDOF THE OCEAN

Scene I: Courtroom, in winter

Raleigh: You claim meguilty, but I am innocent. In no way, at no time, have I conspired against thethrone. At sea, I defended our country against all enemies. I supplied shipsfor the Queen. In Virginia, my colony is dedicated to all that England standsfor. Sirs, I protest!

Judge: Damned you are,damning our people with your stinking guilt. You have conspired! We have everyproof...there’s not the slightest doubt of your perfidy! You defended QueenElizabeth against the Earl of Essex but he was the King’s friend, never hisadversary. You have every guilt upon you. You are grossly guilty of plottingagainst our nation and our King. King James sees fit to sentence you...

Maybe the King had secret reasons for Raleigh’s banishmentbut I doubt it. Some call Sir Walter the “King of Liars.” His letters fromprison no longer come and Tower over me, filling me with guilt.

Should I burn his letters: could there be family in­volvementat some unfore­seen time? I should burn many things—many memories!

Ocean Skimmer, you pilloried yourself. We were friends:those were good days but not good enough to last. What lasts?

The oriel outlasts us! Its quarrels outlast ours!

September 11, 1615

In my mind’s eye we meet at the taproom of the Mermaid’s Tavern...

Raleigh: ...At sea, weeks away from port, alone on the deck,rigging and sails creaking, I’ve felt it... I’ve felt it in the smash of wavesand moan of beams...felt it in the expanse of sky...that there must be a god.

Marlowe: Should be a god! Put it that way.

Raleigh: No...let it go as I’ve said it. As you ride at thebow, as spray hurls on board, there are certain certainties, rebuffs ofpersonal fancy, declarations of a godhead.

Jonson: The Greek helmsman felt those same declarations, andhis god was Zeus.

Marlowe: I don’t go for such thinking on my part, SirWalter. It shuts me in­side a cage and the cage has a door with four heavybars: f-e-a-r.

Raleigh: You know that each country has had a godhead.

Marlowe: Each country has its diseases, debts...despots.

Shakespeare: Are you denying your “School of Night”?

Raleigh: I’m not on trial here. I was speaking con­fidentially,no, inti­mately...that’s a better word. I was trying to share an emotion and Iask you to respect it as an emotion.

Jonson: You ask for respect. God be at your table.Everyone’s highly re­spected here—even the waiters. (Laughter)

Marlowe: Ah, shut up!

Shakespeare: We didn’t come here to quarrel.

Raleigh: Maybe we can do better with politics...or is it toohydra-headed to­night? Let’s talk about Essex. Cautiously.

Marlowe: But why cautiously?

Shakespeare: We’ll do better trying something else, not sorisky. Supper’s ready. Here it comes.

Jonson: Pour the ale, boy.

Marlowe: Hugger-mugger, my cage lost its bars. The bird offear has flown ...hunger picked the lock.

That’s how I remember an evening at the Tavern, Raleigh inhis finest, wear­ing green velvet cloak, red trousers, black boots, black hat,sword; Jonson, Mar­lowe and me in our snuffbox suits, wearing our swordsbecause of recent street fracases.

The Tower of London...

A cracked stone stairway leads to an open door:

Inside, windowless, Raleigh sits at his prison desk,

with maps, letters, books around him.

He is writing; he coughs:

Frail, he seems to be listening:

An armed guard trudges by and looks in.

Stratford

September 15, 1615

n ’10, sometime during the autumn Ithink it was, I stopped out­side Raleigh’s prison, thinking to visit him: therehe was, at his deal table, books, globe, maps and papers piled about him. Hisdoor was flung wide: his pen moved: perhaps he was writing his History.Sun lay on the floor of his room. A wren sang. His hand stopped. I stepped for­ward,then faltered. His hands moved over the table: he leaned on his elbows now,coughing. He had on a grubby red woolen cape, sleeves smudged with wax. Hecoughed again—his shoulders shaking.

He was the one who had dared the wild and secret lands,who had sweated men and ships to reach a goal. Winds luned, storms crashed; yethe had kept on. He had wanted to explore the world for himself, for mankind!Books on board his ships, books in his brain: wind stirred parchment on histable as I stood there and he read. What if he should turn and see me? What ifhe should get up? Would he recognize me?

I thought: who are his friends? The thought cut me: theGreat Lucifer is forgotten. Look around you. The liar is captive, will diebehind these walls. They say he concocts an elixir, and gives it to hisfriends. No, I was not included. He needed his elixir more than I.

His white head was dirty...where was his youth? No, he hadconcocted hope. People said his rooms would be un­guarded...so they were. But Imade no sound. The ugly Tower was still. What has happened to his Elizabeth: isshe memory?

I wanted to talk to him about Spenser’s Faerie Queen,and say...Spenser...you know...no, Raleigh sailed to the Canaries, to Florida,Manoa...Hispaniola...cloak-thrower...knight...names...and his map, a largeparchment, came out of the wall and stared at me, rebuking me:cloak-thrower...patron...names...John White said that he admired him...JohnWhite said...where was White now, now that he’s back from Roanoke?

Pushes hand through hair, coughs... I back away, wanting toput the wall be­tween us. I shuffled down a few steps, disgraced, down to thestreet, co*ck­roaches and rats scuttling, ivy blowing in the wind.

Let him finish his History of the World.

I had no right to disturb.

The blue cloak slips from Ellen’s shoulders and through thestabbed hole I see moon, stars, and fog, each flecked with red. Fog soaks thehole and then, then, there’s the face of an attacker, scarred, piratical.Something behind him fades into her face, so white. I see her smile herdazzling lover’s smile and I hear her laughter and the sound of her bracelets.

In the funeral procession

a small black casket is accompanied by Ann, Shakespeare,

his daughter in black, and others.

A flower falls from the casket and Shakespeare

picks it up and puts it in his pocket:

A church bell tolls:

Blue cloak over a tombstone.

buried Hamnet, buried father,buried myself... What is this death that eats our lives as if we were pieces ofbread on a dirt plate, sacrificed to whim and time? Our crosses top a hill, rowon row, a row for each generation, across fog hills, across sunny hills, Ital­ian,French, English, Scot.

Escape with me:

Now at the prow, now in the waist,

the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement:

sometimes I’d divide and burn in many places,

on the topmast, the yards, the bowsprit...

Henley Street

September 23, 1615

Now, now thought is closer to death than love: I live in it,longing for her, for intercourse, the ice of this winter-house aging me and thewind, poor wind, scuttling nowhere, nowhere to go.

Go to the oriel, then.

Henley Street

September 24

God, the rain, the rain at its cobble-sop, common rain oncobbles, rising out of them, climbing the ivy, moulding thatch, hurting placesof the mind, shivering our secrets, insinuating with lashes, coming again andagain, thieving.

The dropping of one drop can absorb a soul: its alchemytraps a man: so, we, reduced, debased, encompassed, are carried to sea, tofinality, ourselves made useless, noiseless, like a million others.

I heard rain throughout the night, from lying down togetting up, no sleep, only this endrenchment, intent on obliteration, transforminglife into a comedy of errors.

I was twenty-eight or so!

All morning I sawed wood for props; all afternoon Ipracticed lines; all eve­ning I rehearsed. My costume didn’t fit: the crown wasbadly torn. At four in the morning, there was no food for us. That was life atthe Globe, when I first tried London.

I estimate that I have earned less than a hundred poundsfrom my thirty-seven plays. When I divide that by thirty years of work, I seewhat it represents. At least I see that much.

Henley Street

1615

“Small coals! Small coals!”

“Hot peas!”

I wish I could hear those raucous London street hawkers! I’dlike to see the Thames crowded with little boats. I’d like to see the peoplepacked in front of St. Paul’s. I’d like to be back at the Exchange, for thearmorers and booksellers and glovers. I’d like to stare off-stage at a thousandrapt faces.

I miss Burbage more than anyone. He and I workedhand-in-glove for more than ten years, seeing each other almost every day. Heplayed Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and his was the finest Lear voice-transcending.Lear was Burbage and Burbage was Lear. There were no weaknesses. Weaknesses?

I have mine—so many weaknesses.

Today I have been up and round but last week I was in bedthroughout the week. When I am up and about, I freeze. My sight fades. My heartbangs. I must get to the composition of my will, the final act in my play...noapplause...no whistles...silence.

Burbage could take my lines and recite them for me, adding,subtracting, modulating. If there must be rewriting I knew, through his skill,what I must do to improve a scene.

What amusing letters he used to write home, when he wastraveling with the Company. He and Alleyn were as domesticated as tea.

“Dear Jug,” he would address his wife. “Dear Mouse,” Alleynwrote his.

“Dear Jug, let my orange-tawny stockings be dyed a goodblack, against my coming home in the winter,” Alleyn wrote.

He wanted his wife to sow spinach in his parsley bed at theproper season.

“...Sweet Jug, farewell, till All Hallow’s tide, and brookour long journey with patience.”

We brooked many a tedious journey with patience.

October 1, 1615

Gargoyles and ghosts: they are always a part of pain. Hereis a prescription: pulverize a gargoyle in a deep mortar, shred one carefully,mix with ample wheat and milk, add salt, bake two hours, serve piping hot. Addsurfeit of prunes, against the inevitable her.

Globe Theatre:

Elegant and seedy theatregoers.

Hand bills read Hamlet:

Actor Burbage mounts the stage

behind candles, rushes, torches.

Backstage, actors hustling, yacking.

A soldier outside pisses:

Curtain rises.

Henley Street

October 3, ’15

Evening – late

e players, playing in the provinces,walked all day to reach our destination, our horse cart lumbering behind us,stacked with costumes and gear. Sun blazed. Rains soaked. Chewets fol­lowed us.We walked from inn to inn, town to town. At two o’clock we played Tambourlaine,and the soft verse of Marlowe. Then, packed again, we walked until another twoo’clock, somewhere along the way. Our com­radeship on the road, sleeping in thesame rooms, sleeping on the floor as often as not, eating at the sametable—those were our bonds! Burbage, Alleyn, Kempe... I could name a dozen.Week by week, we played our plays, our Lord Chamberlain’s Men,banished by edict and plague, protected from jail by contract, cheered by thePuritans! We worried over money, badgered, confronted, schemed. We placated theconstabulary and loved the annuncios—the children!

Sometimes we sickened of one another and quarreled, ourmasculinity dis­tressing us: men and boys, men and boys—thatwas our disease! What women would have meant to us, in London especially, wherethe theatre was spoiled. What it would have meant to have a girl strut acrossthe boards and smile a smutty smile. Chafing would have disappeared.

I longed to see Desdemona as a girl would play her; I wantedto see Cleo­patra acted by a woman, Lady Macbeth by a skilled player—notcastrated boys, our sexless wire-sounding temperamentalists.

Who wants boys primping, boys in women’s hats, giggling overskirts and bows? Scratching fleas in baboon areas? Crying for their mamas?

Our groundlings wanted women to go to bed with.

Lords, ladies, and soldiery wanted women.

Everyone is sick of boys!

Soldiers, in their half-armor, jeer at us!

It is afternoon—warm and sunny!

Women, wearing eye masks, are chatting and taking seats atthe Globe. Hawkers, bright yellow bands around their waists, are selling booksand cakes and ale, passing among the theatre crowd. Dandies are getting settledin an area close to the stage. Swords clatter as soldiers find seats; a captainbows to a Jesuit priest. Someone strums a zither and croaks a bawdy ballad.Workers shove their way past the gate, afraid to miss a word of the beginning.

Popping open the little door of the hut atop the theatre, atrumpeter blows shrill blasts; the play is about to start: Hamlet, Princeof Denmark.

Henley Street

Sunday afternoon

Theatrical voices—commanding, secretive, beseeching,vituperative—are not voices I want to recall. I prefer the normal and kindly,an intimate Scot voice, a man’s educated speech, someone mouthing thoughtfully,an older person whose words show profound mellowing.

Ann’s voice was once full of witchery, stealing my guts andsenses, leaving me hot. Marlowe’s was low and persuasive. Queen Elizabeth’scrisp. Raleigh’s burly. Hamnet’s birdlike. Ellen’s warm.

Not the regal! Not dotards and thieves, but a voicecombining generosity, ease, and hope: is the voice I invent when insomnia takesme: for a moment it speaks out of the past.

I never enjoyed the children’s theatre—always wondering howthey produced even one creditable play a season since they whipped their boysto force them to learn their parts. Clifton, I recall, was kidnapped andcompelled to act. They whaled him, fed him badly, did sexual malice to make himperform—hardly the way to create a star. Clifton’s father had to appeal to theauthorities for his boy’s release. I went to see him, at his home, and thetales he told me matched his tear-streaked face. His little hands trembled andhis mother had to reassure him he wouldn’t be kidnapped again.

Whippings, threats, nagging—they were the stuff that keptthe children’s theatre alive in London, while the council shrugged and patronsfurnished subsi­dies for these odious and grossly amateurish entertainments. Italked and fought. Marlowe talked and fought. Alleyn and Jonson used theirinfluence. The cruelty continued.

London was a place of whippings: the public whipping ofoffenders through the city streets and post whippings repelled... Jim was oneof those I saw...and Hardy’s body hanging naked in chains...

Stratford-on-Avon

Wednesday

Damn them in Luddington and Walton, the groundlings whopelted us with fruit and eggs, those smelly coxcombs! That day in Luddingtonwas blazing: the sweat ran down me as I stood on stage: then, the first eggstruck, then a rotten orange: I waited, hoping. The play went on, drowned bylaughter, and then, as if by prearrangement, a barrage of fruit and eggs hitus: our tragedy was hounded off the boards.

Walton had a couple of hecklers who were supported by theaudience and broke up our play: we got eggs from many Waltonites: putrid,smelling a dozen feet away, saved, undoubtedly for our arrival: it was two daysbefore we could play again since we had to wash and press our clothes. What ajangling of nerves that bred.

Why not give up the acting and the writing? Why not go backto Stratford and work with father? Why let these slovenly cruds, these barnyardbastards ruin my life? Days later, humor came slanting through. When we werewell-re­ceived and the money tinkled we forgot; we called ourselves ninnies andthreatened to arm ourselves with eggs for the next affront. We found goodnessand warmth in lines well-delivered. We saw our comradeship, our triumph overslogging days: there was magic flowing through our blood: that fulsomeness,that nothing could tarnish or remove.

Globe Theatre is on fire...bucket brigades,

smoke around men with pails,

smoke around boys with pails,

smoke in trees, smoke in the rain:

Jonson talking and gesturing to Shakespeare:

Burbage screaming orders...

A wall topples...

Inside the conflagration

books and manuscripts burning.

onson and I watched the Globe burn—the afternoon cold, withrain falling. People crowded around; there was mud and water underfoot.

“Someonemust have set our theatre on fire, Will! Jesus, how it burns!” Jonson cried.

“No. I was inside. I saw the thatch start burning.”

“Wasn’t there anything you could do to stop the blaze?”

“We tried! We got ladders and buckets!”

“Lord, look, now! A wall’s toppling. The hut’s gone. Why ithas fallen off. Will, our props are afire. Our scripts! The flames areroaring...”

“Stand back!”

“Stand back or get burned!”

“How long has it been burning?”

“Maybe an hour...”

The flames seemed to meet in a giant peak, a peak that hadat the top a great tree of smoke. It was raining harder now; the crowd hadmoved back.

God, wasn’t it enough to have to fight the plague? One monthour doors were closed, next month we were open, next month we were shut again.That was bad enough, but no theatre meant no chance.

“Kemp is sick...the Globe is gone,” I said.

“Let’s go and get drunk!” Jonson said.

Later, Burbage told me it was a cannon, fired during my ownplay, that set fire to the Globe. We met in the street. Yanking his beard,swearing, he spat on the cobbles, and turned away.

Henley Street

1615 All Souls’ Day

Pain is gross companion, inducing lecherous thoughts,destroying temper­ance, stability, mercy, courage, fortitude. Craving release,I fought all day to re­member better times. At night, with candles lit,blankets around me, I find ease... I remember...

I am in a lemon grove, naked stone pillars stabbing out ofthe tops of the trees, Greek pilasters by the sea. We are eating on a terraceoverlooking the wa­ter, a lazy meal, with old wine. The moon rises, drunkenly,fat, water-distorted, closing in on us, in rhythm to the waves below. We holdhands. The moon spells urgency, urging us to the grove, where we lie side byside.

“Ellen...Ellen...”

The lemons are yellowish in the moonlight: there issomething stage-like about their motionlessness: it is rather as though we werein a velvet box, facing the sea. Stars have something to do with the fragrancedrifting about us, the only movement apart from the waves and rising moon. Isuggest we go down to the beach, so inviting. Ellen says no and I forgeteverything but her fragrance and the fragrance of the lemons, her whispers, herkisses.

That Scot profile, so chiseled, that bluecap voice, so warm,that hair of hers, softer than Juliet’s... A great rock, a sea boulder, surroundedby waves, glows in the moonlight...her skin is whitened: a ringlet glows on herneck.

Marlowe, Jonson, Raleigh, Spenser have had their days injail; I have had mine—those county sties where pigs and dust ate my manuscriptsand foetid odors ate my skull, jailed by the local thief who deemed each man a thiefwho thought:

If all the world and love were young...

But Raleigh it never was except in fancy and during the deadreckoning on paper: that is why the five of us stumbled backward in time,learning and escap­ing simultaneously.

We used to play chess, many of us, pawns, varlets, kings,knights, evenings, one play bastinadoed on another, Caesar against Titus,Hamlet against Lear, Portia against Cleopatra—always a gamble, along thestinking alleys, along the nocturnal slugtide Thames, along the turtle sea:stonehenge of concupiscence, murder vs. philandering, octogenarian vs. boy, sexvs. cuirass, check vs. cul-de-sac.

Everyman knows the exquisite desire for a woman; he alsoknows the raven­ing need...when there is no woman.

With Ann opposite me at supper table, I peered outside atthe leaves, beyond the oriel, and denounced myself as I ate, enumerated myfestering faults. I tasted little, wishing for sensible words and tranquilmind. But there was no shutting the door.

“Eat, Will,” she said, and I nodded, but dared not glance ather, to find the stranger and myself. I resented her as if her infidelitieswere yesterday’s, as if my side of life could be ruled out, as if we wereyoung...

Patience has not helped. Only forgiveness can.

Leaves drop from the trees and the kettle bubbles and wefeed ourselves, grieving. Our shields are in place but the lances were brokenyears ago. Our vi­sors are down, our plumes awry. Our horses have been killedin the field. With­out pennons, we move our gauntleted hands in rusty be­wilderment,slow-gaited with many, many abysmal hungers.

Henley Street – ’15

I kept a stray in my London apartment: after feeding himwhile on one of my strolls along the Thames I could not shake him: Pericles hada soothsayer’s mug dripping with ignominious grey whiskers, a privateer’sbaleful eye, a silver-grey hide, a black tail, three white feet, a black-bootedfoot, and a bark like a tin pot clipping the pavement. When it came to food,Pericles was greedier than Shylock for a pound; piercing me with piraticaleyes, he sat up, wagged for pity, then slumped in grief, moaning better thanany stage madonna. Pericles and Jonson became the best of friends: pieces ofbread or cheese from Ben’s pocket or­dained him lord and master. Along theThames, Pericles flew after every bird, yapping incessantly; it seemed to me hecould run all day and never tire. When left to guard the apartment, he kept toa mat inside the door, gradually sheathing it with a coat of silver-grey hair.

Shakespeare and Ashley meshed in fog:

They duel in a fog meadow.

Fog blows away before Julius Caesar’s ruined castle

among rocks and weeds.

Shakespeare’s dog tangles with Ashley,

caroms against Shakespeare:

Shakespeare falls.

November 7, 1615

og sopped the grass and weedswhen I fought my duel, by Caesar’s castle. I could barely make out Jonson,Pericles, and friends, among the pines and bush below the castle ruins.Phantasma? I asked myself.

Ashley and I had quarreled over money: as one of the King’sMen he had cheated me roundly; now he faced me, privateer, poet, rich man’s bastardwho would defy immortal Caesar: on twelve-foot legs, bearded, cloak overshoulder, rapier in hand, fog creaking against him, he closed in. On stage Ihad dueled many times; today I must put fakery to test.

As Ashley and I fought I heard Pericles barking and heardvoices, saw Ash­ley’s men and my own, now in the fog, now out of it, shiftingdistorts.

My rapier hilt felt icy; the whip of steel on steel had aring to it I had never heard. I hated the fog, telling myself I must make itserve me: it was to my ad­vantage as well as his. Our blades spat fire. I drewback. The ruins caught the inserting sun and stood distinctly above us: in myinner sight Caesar’s legions were amused at us. Other watchersappeared—grinning. Death is always grin­ning.

Ashley drove me back, steadily, steadily, forcing me towardthe base of the castle where blocks of stone menaced, strewn amidst thickweeds. I fought to keep my footing and tried to beat him off. He was fightingsavagely: his blade had a whiteness about it I couldn’t understand. I felt thatwhiteness slice my white belly: so, stumbling over Caesar’s masonry I was todie.

But I am ’gainst self-slaughter and somehow drove him infront of me and got yards away from the wall, deflecting blow after blow.Ashley was fighting like a privateer with a cutlass, each blow shoulder-down.My wrist felt beaten. I par­ried a series of terrific blows and then staggered.

At that moment, Pericles hurled himself on Ashley, playing,growling, jump­ing joyously; with a bound he leaped at me and before I couldcall off the dog or beat him off, I fell. As I came to my knees, Ashley waswaiting and shoved his blade into my groin.

The fog and woods...they were there in that pain, andJonson’s voice was there...my rapier, I kept thinking, where is it? Will theypick it up? I felt that months had passed, that I had aged a multitude ofyears, like the stone, like the battlement: age, that alchemy, filtered throughthe fog and sun...

I remember them carrying me.

Henley Street

November 8, ’15

Jonson took me to his apartment in his carriage and braggedabout his Hol­land duels and the men he had pinked. As I lay in bed, feverish,during the days to come, father appeared, expressing pity—the pity he hadshared with the plague-stricken. “You there, you, boy, I’ve something for you.This will help you.” I understood. I cared. I wanted to talk to him. I wantedto sit with him underneath our apple tree and feel the summer’s sun.

“The fault, father, is not in our stars, but in ourselves,”I said to someone. “Yours is a fair name, fairer than mine...

“I am singularly moved when the sway of earth shakes like athing infirm... this is not a dream, father.”

On Jonson’s bed, I went through hellish days—thirst, hunger,the bungling doctor bungling me, cold, cold remembering, sweatful forgetting,spouting de­lirious lines from plays... I accused the world of every crime, andmanaged to include my own.

I was afraid alone, yet distressed to have others overhearmy ranting. The bed boards gaped and between each board I sweated anotherchill.

“Will, here’s your supper,” Jonson said. “Will, here’sbreakfast. Will, I’ve brought you a book.”

Pericles licked my hands. Lying under my bed, he thumped histail, saying: “Get up, master, there are birds to chase along the Thames.”

–S–

Without asking me, Jonson wrote to Ellen, and she came fromEdinburgh. Was it her coming that pulled me through? Her care, beauty, herhands, her smiles of reassurance? Love put on its Oberon and scrubbed the greyout of the windows.

Quintessence.

She found a better doctor, brought me better food, got BillMcFarland to look after me, an old friend of hers, agreeable yawning fatness,eating half our food behind my back, gossiping with Jonson’s neighbors,bobbling and drooling his words, coddling me.

When I improved she took me to the park; later, we sailedthe Thames...on shore larks sang... I was grateful and tried to repay toosoon...on top of rolls of canvas at the stern.

At court there was a wedding celebration and a mock battleand fireworks spilled across the river: how the fireworks turned water intosky...the guns thun­dered.

“For us,” she said. “For your recovery,” she said. How likea paragon...

The diamond on her velvet blouse winked at me; I put my headon her lap: pain melted: seagulls mewed as our boat rocked gently.

–S–

So, Ashley and I settled our accounts. I saw him years laterand we turned our backs on one another. I suppose he was embittered at myrecovery.

The best of us is both participant and confusion, but I, Iam stranger because estrangements have put a lie to my living, making itstranger still.

Stratford

Monday morning

While recovering from my wound, my brothers, Jim and Dick,paid me a call.

They seemed quite uninclined to sit, skeptical of Ben, afraidof Pericles, con­temptuous of the apartment with its manuscripts and shelves ofbooks. Wearing their farm clothes, they smelled of dung, dirt, and rain-soakedcloth.

Jonson, wanting to be friendly, told how Pericles actedduring the duel, winking at me, falsifying his ferocity. Brothers—were thosem*n my brothers? Long ago, they had washed their hands of my life, Pilatewise.Mother praised them when I visited our home, ah me.

“I had heard that ya killed that-tar man, in yer duel,” saidDick, pawing his kneecaps.

Jonson clapped him on the shoulder.

“Wish him better luck next time,” he guffawed.

Jim and Dick had brown, flat faces, flattened by hunger, bydefeat, lust, work, illness and sorrow. They had lost their children during theplague. Their teeth were blackened, or missing. Their clothes...what is abundle of dirty clothes topped by a voice and a dead mind?

The afternoon sun poured through the open door. “Your hairain’t red like it was,” said Jim.

“You’re getting bald,” said Dick. “The hair’s slipping downyour neck.”

Bells of London startled them and helped send them on theirway, and I went to sleep, amused by Jonson’s mimicry and laughter, as hesprawled in his chair, head thrown back, one hand on Pericles’ mane.

Stratford

My brothers’ visit reminded me of our hometown Ned.

Ned used to lie on the ground with pads underneath hisshoulders: an anvil, weighing two hundred weight, was lowered on his chest byhuskies, and three men with sledges bent a bar on it as he lay there. Nedperformed at every Fair, girls ogling. The picture of him and his admirersdelights me: hero with anvil and hammer. How I used to envy him. Ann thought hewas a wonder. He was. And now I wonder what became of him?

Henley Street

November 13, 1615

One night, Pericles and I got into a talk: he squatted by mybed and we went over the business of writing for a living... He said the marketwas poor. He said my plays were very wordy. He said he had it tough before Itook him on and suggested I see if I couldn’t buy stock in a Company, one thatwas really enduring, he said. “No use getting in with one that is heretoday and gone tomorrow. Wis­dom,” he snuffed, “is a thing you get when theycrowd you off the dock into deep water, or when you grab for a mutton bone andit isn’t there.”

Our talks were not long as a rule. Pericles could dropasleep when I was in the midst of telling him something in­teresting or tryingout a few lines on him. If I offered him a chunk of bread his interestquickened, and there was tail action too. He could listen attentively to astanza, let’s say, if I held the bread (or piece of cheese, preferably cheddar)above his head, just out of his reach. I sometimes did this to improve hismind. However, a week or so later there seemed no sign of improvement. Perhapsdogs, like some people, are impervious to poetry.

Shakespeare, Stratford sleepwalker, walks about his bedroom,

stumbles, tries door handle, raises window:

Ann, in clumsy breasty gown, wakes him angrily:

“What on earth were you trying to do?”

“I was listening to Burbage and Alleyn

recite lines from my plays.”

November 15, 1615

gain I sleepwalk, from room toroom, standing in doorways, waiting before windows: I wake and there I am,unseeing, win­dow, door or wall in front of me, the crime of myself, theassassi­nation of my past confronting me. All the perfumes...all thewords...all the concern defeat their purpose and I ask myself when will I getup next time and walk the floor, to disturb and be disturbed—for what reasons?Reasons for the unreasonable, reasons for the sickness of a mind—how can theybe called reasons?

I wake to remember a dream, or wake to find the moment asbare as slate, or I feel that I am somewhere in the past, with my father,bending over people stricken by the plague, the plague bell tolling, the rainstreaming over my face, someone weeping.

“Whereis my new cap...where’s my new cap?” The dying boy pleads, huddled against thechurch wall.

Alleyn—on the stage at the Globe—informs me of the plagueand warns me in his stentorian voice to leave off helping people, let them die;then, he carries away Puck.

Alleyn stalks across the stage, his voice cutting the dark,my sleep, my sleep­walker’s darkness. Dressed for Tambourlaine, forkedbeard over red cloak, he swings through lines, a torch gleaming, smoking behindhis shoulder.

Henley Street

November 18, 1615

When to the session of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past...

It is not love-making I call to mind but an Augustafternoon, the paths that led us on and on, underneath giant oaks and elms, theground wet with sun, our happiness as sure as the trees. We walked throughgroves and across fields, the pathway winding past cattle and horses atpasture, men at work scything grain. Sitting on a rock fence, we listened tothe swish of their scythes, their friendly calls to one another. Wandering, weate at a farm, the people happy to have us. Butterflies and children were partof that farm: it was as simple as that, and since it was so simple I would liketo have that afternoon back again, a small favor to ask of time, just anafternoon and a lunch at someone’s farm, dogs lolling on the ground, a cat onEllen’s lap.

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end...

I have not found a way to cheat the end: my glass is brokenand the sand has sifted through. I am too much i’ the shadow, it seems.

Confidence diminished as my memory failed: this began in acertain way: during one of my plays I could not speak: power of speech gone, Iforgot my lines: this double confusion occurred while I acted in a play byJonson, given in Bewick, when we were on a summer’s tour. How vividly Iremember that smoky inn—the crowd, the torches. In Chester, my lines once moreescaped me: utterly perturbed, I gaped at the audience standing and sitting inthe August sun: I wiped away sweat: how they stamped and jeered. Confidencemight have re­turned, after later successful performances, except for anotherlapse: memorizing lines for Othello, I began to speak them, alone in myLondon apartment: again there was nothing, no sound, no memory: I had beenemptied, as a rapier can take care of a wine sack: only the sound of rainfall,as I stood in my apartment: in my writing, too, lapses sweated me: there was noone to help: I told no one: soon, I thought, I’ll suckle fools and chroniclesmall beer.

How easily I memorized, as a youngster, swallowing the linesof a play in a night or two. Now I know that impotence can assume many forms,between the legs and between the eyes.

Henley Street

December 4, 1615

So the plays evolved, week by week, line by line, thecrabbed scrawl, poem and song, comedy and tragedy; so the characters came intobeing: Agrippa, Iago, Ophelia, Troilus, Falstaff, King Henry, bearded andbeardless, slu*t and angel, lady and commoner: they gawked across my sheets ofpaper: I see them here, about me, crowding my candle’s nigg*rd flame.

But look, they have become phantoms!

Never again, king or coward, never Romeo and Juliet, never apair of lovers to kiss and die beside a tomb. It was the nightingale and notthe lark that pierced the fearful hollow of my ear...

Phantoms.

Let me be taken, let me be put to death, and not wait here,await the hand of tyranny, the slow grasp of this town’s sod. I am to lieinside the church. The bell will toll. They will carry me. On my grave they’llcut these words: I decree:

Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear

To dig the dust enclosed here:

Blessed be the man that spares these stones

And cursed be he that moves my bones.

Youth—

Was there youth?

I sometimes think of the Avon that summer, thunderstormsbooming, the river very high. Cousin Will was trying to yank a calf out of thewater, when the river sucked him under. Kathlene Hamlett played at Ophelia—lettingdefeat suck her down. That was a summer of defeats for most of us, the loss ofmy father’s property, theatres closed because of official disapproval, weeks ofsuffocating heat, the sun caught in the trees, frying our brains, fliesbuzzing...

Cousin Will was a cheery, responsible boy, with a pitifullimp. Good at lots of jobs, he was thinking of marrying. Fishing was hislove...poaching too. Kathlene was good and capable but tried making love beforeshe was old enough...

I miss their smiling faces.

Ben writes such an elegant hand: he has that Italianinfluence to perfection: his scripts are damnatory of my provincial scrawl, Iwho can’t remember whether to write Willm, Will or William...thank God forcopyists, those drones, our skull-down, penny-quill calligraphists. Too badsomeone is not dotting this.

Stratford

Gossip hangs over me, leaving me naked as vulgar air: homegossip, precipi­tated by Ann, when Philip drops by, then Blanch, thenLongworth, then Melun, then Peter, then Elinor, then Pembroke: Elinor has had asevere cold; Long­worth has lost his mare; Melun’s wife is down with pleurisy.Philip’s face is so emaciated he can’t carry a rose over his ear; Elinor has tobe helped with a pick-up. “When is another doctor coming to practice here?”Pembroke asks. Ann knows—and tells. Ann thinks there’s a possible rape of thechurch, no less. Blanch’s face puckers in disgust. Longworth asks for a glassof water. Peter talks genealogy. Their arrows are carefully wrapped in leaves:all afternoon they talk in the shade, under the apple, trotting in and out ofthe house, moodily conferring in knots or pairs, then sauntering back to leafyconference. There is a consensus of opinion that the bridge over the Avon maybe too poorly built... “it can’t last... Sheriff Grimes has been appropriatingtax money...he must go...”

Someone objects but when Ann objects he objects and sheobjects to his objection and the objections because I object are moreobjectionable and this objectionable quality leads to further objections...on asummer’s afternoon.

Henley Street

December 7, 1615

Not long after Hamnet’s death, Ann removed Judith fromschool, against my wishes. Though fond of school, Judith became slaved at home.Later—in a year or so—Ann needed Susanna, another home puppet. She furtheralienated us by this decision. I still say that ignorance, like horse piss,stinks, cankering the mind. Example: Ann.

I have had more visitors, five Stratford puritans, whoattacked my play writ­ing. I got very angry yet tried to conceal my anger;remembering the smallness of my town I said little to the women; as if in thewings I waited, remembering:

“How unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play on me;you would seem to know my stops; you’d pluck out the heart of my mystery; you’dsound me from my lowest notes to the top of my compass...there’s music in thislittle organ and yet you can’t make it speak. Why?”

I talked to them as best I could and then a fat wenchbleated, jerking at her gloves:

“You talk in riddles, sir. Your plays ridicule us. Youdisesteem our monarchs, King Richard for one. Your plays attract the vulgar.You praise the rotten...”

By standing, I asked them to leave: perhaps they felt thepain I felt; then my sickness grew worse after their visit.

An apple tree shakes out a boy:

The boy, Linnus, performs acrobatics in the branches:

He’s fourteen.

Laughter:

Then King Lear’s voice:

“Never, never, never, never...”

Henley Street

Stratford

innus, whose gypsy father is anacrobat, visits me these days; with his father in jail he has to wait for hisrelease. Dumpy, leather-skinned and wild-eyed, Linnus is fourteen, and has afour-year-old brother, Peter. Their mother is dead.

My old appletree is Linnus’ home, when he is here; I sit outside while he per­forms trickshe has learned from his father, tricks I have never seen. Peter yawns on thegrass or stands between my legs or pods my lap, thrilled by his brother’s armand leg cleverness...the sun warms the three of us.

His tricks done, glad to rest, Linnus stretches on theground, to incline me a little of his wanderings, the hunger, always the hunger:it’s as if he never had a full meal. They are scourged out of town, thrown intojail, entertained at castles, fed on cakes and ale, left to starve on a farm.Linnus points to Peter, asleep on my lap.

“Why do you like him? He’s ugly.”

“He’s ugly but he may change and grow to be handsome,perhaps become an explorer, like Drake.” And I talk to Linnus about Drake andthe Armada and as I talk it seems to me I’m talking to Hamnet, or is thisHamnet on my lap?

It doesn’t matter.

Linnus and Peter matter, and after a while we rig fishing gearand go to the river and fish, dawdle all afternoon, Linnus croaking gypsy songs,Peter in and out of the water, dashing after magpies and crows, gabblingberries, every prob­lem forgotten.

Home late, Linnus prepared supper for us (Ann away for a fewdays): he was quick and clever in the kitchen, reminding me of an actorfamiliar with his part.

Henley Street

Stratford

December 11, ’15

Linnus described a play he saw last summer and I wasreminded of the first play I saw, as a boy, performed by gypsies who told atale of Scottish intrigue and murder that ended with the beautiful heroine’ssuicidal plunge into a loch. Those swarthy actors seldom left my mind forweeks, waking me, haunting school and play. I can yet see the sheriff torturingthe girl accused of stealing: words have gone but not the actions.

That evening, Papa and I walked home together. He would nottalk about the play. Mama disliked plays and never attended, damning them as“lucifers.” I suppose the gypsy play was a “lucifer.”

Henley Street

Stratford

December 12, 1615

One of my bitterest experiences was seeing Pericles killedby a sheep herder. On the outskirts of London, Pericles burst into joyousyappings and began to frolic and nip sheep, an immense herd, stretching forblocks. I saw him tangle with a black ram. The herder, rushing at Pericles,mistaking his fun, struck him with his crook and beat him to the street; then,before I could shove my way through the herd, flailed him over the head withthe butt. Yelling, pushing, I knocked down the man but reached Pericles toolate... I wanted to leave the city; I wanted to spit on mankind. I wish I couldhave my friend to talk to, eat meat from my hand: there’s plenty of meat foryou now, boy.

Midnight

What is it that has embittered me?

I felt the bitterness long before someone tried to killEllen. Did the bitterness come about through attempting the impossible in my actsof creation, losing life in work? A tree is tree now. Once it was wonderful. Myspleen stems from the sleepwalker’s for I am sleepwalker-without-taper, fromRomeo to Shylock, king to clown, hero to villain. I can see distinctly: there’sno mirage about cottage, family, friends, and Avon. Stratford is Act 5. I waitmy cue! Go to, what are your lines, Yorik?

Caesar’s battleground kept me from a sane life. Drinkingstronger than ale I kept company with the bloody horde...rape in myheart...thief at hand...deceit as friend...murder as bed...

Someone beats on my door; that’s Burbage: “Let’s go, Will,”he yells. “It’s almost one o’clock; you have to be at the Globe in half anhour.”

The hour, the play, the scene, the glass running out,faster, faster, faster!

Henley Street

Stratford

December 20, 1615 Evening – late

Most of all I shall miss a beautiful woman, her smile, theeyelids and features faintly powdered, the white of her hands and arms, thesense of longing, her voice’s mystery, the carefully rounded breasts, theirsoftness, her light gait, her voluptuary whispers making slave, the weight ofher at night, her softness un­derneath in the morning...

So I never saw her again...writing was my coition...my fakeliving...no, I never saw her again; that was fate, or...to never see the wantedis that phenomenal blindness; to never have the beauty is pismire.

Our old friend sits on her throne, above marble steps,wearing blazoned robe, her crown straight—and neck straight, too, the liddedconcern apt, antique scepter beside her: her awareness is aware of certainties,watching earl and cap­tain, bawd and bugler.

We are to love her, do collective obeisance, beseech herfavors. And she, with her rufescence, shall free us of every plague, down tosmallest poverty, and, like Merlin, give us castles for cots, hope for despair,money for thought.

Sleeve lifts pontifical hand and blesses with its kissingring. Rays of sun, through lozenged windows, fold leaded shadows over troubledbrows.

Ah, Queen, your majesty is unparalleled, you are our patronof the arts, gen­erous in every particular, particular to man’s freedom,eschewing stock, pillory and scaffold.

As she rises, sequins and braid tremble, every motioncapsuled in scarlet, the very velvet of confidence—the robe quite long, ruffsand ruffles fresh, the jewels paying their worth: she walks, our Queen walks:we remember her mother scaf­folded for adultery.

Henley Street

Shylock was less persistent than I to own, fief vs. chattel,clown vs. crown, thoughts vs. dreams: with such a goal, a man stoops, a manbatters, a man as­tonishes himself with crudities that some might callvitality: this is the sighing, buying, signing: and when I began to own moreland and houses I owned less and less time: that was my mortgage, paid over andover by less writing.

Henley Street

December 24, 1615

Scene: Seashore

But I can no longer write!

Snow beats on the windows and winter chills me, cold handson my throat. Where are my faithful players? Where is Alleyn—speaking divinely?If I could talk to him I might be able to write again. If this storm did notbatter this house so treacherously!

Green lozenges of light penetrate the oriel,

green drinking mugs,

green on table decanter,

Shakespeare and Jonson drinking.

Stratford streets in the late afternoon sun,

sounds of a carriage,

sounds of kids coming home from school.

Jonson quotes a line,

Shakespeare quotes a line.

Henley Street

January third, 1616

t does no good to rage at myimpotence and yet I rage...come bird, come...come, heart, perform your art.

Yesterday, I was carried out of my private madness by BenJon­son’s visit: we drank and laughed, his thick cloak thrown off, his broadshoulders broader, voice kindly, eyes the eyes of one acting well-remem­beredlines, hands relaxed on his lap or gesturing easily.

“Now that the night begins with sable wings to overcloud thebrightness of the sun, and that in darkness pleasures may be done...let us tothe bower and pass a pleasant hour...”

He said those lines years ago, and that night Ellen came tome, and waited backstage, there, with the dusty props and dirt. Ah, her beauty:I saw it against the sticks and pricks of make-believe! I felt its warmth. Iasked her how she was but she wanted kisses, not civilities.

(Vapid lines out of the Spanish Tragedy seemedfoolish there backstage and could not matter less as Ellen and I drove to herapartment—in her red carriage, swaying through the rain.

Her fireplace was stacked with flame. Her servants withdrewand she leaned against her marble mantel, breast leaning forward, her dresslow, shoulders and neck bare, such ivory.

Her cousin had accompanied us in the carriage; now we couldtalk:

“I hadn’t expected you in London tonight,” I said.

“I came from Dover, yesterday, late yesterday” she said.

“From your brother’s place at St. Cloud?”

“Yes. A hard trip across the channel and hard to be away solong from you... My dear, this play’s better than the last. How you make thoseVenetians live! They’re like so many I’ve known... You must have known themtoo...”

“Darling, I like your hair this way. French? Yourhairdresser really knows...”

“Will, tell me that you love me. I love you.”

“Should I?”

“Your letters tell me but now, you tell me.”

“With hands and mouth...”

It was like that—her gown letting me—but it was also fear,remembering that Ben had warned us that we had been followed by anothercarriage as we left the theatre...twice now.

Ellen and I hoped our purse of hope would lose allcounterfeit coins...foreign exchange no...no cheating, no nigg*rdlyluck...could I foresee with gypsy insight?

Our goblets touched.)

But I prolonged Ben’s New Year visit: we sat on chairs inthe oriel, and talked and talked, and the talking of him brought out thetalking in me, and there was no bothersome time: I suppose we ate bycandlelight; I suppose we went to bed, but our talking was not bedded, and Ihear it now in the sound of his re­treating horses: I hear hope retreating,hoof on cobble, hoof on brain: for he will not come again. Or should I ask him,being thought-sick?

Twelfth Day

In the fall I went across the fields to the poplar treesunder which Ann and I used to make love; I sat in the sun and let it drench me.The trees were nobler though limbs had fallen off; one tree was rotted at thetop; another...but no matter.

I sat and remembered how it was before our twins were born,sat with el­bows on my knees, gaping. I tried to see that pair of lovers lovingon the grass. That love had never happened. No. The thing that was real was mygaping lone­liness...

I walked home and took up a packet of her letters; this onewas lying on top:

Dear Red,

I am glad that people like your play, thatRomeo and Juliet play. That was the one we saw at the Globe, I think.The Capu­lets frightened me much. What is the name of your new play that youare writing at? I can’t remember. Is it the Merchant play?

You should write a play about your papaand his glove-making. The twins are sick again. Hamnet is the worst, sick atnight, and all that. Judith has a flushed face and she coughs and coughs, and Ikeep her in bed.

Write soon.

Love,

Ann

I try to forget the casualness and say it belongs to aburied past and then I say to myself, if this is dead then all life is equallydead, including myself.

I opened another letter and a dried flower fell out of theyellowed paper. I had to hold the sheet to the window before I could read it,meantime trying to harden myself, half remembering. My wits are diseased, Ithought.

Dear Red,

So you have made twenty-two pounds atthe theatre from all the good attendance. That will help take care of theclothes we need, and winter right against us. What is this play they areplaying at the Globe, the Othella thing? I have heard Mama talk about a womanlike that—some foreign woman. Is Othella your leading person? Is she pretty? Isit true you fought a duel? That will not help you get ahead in London. You saidthat people talk.

You should see Hamnet. How well he doeswith his school work, better than anyone at school, I hear. He takes after you,his master tells me.

Our bedroom window was broken in thestorm last week, but Tom has put in new glass, and leaded and puttied itnicely. It was the window by the good chair.

Love,

Ann

Like roses, red roses on a stalk, or was it, coral is farmore red than her lips’ red...love is my sin...my love is longing still!

I put away her letters and closed the shutters and lit the candlesand the rush lamp, and, settling in my chair, I read of another past, topalliate myself, Virgil’s.

Stratford

I have been thinking of Merlin and his magic ways, thethrall of his immense dabbling: this island should have been named ClasMyrddin: Merlin’s Enclosure. Perhaps Gawain and Lancelot would have enclosed usand the grail might not have become the great illusion among illusions.

I am reading Spenser’s Amoretti now: now I read whatRaleigh read in prison; the coincidence is appropriate enough. There are nottoo many coincidences in life but there are many kinds of prisons. Perhaps theworst is the prison impris­oning the prisoner against his will; the otherprison, self-germinated, self-main­tained, can be as ascetic, as impassioned inits tortures, and yet it has its rush lamp for the outcast state:

Pour soul, the center of my sinful earth,

Thrall to these rebel powers that thee array.

Why dost thou pine...such a mistaken canister

Of words that I would not put them down once more.

January 15, 1616

Stratford—Henley Street

Viola bows rasped and recorders piped and rain hit the doorand windows at Hall’s, the quartet playing before his fireplace, the mensitting with their backs to the blaze, instruments fired.

“More ale?”

“How about canary?”

“Cake, eh, Will?”

Cakes and rain perpetually, the strings for a throat,garroting the night...the rain, it raineth every night. Admit no impediments,listen:

Never say that I was false of heart...the poison left herstunned, as if beneath an avalanche of men. Mad slanderers, no, Ann deservedthe slander but what could slander accomplish? Like incessant rain, or thatrepeated low note on the fiddle, what good? A flooding melancholy, and Annunchanged.

Love was my sin but now my sin is breathing. And tonight itis a multiple sin for I am listening, hoping these instruments and players havea message for my soul. The shattered rain on windows is everyman’s storm, thegutter thief, the pimp, the king—all of us hunkered under pain.

The good Dr. Hall bends over me:

“Feeling better tonight, Will? I hope so.”

I chuckle and say I am.

Put on your cloak and hurry, Hall. There’s someone sickerthan I who needs you. Eat a crocodile. I’ll be going home soon. I should bethere now, going over my accounts.

Music has unstopped my ears but no grapple of sound holdstonight, not with the scrofula of rain, the wink of time on cavernous facesbeefed by the fire.

See that wizened face, that’s Hall, tall and thin, and nextto him my frump, belly puddinged, hair screwed at angles, lines and then morelines lining the half-open mouth, the missing teeth... Ann, dear Ann, was it toyou I wrote the sonnet beginning? Ah, no, the errors snare us, bare us to thequick of lime. The arith­metic of memory multiplies fantasy.

Poetry, succor me in this hour of need, help me as you have:I have given you my life; now, you must lend argument to my folly. Dry the rainon my skull! Be youth: be Ellen, outcast, incast, what is your substance,whereof you are made, that millions of strange shadows on you tend? Is this mymemory? Or do the lines remember me?

The notes of the quartet confuse the shadows, the fire’sinstrument, the tank­ards on the table, one for you, Marlowe...

I am to wait, though waiting be as hell—

And we walked home together through the rain, she who hasnever met Touchstone or Polonius or Othello...

And so to a cold bed.

–S–

On some of Dr. Hall’s visits, he urged me to discontinue myjournal, wanting me to rest. I told him that the language I used was hardlyplaywriting, requiring the barest effort on my part. I explained that I needsomething. He huffed and rumbled, with professional sincerity, like the goodneighbor he is, and I under­stand now that my resurrected fears may, like aGreek chorus, pervade and an­nul. But what do they pervade and annul, thiscorner, precharnel, prepaid house in Hell? Am I to talk with trees? Am I toforget manhood? Am I to cheer old age? Infirmity? Hall is such a knottedcreature I wonder my Susanna married him: such a sultry woman for such acadaver! His contorted body, pinched here, pinched there, sewed here, unsewedthere, his starvation face, with zealot eyes in bald skull, leaves me lackingin confidence; yet, I listen and he prescribes and we talk and play chess. I amhis medical pawn, gulping doses for him, bleeding for him: is the final movehis or mine?

Home

January 18, 1616

Dr. Hall, when you found your woman in my Susanna, you foundbed-woman, kitchen wench and apothecary girl. Your shop, shelved, bottled, oint­mented,reeks of balm and poison. Long before you married my Susanna, I got to knowthat smell when I came to you to help me battle pain. You were never too ill orbusy to help me check pain’s unkindness.

But underneath your skin you are another Timon, anotherhater of mankind, concocting health to make more health to make more pain tomake money. Pestel in hand, you measure alleviants, the richer your patient,the cleverer your compound. How you worry on behalf of the young countess. Howyou thumb your books for the Lord Chamberlain’s gout.

Drum bottles—

Beat shelves—

Smash glass—

See, his shingle in the wind, JOHN HALL – PHYSICIAN, weepsrain, and I sit waiting, with vapors, losses, pangs, venoms in my blood,anticipating pre­scriptions—or epitaph.

His face grimaces his thanks, his hand extended, his pox isto “rob one another. There’s more gold! Cut throats...all that you meet arethieves!” All this is patiently and subtly withheld by the good doctor sincefrightening the patient frightens money. Only dear friends discover the trueTimon...

Oh, God, how pain strangles me today! It paves my skull! Iam on fire! Such useless misery! Pain is the greatest cheat. Pain, yourfriendship is much too cov­etous! Pain—you old prostitute—swallow your ownhemlock for a change!

Henley Street, Stratford

January 20

I am too hard on friend Hall!

I’ve spent hours there, puttering, talking, laughing,entertained by his curious, Indian cow’s tail, stones cut from men’s bladders,uterine balls of hair, paw of a bear, and skeleton of a pigmy.

This year, he is publishing a treatise on the Wounds ofthe Abdomen. He’s as clever with his scalpel as his concoctions ofwormwood, rosarum and menthol. Around Stratford, he is best known for histreatment of dropsy.

Stratford

January 23, 1616

Logs burn in my fireplace and I have a book on my lap: Ihave a kingdom: a crown: crackling of wood becomes voices, stuff of dreams,friends, stages, plays, quarrels, hopes, changes, beginnings, endings, the penscratching paper, pigeons chuckling, laughter, death, Hamnet’s face, father’s,the cloak, the whisper, the plague, the rain, fog, losses, waves against rocks:a log totters and the upended section spurts into a pennant...shake-scene!

I have no picture—no drawing—to help me remember Hamnet.Inago Jones could have done one. I should tear apart pieces of paper and foldthem until they become his face, or, with scissors, cut out his silhouette.Damn the weak mind that makes such simple wishes impossible!

There was no artist in Stratford. Stratford had no skills tooffer except death’s skill...death for all of us along with that triumvirate,love, marriage, children; with fornication for pallbearer, adultery for sexton,rape for choirmaster...

Howweary and stale and flat are the uses of this world. Bring hebenon for O...

Youth’s falcon on his glove, Hamnet stands with his friendsaround him, most of them young, their well-groomed horses held by pages.

On the distant shore of a lake, a castle breaks through agrove of beech.

Hamnet is laughing at his unhooded bird.

“Have you unseeled him?” someone asks.

“He can fly,” Hamnet says. “Now.”

“See...he’s looking for game!”

“Hamnet, is it true your father writes plays for our Queen?London plays?”

“You should see his Macbeth! That’s a play for you!Duel and all! We’ll go to London and see one of his plays. There’s one at thePalace soon.”

How I would like to rearrange life, bring happiness, bestowwealth, fix love, make well, foil crime, reverse ill luck. But only the stagecan accomplish miracles and there custom stales the plot and disharmonies garbleintention.

But, as evening galls, and candles go on, I hear Hamnet’sfootsteps...he wants new gloves, new hood, new leash...

What’s past is prologue:

At Blackfriars, the chandeliers of candles are hugely litand light streams upon Alleyn, who is speaking on stage; the boards are cleanand shine; all actors are in their places; the seats are almost filled; I see awoman, in dark green velvet; ac­companied by her maid, she takes a seat; rowsof faces beseech the stage: oh kingdom, place of tempest and calm, engulf usagain!

Henley Street

Stratford

February 1

Suum—nun—nonny, the wind said, as my father and Iworked in his glover’s shop, quiet hours, among the many kinds of leather,sheepskin, goat, kid, lamb, pigskin, coltskin, doeskin, buckskin. In his tiersof drawers were the pontifical gloves, liturgical gloves, gloves fordignitaries, ladies’ gloves, wedding gloves...

A bird sang in its cage by the door.

Between the opening and closing of the shop we talkedpleasantly or waited on customers with consideration:

We talked of Rocco Bonetti, the great London fencing master,and his fenc­ing school; we talked of the snail and how it shrinks in its housewhen hit, or sits in the shade of its shell; we chatted about spears andhelmets and mottos like Non Sanz Droict, his favorite; wetalked of great castles, like Kenilworth, and their ghosts; we talked of kingsand how to catch larks with a mirror and scraps of red cloth...the buzz of ourtalk was a good buzz.

So, another memory!

Candlemas

I wrote The Tempest at Stratford, the onlyplay I wrote at home. For the first time I had leisure to write, in my garden,the summer warm: this was an island for an island: time faded: I remembered scenariI had seen at the commedia dell’arte: I remembered the wreck ofthe Sea Adventure in Bermuda: a drunk sailor stopped me and describedthat grievous storm, described the bewitched island, and I began:

On ship at sea:

Enter sailors:

Thenthe shipwreck followed.

It was pleasant to invent without pressure: I wanted alively yet serene play, with a mixture of philosophy, humor and fantasy: Iwanted a play to fit the new mode, free of symbolism.

I walked about my garden and my peace trees, and there, overthere was Caliban, a savage slave; I took another turn, and there was Ariel; Iheard the wind blow hollowly across an uninhabited island...

“Safely in harbor is the king’s ship; in the deep nook whereonce you called me at midnight... Go, make yourself a nymph of the sea... Whereshould this music be? In the air, or the earth? Delicate Ariel, sea nymphs ringthe knell...in the dark backward and abysm of time...”

Discs of spinning yellow, pink, lavender:

A hundred Kemps are jigging,

each in yellow clown suit,

grinning, clowning, enroute to the Globe.

Kemp jigs onto the stage:

Applause.

Home

o it went...

As I left the Globe, near the end of a play, I found WillKemp, slumped on the steps, by the street, head on his arms, sobbing: he wouldnever clown for us again: he said he was too old, that he embarrassed us, thattimes had changed: as I stood beside him, he glanced away.

I had watched him a hundred times and thought him betterthan Summers, or any clown: Kemp was legend, for jig and bawdy tale, for thelaugh at the end of the play. Londoners flocked to see him—had flocked to seehim for years.

His make-up streaked by the rain, his yellow suit soaked, hetottered to his feet, as if drunk. Last summer he had danced his way across country,from place to place, enthusiastically received by villagers andtownsmen—carried aloft on their shoulders.

His wrinkled face was drunken-lined, shining in the rain. Heyanked his hat lower: was he remembering his fustian scenes, hard-drinking,quarrelling? He was famous for his winnings at primero—stubby, rock-muscled,little, knotted—he wavered, seemed about to collapse.

The play was over and the theatre crowd vomited out and milledaround Kemp, encircled him, caught him up, hoisted him and bore him, throughthe streets, howling, cheering: KEMP...KEMP...KEMP!

Home

A number of years before we dismissed Kemp at the Globe, Ivisited him at his Thames River home—a home in the Sir Walter style. Kemp’scarriage brought me. I strolled about his extensive garden for a few luxuriousmoments, viewing the river below, thinking how well it paid to invest in landand play primero. His doormen showed me in, for I had been invited to dinner.

Mrs. Kemp, dressed in pale green, came toward me, to greetme, a charming young woman: like a clap of thunder, Kemp came at her, canedher, lashed her with fierce blows, and dragged her to her room. I didn’t waitfor an explanation of his violence...

I do my best on the pot and think of my sex and think I’llbe rotting soon, and I hear pegs moving in the beams, and I hear old time andnew time—outside the church bells strike. Outside of what?

Henley Street

Stratford

February 8, 1616

Why do I write?

All day Ann has sat by the windows, embroidering, soak­ingsun, her rheu­matic fingers paining her, her silence and disdain evident.

Her stooped shoulders anger me because they remind me of myage, and I rant at time’s disdain and irreparable devastations: a plague ontime’s house, a plague on mine—sickly wife and sickly husband.

Egypt—it is well you aren’t here, to be contorted, cheated,frailed or paunched. To nourish an illusion is hard and grows harder throughthe years. The only wisdom is the quiet heart, born of the smile of heaven,seeking nature, not the wild sea of conscience.

But that is for the wise! Today, there is no Orpheus. Thetrees are not our sanctuary. The seas don’t hang their heads; I hang mine.Where’s the lute, the player? I travel round and round the dial, to Ellen andthe cloak, the fog and loneliest of men. Time should cure all, they say. Buttime—as I see time—does not oblige.

My last will...my last walk...my last play. I never thoughtof a last play. Henry VIII was to have another and yetanother...creeping on but creeping to be sure...other sonnets...othersongs...to sleep, to die, to sleep...

O sh*t on death.

Home

February 10, ’16

I used to wake with anticipation. I wake these mornings andknow that I may not wake in another twenty days. When I lie down to sleep Ithink I may fall asleep and from that sleep never wake. I consider the worriedfaces about me and realize they will not have to endure me for long. Jonsonvisits me and I think this is his last visit.

Cheat, your door, as it swings open, opens onto a cave; noshepherd’s note signals to watery star...cuckold...bastard...my tale will endand my small cubicle will be filled. Have I put down man’s spirit with enoughspirit? Beauteous youth, have I recorded you? I never wanted to write love’sepitaph... Antony was my tongue in praise.

I am certain that love is the best, love that is closest tobeauty and the kindest of affections. Sensation surpasses thought. Imagination iswell enough but it is not love. Between earth and heaven, imagination compareswith no warm arms and legs.

Feb. 11, ’16

Stunned by poverty—how hard it was to write during thoseearly years. Belly gnawing, I kept at it: I lay down, I got up, sat at the bigtable. Storms hunkered over the roof tops, the sun licked at the roofs, snowbundled them, and I was cold, cold. Smoke puffed from chimneys, bent in the icymornings like hearse plumes. Chimneys—I never wanted to count them; broken,dying chimneys, strewed the city below me. One brick stack leaned far over, yetbelched smoke.

Pimps lived on one side of me, prostitutes on the other; Icould not move without paying my rent. My place was never warm: my handscracked because of the cold. I kept my legs wound in rags, coughing.

Because of pleurisy I had to sell all of my books: Mary soldthem for me, one by one, maybe two or three at a time. How old was Mary?Twenty? I was about twenty-five. It would take another twenty-five years to dimher memory: the stalk of her body, her restless, weightless feet. She bent a littleto the left, as if injured, the arms also restless, the eyes inward. Did she everlaugh? Her smile always seemed something pushed into being, only a little joltgot it there.

She sold my books and bought my food and fed me, the hell ofpleurisy rid­ing me: tears in my eyes I attempted to eat: tears of many kindscrushed me. The roofs, the cold, the sorrow, how they come back to me! The anguishin my side went on for weeks but Mary never failed or complained: she f*ckedmen at night and succored me during the day: sometimes she slept on the floorbeside my bed or lay across the foot of the bed, a blanket around her. Herblack hair might unpin itself and lie about her.

“Let’s keep a bird, when it’s Spring,” I suggested.

“How can you feed it, w-w-w-without money?” she asked.

“My father is sending money.”

“When? Soon?”

“Has someone written to him? You must see to it, Mary. Makesomeone write.”

“I think s-s-s-so. I’ll try again, ton-n-n-night.”

I managed to eat more when the money came and Mary ate well:I ate for those who were poor, I ate for my father, for the starving waifs, forthe sick, those in prison, fighting in wars. I ate because it would soon beSpring. I ate because I must write.

Wrens built a nest above my window. Day after day, theyfluttered in and out; day after day it got warmer; I was able to take care ofmyself; Mary and I were planning to picnic beside the river; she never came; Iwaited and waited; I asked those who knew her; no one had seen her.

I asked for her many times. There was absolutely no trace ofher. She simply disappeared. Some criminal? Some man? Death? I never knew.

Ave Maria!

Home

Over the years I have read Ellen’s letters, hearing themalmost. Those lines of hers, when I was dismal and lonely, shook off the curseof disillusionment. Even now, after these years, lines come to me:

Surely the greatness of a play lies inits mystery: we are taken inside a private world that is tragic or amusing orsentimental; things that are a part of this world must be judiciously hinted at.

Your plays take life apart because yourpoetry is so pro­found. It’s the finest poetry I know. Knowing you gives yourwork added profundity...

The theatre gives man breadth: it’s hissecond life. A country without a theatre is a poor, barren country.

Spring is the best part of theyear...we decided: our lochs take on a greenness that must originate in deep,moss-covered rock. I think that water has a definite temperament, a personal­ity,if you like... I like to walk when the sting of spray mingles with fog andunderfoot, like a blanket, are the tiny flowers... I want you...

My brother is fond of you. He laughsand asks what is it that makes me take to that man? You must come back toScotland, Will. Write me seriously about a possible visit... Love finds away...

I wish you could be here, the castle isso beautiful, spring­time is so evident, so unlike Scotland, full of gaythings, white lilies and pansies along the paths, tulips and agnus-castus,roses around our statues and ramblers on the arbors. Only the biggest roses arein full flower: you should see the yellow ones. You know, I think yellow is myfavorite color, and it’s because the sun is yellow, for what would this earthof ours be without the sun? We wouldn’t even have love, would we? And I wouldn’teven be able to dream of your kisses and your arms about me. And that’s whatthe sun is for, for dreaming, springtime dreaming...and I wish for you, to walkwith me, and love me. I will pick a pansy and wear it for you. I will pick arose and put it in my room, for you. Will, when can we see each other? Can’tyou come here?...

Her letters were like that...

Stratford

February – 1616

Queen Elizabeth came on our stage at the Palace as I playedthe role of king, the afternoon stainglass bangling her jewels. I was shockedat seeing her galled face and yet had the guts to continue my lines, addingimprovisations as well, to force her to wait. While she waited, she dropped herglove (playing her part), and as I arranged my robe, talking as I stood there,I picked up her glove and slowly faced the audience and said:

“Yet we stoop to pick up our Cousin’s glove.”

How that amused her. “Such propriety!” she said.

“Such folly,” I wanted to say.

This is high class prostitution commonly called “pursepenury,” our coldest-oldest art. The art is especially susceptible to jewelsand the brazenness of crowns. Men have been hung for their inability to kowtow,with poverty in the wings, snivelling or prancing jubilantly.

King James—

Nowthat you are our new friend, sceptering this Brittic island with careful gaze,ours is the homage! We see that your awareness is aware of considerations, aKing James version of Sleeves and Ruff duly pressed. You surely press prom­ises without guiltfor gilt. Through narrow lozenged glass the sun administers your ceremonials.

Oh, king, your uniqueness Towers over us: you are ourstiller of war, our buffer of hate, our unbiased protestant.

You rise—and London rises.

You walk—and London walks, for we are your guardians.

If your latest diamond is somewhat small, speak to us and itwill be remem­bered in moors, fens, and locks. If your crown, coming from awoman’s head, needs adjusting our adjusters are sure hands, toward continuity.

Henley Street

Stratford

When Susanna visited me in London we ate at the Swann: sheloved the rich and badly seasoned food, the purpled windows and paintedscripture walls. “Oh, Papa, this is a wonderful Inn... Oh, Papa, isn’t that abeautiful house by the river? Think of living there! Those people must be awfulrich! Will we get that rich? ...Papa, I’ve never seen such beautiful books...And look, look at the Thames in the sun; the sun seems squashed right into thewater. And can we really ride in a boat again, down toward the ocean?”

Enthusiasm was her best quality. And very little perturbedher. Trash strewn in the street, a dead cat, brawling seamen...she drew back indisgust but soon found something exciting or beautiful. When I sleepwalked andstumbled against a table and broke the rush lamp, she was undisturbed. Shekissed me, and we talked about what we’d do tomorrow. She was fifteen, then.Fifteen—what an age! She wanted to remain with me in London and I would havepermitted it if I could have looked after her. There was no budging Ann to thecity. Some thought Susanna a hussy.

Fun-loving, keen at games, she outplayed her friends. Whileshe played I would be at my writing. In the midst of her fun, she might pop upand say: “Papa, you’re working too hard: you never have fun.” Her considerationbrought me to my senses and I remembered growing up with six kids: none of themhad her brightness. Of course the years changed her: her copper hair darkened:her enthusiasm faded: marriage ruined her figure: marriage made her a businesswoman: her hussiness became sexmate: Dr. Hall her all! How clearly I can re­membertoday...a warning. And why do I write?

Shakespeare discovers Ellen’s blue cloak

in a heap of theatre crud in his Stratford closet:

Puzzled, he sits on the floor, holds up the cloak,

checks the fabric, his face sickly:

Fog at the door of his house.

Henley Street

Stratford

February 24, 1616

ummaging in my storeroom, I foundforgotten things, things I had supposed lost or destroyed, a velvet jacketfaced with grubby ermine, a pair of crimson trousers, a leather breastplate andbrass helmet ornamented with a dragon’s crest. It annoyed me that none of thesethings had deteriorated. For some unfathomable reason—Caesaria ego—I put on thebreastplate and helmet and gaped at myself. How now, that sickly face andstupidity: my stupid room, some of it visible in the same glass: the odiousGerman etchings Judith gave me, Papa’s cracked leather chest, the un­polishedtable, seamed plaster and varnished beams.

Tossingbreastplate and helmet into the storeroom, I noticed something. A cloak?Lifting it out of a box, unfold­ing it, I thought it was her blue theatrecloak. How could it be, after having disappeared years ago, in the street? But,holding it higher, I searched for the slash and the blood stains. Of course ithad been cleverly cleaned and mended! I was too disturbed to go over itcarefully. No...no...I dropped it and put out the light and went to bed.

Lying there, I watched sky, clouds floating, white overstars and then the stars dazzlingly near and then the cloud-cloak covering themonce more, drowning.

Fear sifts through my fingers and mind.

What am I—a lie? Was she a lie? Was life? The cloak?

Why haven’t I, if I am sure of my­self, seen to it that myplays have been published? I leave nothing. Nothing! Antony, Hamlet,Macbeth, Winter’s Tale, Ro­meo...not one. I mustspeak to Jonson and Alleyn. I must write to them at once!

Fog lay about in pieces like pieces of my life. Ground fog.

In the starlight I glared at my hands and saw that they wereswollen, as they have often been lately.

Wasn’t that snow falling, flakes of morning?

I tried to remember Ellen’s face, tried to feel herpresence.

When Ann brought me breakfast I could not look at her thoughshe spoke to me kindly.

I write with costly effort—hands worse. I am cold. My mindstaggers.

To the oriel—to look outside.

Thinking makes poverty.

Religion as we came to regard it in London was a glib andsoiled art.

Eclipses of our mental sun and moon betray us; so I beseechyou, brain, do not regress as time shows time’s ending: old and reverend, thinkstraight.

Eater of broken meats I seem to be: knave, rascal, ruffian.Reverence to self...

Perhaps this cold world will turn us all to fools andmadmen...

Stratford

Why is it I grimace so much? Alone I mug, pull my beard, rubflat of hand over my eyes, crack knuckles, shrug, sigh. Is this my sanemonologue with self? What’s its purpose? Perhaps I must convince myself that Iam alive and battling: grimace at the window, grimace on the pot, grimace atbed. Grimace is my horn­book. For the best of self-conviction I prefer knucklecracking—such skeletal speech.

Stratford

February 26, 1616

So I’ll never know who attacked Ellen?

Is it because I am sick that I care?

Could it be that someone stepped from his stage ofbitterness and struck her that night the fog drowned her carriage? Did heresent my luck? The harder poverty knocked the keener he felt my good luck: wasthat how it was? Was hunger a knife in his belly? Did he run away from Londonafterward? His hun­gry, motherless kids asked him to kill for money? Was thathow it was?

“Your brother Fred is here, bending over you...”

“Was that Ann, who said that yesterday? Or was it Hall,bending over me, who said that Fred had come by?”

Ellen, could you come? Or Hamlet? Othello? Marlowe?

Stratford

March 5, 1616

Years ago I wrote this:

Can honor set a leg? Or set an arm? Or take away the pain ofa wound? What is honor? A word? What is that word? Air? What has it? The fellowwho died on Wednesday, does he feel it? Does he hear it?

But I still hear it...honor lives for me, in my memories ofmy father, for all those who have worked before I came into being, for thecathedral spire, the ship, the cut gem, the book, the play, the figure standingin sun and snow...

13th

Very sick for three days. Dr. Hall. Others.

Pain.

Can’t get to the oriel.

Wouldn’t know a hawk from a handsaw.

15th

I go before my darling,

I go before...

Follow to the bower in the close alley,

There we will together sweetly kiss

And like two wantons, dally—dally—dally...

Sing it again—sing to me before I die—the candles aredying—the wind is dying—I suffocate in my room—I want to be with you—sing oursong—oh, to dally once more—sing—

March 18, 1616

Judith married early because I felt I could not last muchlonger... Judith, will a hundred and fifty pounds help you, with that husbandwho doesn’t want to work? A fine son-in-law...but...ah, the trouble I havecaused. She could have waited...but, at that time...she thought... My will isinsufficient...

Illness is such folly

I still remember names

Alleyn was here to see me...

Burbage won’t come...the man you care most to see, cares lessfor thee.

March 19

My affection remains, blazes as it were: there were winnings:good things strive to help us: come unto the yellow sands for theirbeneficence: hark: a pox against pain: who has pain! No. Defy the monsters,prod the phoenix, bury pig­nuts, come forward magical, fecundate freedom,build, levy songs.

I need Raleigh’s elixir! If men concoct an elixir of youthit is too late for me.

Then, that elixir of elixir of elixirs, hebenon!

Sprinkle it.

March 21, 1616

Now that I am sick, it seems so rare a thing I once climbedelms for rook’s nest and slashed all afternoon, in the August sun, to scythethe timothy in rows. I was fifteen, I think it was. Larks flew and sang. Iliked the click-a-click of my scythe as it bladed. Crickets chirped. Magpiesand jackdaws took the air. There was a kingfisher diving.

I long to dive where I used to swim, at Gray’s pool,alongside the burned mill; I used to strip and plunge off the sluice, afterworking in the field. Or we used to swim there—five or six of us—and test whocould stay under longest, test—what was it I wanted to test?

Cowslips grew cap-a-pie on two sides of that pool and theircinque-spotted faces got trampled underfoot as we dashed nakedly about, lewdlyknuckling each other’s penis. Banks of violets were thick on the shady side ofthe mill, thickest among heaps of smashed and rotting shingles...her favoriteflower! Hers!

Home

Suppertime

Getting ready to die is looking across a stage throughsemi-darkness; it is muffing one’s lines; it is listening to incomprehensiblepromptings; it is taking the wrong exit. It is tampering with the plot,eliminating the star from the best scenes, substituting a beginner. Gettingready to die is watching the candle gut­ter, hearing the rooster before dawn,saying love’s good-bye; it is the footstep on the stair, the reveled, sleevedand broken sword.

Getting ready to die is no man’s business!

O, that this too, too solid flesh...

Home – Evening

March 27, 1616

For several days my eyesight has failed and I have beenunable to write. I have less pain but I can not eat. They talk to me and I liehere, restless, hearing, hearing... I want to hear something like a promise, anecho of things hoped for.

That knocking at the door!

Rain over the house.

To sleep, to sleep...

March 28, 1616

When I was twenty, splendid, strong, I thought it would benoble to die in the Spring: ah, noble death I praised you childishly. This isspringtime, and I see no signs of nobility.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry—

how like a poem those lines read,and lie! At that time, when I wrote that sonnet, I was never more in love withlife.

For days the rain has been falling over the town, fine rain,grey rain that is determined to shatter the last of my courage...for days.

Ann stands by my bedside, a plate of food in her hands,urging me to eat: “Take something...it will help you, Will.”

Susanna sits by my side and sighs, “Papa, Papa.”

Alleyn visits me, his voice warming my room, in the beatenway of friendship.

March 30, ’16

Again I am reminded I must complete my will—and so I must.

Tomorrow I’ll dictate...how will it go?

In the name of God, I, William Shakespeare, gentleman, inperfect health and memory, make and ordain this last will and testament...

How can I say perfect health and memory?

I commend my soul into the hands of God, hoping andbelieving to be made a partaker of life everlasting, and my body to the earththereof it is made... Custom...

Item: I bequeath to my daughter, Judith, a hundred and fiftypounds (shall I make it more?); in addition, I grant her my estate in WarrCounty—I like that place...

To Joan—I leave my clothes. Why?

To Elizabeth Hall, I leave my silverware...

To Thomas Combe, my sword. (I liked that sword...its inlaidhilt!)

To Richard Burbage (good friend), money for a ring.

For daughter, Susanna Hall, my home, barns, stables,orchards, gardens, lands, tenements...my new house in Blackfriars.

To Ben Jonson—fifty pounds and this journal. Short-changedagain, Ben.

Item:to my wife, my second best bed and our furniture. (It should be more. Whatshall it be?)

To Dr. John Hall, all settlements after the payment ofdebts...there is no more...

I must remember to speak in a clear voice.

In two sepia rectangles, the renowned Droeshout portrait ofShakespeare and the famous Gerard bust...

The bust revolves slowly as a voice intones Shakespeare’s lastwill.

The talking portrait speaks from the Stratford church wall:through the open door of the church a blue cloak half conceals the Non Sanz Droict coat-of-arms.

Lincoln’s Journal

ForFreedom

All of the quotations of Abraham Lincoln’s writingsare in the public domain:

Pages

521lines 9-10

522entire page

523lines 1-4 and 22-24

524 lines 2-5

528 lines 1-3

534 lines 11-12

537 lines 25-30

538 lines 1-26 and 30

539 lines 1-21 and 26-33

544 lines 10-14

548 lines 18-20

556 lines 29-30

557 lines 1-4

560 lines 3-11

563 line 15

568 lines 5-7 and 12-20

572 lines 14-17

575 lines 17-20

579 line 3

585 lines 18-25

586lines 1-6

588 lines 22-29: Diary quotation,Doneway & Evans, A Treasury of the World’sGreat Diaries

589 lines 1-2: ibid.

591 lines 5-16: quotation from OhnQuincy, President of

Harvard, Harvard Record

591lines 19-23

592 lines 1-2

598 line 26: song, “Tenting Tonight”

603 lines 15-23

605 lines 23-26

606 lines 9-15

607 lines 24-28

610 lines 15-19: Shiloh quotation,Doneway & Evans

1

Executive Mansion

May 4, 1863

ot long after my inauguration Imade a resolution to write something about my life. Writing, late at night, Ihoped to escape the pressures of the war and go back into time.

April 12, 1861 — at 4:30 a.m., the war began.

Thirty-nine days after my inauguration!

When I called for 75,000 volunteers, I thought hostilitieswould end soon. I thought of many things in those trying days. There was theterrible summer of ’82, when wheat fields were swept by gunfire, 20,000Confederates died, the Union lost 16,000. Boys, mostly boys. Which General wokeme during the night? Dark days, dark nights. The Army of the Potomac had100,000 soldiers. Their losses and gains are part of me. Deserters, absentees,spies—each is part of me. The wounded, the sick, the dying, the dead—they arepart of me.

Oh, Traveler, why did you bring this war?

And Wall Street remembers this war! Fears it!

There seemed to be panic in rooms of this building.

The two years I have been here have taught me a great dealabout men and self.

Yet, now, now I will record my life though life surgesaround Washington, though each one of us is sorely tried; we have read anewlife’s “great tragic vol­ume,” as John Adams called it. The pages lie open asdrums thud along the Po­tomac.

Executive Mansion

May 7, 1863

North versus South, we have a population of 18 millionfighting a popula­tion of 5 million, folly vs. folly, brother vs. brother,Commander Lee vs. General Lee, Major Crittenden vs. General Crittenden.

Europeans assure me that my cause is a lost cause. They sayI will never eradicate slavery. The South says I will never end slavery becauseit is an honor­able way of life. Our Indian brothers have sided with the South.But it is the cause of the Union that gives us strength, gives us right.

Union forever...flags...they wave yet do not heal...theyacclaim patriotism. But patriotism can blind us. It is a “whirlwind,” asEmerson reminds us. For my part, it is my oath to preserve and protect thisgovernment of freedom for all men.

My convictions do not wane as cabinet members fail me. I amfirmly con­vinced that tact can win against men who oppose, who are selfish ortemporarily deaf. I believe the citizenry understands me as I understand them,as they pour into my office and talk with me.

May 19, 1863

I reaffirm myself.

I wish to tell that I was a man of the wilderness; I wish towrite about my mother, about my village of New Salem, my home in Springfieldwith its maple trees. I see the sunlight in my office windows and it is alsothe sunlight of my boyhood and youth.

Tomorrow night, with my lamps lit and candles on my desk, Iwill begin to find out who I am.

I will begin to go back twenty years, thirty years, fortyyears. Snow storms will batter our log cabin. I will recall what it was to gohungry. I will try to fit to­gether hours, days, nights. I’ll open the prairie schoonerof my brain.

I had requested the telegraph office: NO TELEGRAMS betweenone and 5 a.m.

To commence my diary I will use lines I wrote a few yearsago for an Illinois newspaper.

May 20, 1863

I am six feet four inches tall and weigh one hundred andeighty pounds. I am lean, muscular, have dark skin, coarse black hair and greyeyes. My legs and arms are long; my hands are large; I wear a size 12 shoe.

I was put to work when I was about eight or nine—farmedout for 13 cents a day. I cut wood, mended fences, herded cattle, dug ditches.At home, I milked our cow, lugged pails of water, cleaned slop, fed the stove.Weather meant al­most nothing to my family; we lived exactly like Indians inour 3-sided cabin. We ate like Indians—when we could. At times we said nothingto each other for days on end that could be in any way construed asinteresting.

Executive Mansion

May 22, 1863

I was born February 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky. Myparents were born in Virginia, of undistinguished families—second families,perhaps I should say. My mother, who died in my tenth year, was of a family ofthe name of Hanks...

My paternal grandfather, Abraham Lincoln, emigrated fromVirginia to Kentucky about 1781, where a year or two later he was killed by Indians,not in battle, but by stealth, when he was laboring to open a farm in theforest.

My father, at the death of his father, was but six years ofa*ge, and he grew up literally without education. When I was eight he removedfrom Kentucky to Indiana; we reached our new home about the time the state cameinto the Un­ion. It was a wild region, with many bears and other wild animalsstill in the woods...

My father settled in an unbroken forest, and the clearingaway of surplus wood was the great task ahead. Though very young I had an ax putin my hands...and from that, till within my twenty-third year, I was constantlyhandling that useful instrument.

...A few days before the completion of my eighth year, in myfather’s absence, a flock of wild turkey approached our new log cabin. Standinginside, I shot through a crack and killed one of them. I have never since pulleda trigger on larger game.

I think that the aggregate of all my schooling did notamount to one year. I was never in a college or academy as a student, and neverinside of a college or academy building till I had a law license. After I wastwenty-three and had sepa­rated from my father, I studied English grammar. Ihave studied and nearly mastered the six books of Euclid since I became amember of Congress.

Executive Mansion

June 1, 1863

In the wilderness there were some schools, so called, but noqualification was ever required of a teacher beyond “readin’, writin’ andcipherin’ ” to the rule of three. If a straggler, supposed to understand Latin,happened to sojourn in the neighborhood, he was looked upon as a wizard. Therewas absolutely nothing to excite ambition for education. Of course, when I cameof age I did not know much. Still, somehow, I could read, write, and cipher tothe rule of three... The little advance I now have upon this store of educationI have picked up from time to time under the pressure of necessity.

My father lived in Knob Creek, Kentucky; from this place heremoved to Spencer County, Indiana, in the autumn of 1816; I was eight. Theremoval was partly on account of his resentment of slavery, but chiefly onaccount of the dif­ficulty in acquiring legal land titles.

I became a sort of clerk in New Salem; I served aspostmaster; then came the Black Hawk War; I was elected a Captain ofvolunteers, a success which gave me more freedom than any I have had since.

I went on the campaign, a campaign that led nowhere, exceptto the dead, that row of eleven men, lying in the sun, each head neatlyscalped. I ran for leg­islature the same year (1832), and was beaten. It is theonly time I ever have been beaten by the people. The next and three succeedingbiennial elections I was elected to the state legislature.

As I rode horseback along the county roads something rodewith me, an in­ner person. Beside the road, my horse browsing, I read a book. Iremember sit­ting by a creek, listening to the frogs in the chill spring air;there was that person, that inner force.

I knew that there was little or no chance for advancement inthis rural com­munity unless it came through politics. So, politics had toshine my shoes and buy my trousers. I would prove that honesty was appreciatedhere. I would fit it into the crown of my hat.

June 5, 1863

It is a great piece of folly to attempt to make anything outof my early life. It can be all condensed into a simple sentence, and thatsentence you will find in Grey’s Elegy: “The short and simple annals ofthe poor.”

And I add Grey’s lines for myself :

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife

Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

One more thought:

My mother was the illegitimate daughter of Lucy Hawks, and awell-bred Vir­ginia farmer. God bless her; all that I am or ever hope to be Iowe to her. I be­lieve that I in­herited extra drive from her unfortunatebackground. That drive stands me in good stead.

Executive Mansion

June 10, 1863

I have experienced death many times. My aunt, my uncle, mybrother’s death. Then my mother’s death of milk sickness. Such suffering. Iwhittled the pegs for her coffin. I can see her grave outside our cabin. Icould see it each time we opened the door. In the spring and often during thesummer I placed flowers on her grave. She loved lilacs and roses. Her kindnesslingers on. Friends called her a woodland madonna.

Later, when my step-mother came, her love was felt by eachone of us.

“Let me help you, Abe. Let me strain the milktonight...you’re tired. What a big stack of wood you’ve cut for us, son. Thatshould last a while!”

She could handle an ax. She could lug a sack of flour. Whenwolves howled, she’d lean over me and say a few words or kiss my forehead. Whenmy shoulders ached she rubbed them with bear grease.

“If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul totake,” is a prayer she taught me.

Sometimes we planted pumpkin seeds together, on a nearbyslope. She was faster than I. Again and again, she urged me to attend school.Each time we moved, she located the nearest schoolhouse. “You’ve got to go,Abe.” I used to read to her.

She liked Aesop’s Fables best. We’d sit in theevening sun and lean against the side of the cabin and I would read. We learnedthe fables quickly. Her favorite fable was “The Wolf and the Crane.” In thosedays, my favorite was “The Snake and a File.”

The White House

June 12, 1863

Often, when I am alone and tired, I remember the hot sun ofthe prairie summer, how it seems to hold down everything as far as the eye cansee. I re­member how it climbed almost every morning—like a wheel.

I remember the squeaking of leather as my horse pulled hisplow; there was small corn growing nearby, in field after field. There werebirds.

There is a biting sense of loss, looking into the past: weknow this is some­thing that can never take place again. We know, too, that wecan resurrect our­selves, sometimes pleasurably. Today, I esteem those glimpsesthat reassure me, in spite of their passing. Without them I think life would beso overcome by the present it would be difficult to continue living.

The better life should be everyman’s goal, a life that isnot eaten up by toil, a life where there is freedom for thought, freedom foraction. Men should be able to draw from the past; men should be able toconstruct for the present, a plan. Man should have time to evolve for himselfand posterity—a heritage evoking pride leading to achievement that makes lifeworth living.

The White House

June 20, 1863

Some of my happy days were passed in East Salem, when I wasan Illinois postmaster. Since the mail arrived only twice a week, I couldperuse the Louisville Journal and the Intelligencer. Ithink there were about twenty-five families living in Salem in those days. Ienjoyed delivering the mail personally; there was ample time to be friendly.So, I stuffed the letters inside my hat and walked from house to house. I gotto know everybody that way. Summers were easy times. Remem­bering those summersthey seem to stretch in a long line, with groves and fishing spots here andthere.

I remember a huge boulder where I used to sit. Probably Ihad delivered my last letter. A rabbit liked to sit near me. I would shut myeyes and appreciate the greatness of life in the rabbit, in the trees aroundme, in the wind—the greatness that existed in my mother’s life.

June 24, 1863

At the Burkes’ home, not far from the post office, I renteda room. The Burkes, who are Quakers, a family of two, put themselves out forme, and gave me an upstairs room with a lamp. At night I got out needle andthread and mended my clothes, or, sitting in a leather chair, I read. CharlesBurke and I fashioned that chair.

He lent me pen and ink, and I was able to practicepenmanship—copying from a spelling book; it seemed great fun to me to spell outwords, so much easier than working with an ax. Mrs. Burke’s tabby, grey andfat, liked to keep me company, flipping a paw at the M’s and L’s.

In Salem I fell into debt.

When my partner died, my partner in the grocery business, Iassumed his in­debtedness—$1,000. It took me years to wipe out that sum, ashuge as the na­tional debt. I shucked corn, cradled wheat, chopped wood,ferryboated, clerked...$2.00 here, $5.00 here, $7.00 here. My debit columnrequired all of my scheming. While I struggled to pay that thousand dollars Iresolved to lay aside something as a cushion, but it was many years before Icould carry out that resolution. Those were pinching times.

Executive Mansion

June 25, 1863

At Number 4, Hoffman’s Row, we had our law office, secondfloor, a narrow room with a pair of elegant brass spittoons, a Pennsylvaniawood burning stove. High on the wall, above my desk, hung an engraving ofBenjamin Franklin. Our rough center table was usually overloaded withdocuments—like some outland­ish mule. Legal books and newspapers filledshelves. A narrow window faced the street; another window let in sunlight. Theelements washed them. The floor was bare oak but we had a fine assortment ofchairs. There was a lounge near the sunny window and I liked to stretch outthere, on the shaggy buffalo hide.

Billy Herndon and I had that shingle, good natured Billy.Here we talked business, co*ckfights, women, and horse races. For sixteen yearswe kept at it, learning, unlearning. For every stick of wood we burned in thatPennsylvania stove we had an ardent opinion.

Billy and I earned about $3,000 or $4,000, good for a townthat already had eleven lawyers. Springfield, in those days, offered betterlegal services than side­walks. Pigs in the streets, mud on our boots—so itwent. We offered our services at all hours of the day. Often I never walkedhome for lunch. When I rode cir­cuit, Billy kept house. The wren that lived ina box outside our door had a neater establishment than ours, but, she was not amember of the state legislature.

The White House

July 3rd, 1863

During my political career, I have striven to be astutewhere slavery is con­cerned. The issue of slavery has been a sensitive one,always difficult. Anti-slavery sentiment has been in existence no matter whereI lived, usually undercover. The Baptist preacher I listened to as a boy wasanti-slavery. I be­lieved him. I saw blacks in chains, men and women. I soonlearned about the cruelty that menaced their lives, destroyed their lives; Ifelt that I could, if I lived long enough, thwart slavery, perhaps abolish it,make our great nation a free na­tion. Patience, I repeated again and again tomyself. I knew about Linda Mae. She was bound to William Wison for ninety-nineyears. She was nineteen when that legal document was signed. When she reached118 years she would be free. Patience?

Slavery was an old institution in Illinois, winked at in the30’s and 40’s. The first governor of the state possessed slaves. I have seenhuman beings herded and treated like animals. Our family moved from Kentucky,troubled by the ways of slavery. My black clients sometimes confided in me,described, underlined, the devious trickeries of the whites. Billy, mySpringfield barber, had tales to tell. I have heard them as he shaved me ortrimmed my hair.

I am slow to learn, and slow to forget. My mind is like apiece of steel—very hard to scratch anything on it, and almost impossible afteryou get it there to rub it out.

Memories...it wasn’t so long ago I tramped at the head ofthe ox team, as we moved from one place to another, one beginning that had notreally ended, to another beginning that might not end. The oxen were faithful.They meant much to me. I will not forget. They ate from my hands, they blewtheir breaths on my fingers, they regarded me intently. It rained on us. Thesun shone on us.

July 11, 1863

Was it twenty or thirty years ago, we drifted down theMississippi, three of us on a loaded flatboat? She was well overloaded becauseall of us wanted to get rich quick. The second or third day on the river, atornado-like storm struck us; I thought we would lose more than our cargo. Downwent the stern, down went the bow. I thought lightning would strike us. Myfriends, John H___ and John J___ , were experienced river men. With luck wemade it. In New Orleans, we sold both cargo and flatboat, and returned home bysternwheeler.

Memories—one of the most vivid is the New Orleans’ slaveauction: men and women for the highest bidder. How much is my mother worth? Iasked my­self. How much is my father? My Uncle James? Two women were sold whileI watched at the corner of a busy street. Two women, then three men were sold.Were they friends, relatives? Did they speak our language? Where were theytaken? One of the men in New Orleans left the auction stand in handcuffs. Thewomen rode away in fancy buggies—faces haggard.

I have never had to summon a jury in defense of freedom. Nocourt can de­fend slavery if men are honorable.

Tuesday evening

Late

As the months pass, as troubles increase, I hunt for momentsfrom yesterday, moments that may strengthen me, moments that may prove I wasonce young. There is my Ann Rutledge. I see her auburn hair, blue eyes anddelicate face—more than ephemera. My love for her is real, apart, unrelated tothe man I am, yet remembered—a contradiction. Although it is a lie I feel that Annis alive.

I allowed my burden of debts to turn me away from marriage.I believed that frontier hardships were to remain my lot; I could not seeharnessing her to a life of animal drudgery. Debts...they were like bars in agate; I peered through those bars at her beautiful face.

We buried her among currant bushes, in the wind, in the sun.I left the cemetery to wander through hungry woodlands, woodlands I never sawagain, that extended...I don’t know how far they extended. Hunger andsorrow...they were mine.

All that remains of our brief relationship is the memory ofher voice, as she spoke, as she sang. She loved to sing hymns and frontiersongs—her voice so feminine.

The touch of her hand, the touch of her voice...in themidst of war, under desperate commitments.

Evening

We were to enroll. Ann was to enroll at JacksonvilleAcademy. I was to enroll at Illinois College.

That year I called on her at the Rutledge farm, severaltimes. We worked to­gether in the fields. When she worked at Jim Short’s farm,I rode over to be with her. I helped her with the chores. Swampy place.

August came, hot, dry August. Corn was stunted that year.Few martins and swallows were around. But malaria was around and put me down, aday, two days, three. I sipped Peruvian bark—jalap. Late that month, her fathersent for me.

Valued brother, come, Ann is very ill.

D. H. Rutledge.

I still have that message.

She lay on her bed, feverish; the log house seemed to beclaiming her; she put her small hands in mine; her corn silk hair was around herface. In two days she was gone. We buried her in Concord, seven miles away,seven miles to walk be­hind her coffin.

It was many weeks, many weeks and miles of walking, before Irecovered, out of that grey mystery.

I still write to her family. I want to know how theRutledges are faring.

White House

In wagons, on foot, on horseback, they stream west, for thegold rush, for the promises. Ours is a migratory urge. Flux of men, women,children, reapers, sowers, which comes first? Which the most important? WeAmericans expropri­ate, accomplish, destroy. The rough rock becomes polished bytime, but do we? Can such migrations achieve a true union?

I realize there is a power larger than self, more powerfulthan leadership. It is this mysterious power that causes this human wave. It isnot destiny. It is an interchange of ideas, a wave or waves of emotion, adesire for betterment—and beyond that! The pioneer has this in his mind, as hehacks at timber, removes stumps, sprouts corn. Deep inside me, like a blue pool,I am in accord with these frontiersmen.

White House

window wide open

August 1st, 1863

In Springfield, when problems got under my skin, I sometimeswoke at night, puzzled, thinking where am I? I’d find myself sitting up in bed,gesturing, talking to myself. Alarmed, I would dress and lay a fire and sit byit the remainder of the night, sit by the stove or go out into the backyard, ifit was summer or autumn.

Melancholia has always dogged me. It seems to sit inside ofme and peer out. It catches me, involves me, at the most unexpected moments.Melancholy influ­ences my decisions, legal decisions or those at home, evenwhile I am playing with the children. Like any physical handicap I try to livewith it, minimize it.

Springfield problems were largely legal problems, problemsfor Billy and me, problems about horse thieves, mortgage foreclosures, defaultsin payment, land titles. I lost a manslaughter case but won my defense of thenine women in­volved in rioting. I had a bevy of widows trail after me when Iwon the case of the man accused of robbing the mail of $15,000.

Such problems create a backwash over the years; I see nowthat on my circuit I avoided home very frequently, staying away two or threeweeks at a time. Marital bliss and melancholia are known to be mates.

Executive Mansion

8/9/63

For years I was haunted by a great number of things. First,it was essential to learn to read. Then to write. To find work that wouldsupport me. I wished to help others. I felt that there was more to life than brutelabor. I found friends. Honesty appealed. I was not impressed by rowdies.Serving as Captain in the Black Hawk War taught me that causes are not alwaysgood causes. Scalped men are not helpful men.

I can not forget those men lying in the bush, lying in arow, red sunlight on them.

My father was a slave to ignorance.

My mother was a slave to the wilderness.

I longed to abolish all kinds of slavery.

Some of my black friends were slaves; I wanted to abolishtheir kind of slav­ery. There is the slavery of poverty. Men and women eatingpotatoes day after day.

So, I was haunted.

Could I become man’s benefactor?

Lying in my attic, on my bed of corn shocks, I confrontedlog walls—- strong log walls.

August 9, 1863

On my circuit rides, when weather favored, when there wasenough time, I stopped at a grove, dismounted, walked to a tree deep in thegrove, a tree I had blazed when county surveying; I walked on to the secondblaze that marked a green pool. It was a small shallow pool rimmed with shortgrass. Dragonflies came there. Crickets lived near there. Standing there,sitting there, I found meaning, a meaning I still respect.

Tell me, ye winged winds

That round my pathway roar,

Do ye not know some spot

Where mortals weep no more?

The White House

August 12, 1863

I suppose I may as well confess: I have always envied mypartner his marital luck: Billy Herndon married Nancy Maxcy, back in ’40, aquiet beauty, a gentle beauty, blonde as corn silk, ready with dreamy smiles.She gave Billy rare personal happiness, made it easier for him after annoyinglegal squabbles, after long circuit rides. She gave him six healthy children.She was a giver in so many ways—alms for all. Theirs has been a continualromance.

The mind does tricks. I am back in my boyhood cabin. A prairieschooner stands outside. A man and woman have unhitched their oxen team, theirlittle girl is made to feel at home by my mother. She is eight; I am eight or nine,I can’t remember. I remember that she was pretty. We played together all day.Then, came sunup, the ox team hauled away the schooner...my love was gone. Idreamed about her for weeks, happy dreams; in one of those repeated dreams weeloped, we went to California, we built a beautiful home...

My love for her has never gone away.

August 14, 1863

Many times Jenny plodded my rural circuit.

Usually, I gave her the reins. Every stopping place, store,tavern, church, sa­loon, school, was fixed in her brain. If I had to check herit was for some wash­out, new ruts in the road, a downhill run, a floodedcreek. As we plodded along I read my law books or played the harmonica. June,July, August...January and February, we rocked in that black buggy with itsscarlet spokes. I kept it in good shape but I never did eliminate the squeaksin the right rear spring.

In those days prosperity was slow in arriving. I settled mycases under trees, in churches, in schools and stores—for barter and for cash.

Mary never neglected my food hamper; always something tasty,with an apple or a carrot or two tossed in for Jenny. We would stop in a patchof woods on a hot day; I would yank off my boots and rest my corns.Thunderstorms often fell on us; at the nearest stable I would rub Jenny untilshe was dry, and she would look and look at me as I rubbed her.

Willie liked to accompany me on our summer jaunts; he got toknow the lone dead pine; the maple grove at Dobson’s Creek; he knew theroosting place of the red hawk, the place of the squirrels. We often saw foxand deer. I might read Fennimore Cooper to him as we rode along.

“...Papa, look at those pigeons...a whole cloud of them.”

Willie’s favorite topic was the railroad, the locomotives.He knew every type of engine, their speed, their horsepower. “Wonder horses,”he called them.

“All aboard,” he would shout, as we got into our buggy.“Let’s go...the Indi­ans are comin’.”

Who owns Jenny now?

Where is she?

She’s about eleven years old.

The White House

August 29, 1863

Glancing through a Greek history, I found somethingEuripides said in one of his plays:

Slavery, that thing of evil, by its nature evil,

forcing submission from man to what no man should yield to.

To set men free—that is the greatest goal any man couldachieve.

But slavery is part of our issue. This is essentially apeople’s contest. On the side of the Union is a struggle for maintaining in theworld that form and sub­stance of government whose leading object is to elevatethe condition of men; to lift artificial weights from all shoulders; to clearthe paths of laudable pursuit for all; to afford all an unfettered start and afair chance in the race of life.

Tuesday

I like to forget East Salem’s juvenility, sparring, boxing,wrestling. Pranks could be alarmingly stupid. There was Ike and his pony. Hewas fool enough to try to ride his piebald through a bonfire of shavings andcornstalks—to settle a bet. He raced across a field toward the blaze; just ashe reached it, the pony bucked and pitched Ike into the fire. The onlookersstomped and roared and whistled. I was angry and took Ike to Dr. Samuel’s office,where the doctor shaved his head and salved his scorched face and hands.

I saw no profit, no form of progress in Salem’s rowdies. Ipreferred the simple things in life, a job, a long walk, hills, sun. As countysurveyor I commu­nicated through transit and tapes, through timberland acreage.They arranged life in useable proportions. This was a function beyond thevillage. To measure land was to measure the future. Precision spelledconfidence.

September 1, 1863

To give the victory to the right, not through bloody bulletsbut through peaceful ballots—this is essential. Our constitution proves thatthe ballot can rule. Right-thinking men shall go to the polls, without fear orprejudice.

I think these thoughts, I write these words, as men attack,counterattack, re­treat, die. Hate and bitterness are in control. I raise myspyglass and look through my window. A small sailboat moves along the Potomac.It is possible for a man to provision a boat, set sail, dis­appear. It ispossible for a man to work with other men and achieve.

September 2, 1863

A drum corps passes the White House.

I listen.

I must ask myself some questions this evening: mustcivilization be influ­enced by greedy politicians, connivers, self-promoters,toadies? Is there such a thing as common sense where the bulk of mankind isconcerned? Is Christianity a bulwark to be counted on, or is it cleverlyconcocted pretension? Must tragedy dog man’s footsteps? Does a lie have a morelasting influence than the truth? Do the echoes of John Brown end? Is the DredScott case on trial, decade after dec­ade?

These and other questions flog my mind.

Men say I am moody, they say I am a man of mystery. If I ammysterious at times it is because I seek answers. I demand answers. Only foolsaccept the face of things. Men weary of my tales and my humor as I hunt forenlightenment for this troubled country. It is my duty to care more thananyone, and humor and satire have an influence not to be scorned.

The White House

September 15, 1863

If I were home my fat Filibuster would shove his whiskersinto my face and meow. He loved to be scratched...he was Robert’s pet but whenI lay on the floor of the parlor to read he would stretch out beside me. I’dscratch him and try to go on with my reading.

I would like to have supper tonight in my shirt sleeves, andanswer the door­bell in my carpet slippers.

I would like to hear Mary scolding the iceman, as hetries, once more, to over­charge her.

How well she managed our house, penny-wise always. How wellshe attended the children. She found time to help the poor; was never too busyto chat with a neighbor.

“Let’s see a play tonight. There’s that new one, A For­tuneto Share. Shall we go?”

I see myself puttering in the yard. There was time to prunethe trees, to cut wood, plant flowers. The horse and cow were part of ourlives. I was another man then.

I wonder what happened to my grey hat; it had a wide bandinside, fine for stuffing letters and checks. Maybe Billy has it, hanging onthe tree, at the back of our office.

The White House

Evening

Throughout that long, dry summer, Stephen Douglas and Ibattled our verbal battles. There was a noble pertinacity in the “LittleGiant.” I called him a “slan­derer” and a “sneak.” He dubbed me a “fraud,” andalluded to pro-slavery con­spiracies. He attacked my “house divided” stand... Iinsisted that a nation could not endure half-free, half-slave.

Douglas had his private car, bannered and flagged. Ahandsome brass cannon boomed from a flatcar coupled to his train, boomed hisentry into every town and city. Often our debates were veritable picnics,fireworks, bands. I rode on a Conestoga drawn by six white horses...bunting...flowers...pretty girls. Sometimes a secretary recorded our speeches.

As the summer wore on, I began to stress the moral issueswith great empha­sis. I had little hope that I would win the senate seat; myvoice, pitched higher than his, also lacked accomplished delivery. The silentartillery of time was firing at us. I heard the country’s slaves crying out. Iremembered that John Randolph said that slavery was “a volcano in fulleruption.”

Votes...but it is not altogether a matter of votes.

Yet the day of reckoning arrived.

Douglas – 54. Lincoln – 46.

So I lost.

It will be hard to die and leave the country no better than ifI had never lived.

September 29th, 1863

My Desk

I may remark that having in my life heard many arguments—orstrings of words meant to pass for arguments—intended to show that the negroought to be a slave—if he shall now fight in the Confederate Army to keephimself a slave, it will be a far better argument why he should remain a slavethan I have ever heard before.

Perhaps he ought to be a slave if he desires it ardentlyenough to fight for it. Or, if one out of four will, for his own freedom, fightto keep the other three in slavery, he ought to be a slaver for his selfishmeanness.

I have always thought that all men should be free; but ifany should be slaves, it should be first those who desire it for themselves,and secondly those who desire it for others. Whenever I hear anyone arguing forslavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.

Once again, we ask: what is freedom?

Individually, it is a chance to worship or not worship, itis a chance to earn a living, to raise a family, examine the past, improveone’s intellect, guard one’s health. It is also an opportunity to perfectnational and international law. Cer­tainly, freedom should not be a code butshould emphasize, in every respect, human values. Millions in our land lackfreedom. This condition must not con­tinue. Education is the sure route towardfreedom.

Thursday

My Desk

If A can prove, however conclusively, that he may, of right,enslave B, why may not B snatch the same argument and prove equally, that hemay enslave A? You say A is white and B is black. It is color then; thelighter, having the right to enslave the darker? Take care. By this rule youare to be a slave to the first man you meet with a fairer skin than your own.

You do not mean color exactly? You mean the whitesare intellectually the supe­riors of the blacks, and, therefore have theright to enslave them? Take care again. By this rule you are to be the slave tothe first man you meet with an in­tellect superior to your own. But, say you,it is a question of interest; and if you can make it your interest,you have the right to enslave another. Very well. And if he can make it hisinterest, he has the right to enslave you.

I hear rifle fire in the night.

October 4, 1863

This rainy evening I take up my pen again.

There are no accidents in my philosophy. Every effect musthave its cause. The past is the cause of the present, and the present will bethe cause of the fu­ture. All these are links in the endless chain stretchingfrom the infinite to the finite.

Probably it is to be my lot to go on in a twilight, feelingand reasoning my way through life, as questioning, doubting Thomas did. But inmy poor, maimed, withered way bear with me as I go on seeking for a faith thatwas with him of olden times, who exclaimed “Help thou my unbelief.”

I do not see that I am more astray—though perhaps in adifferent direc­tion—than others whose points of view differ widely from eachother in the sectarian denominations. They all claim to be Christians, andinterpret their sev­eral creeds as infallible ones. I doubt the possibility, orpropriety, of settling the religion of Jesus Christ in the models of man-mancreeds and dogmas.

It was a spirit in the life that He laid stress on andtaught, if I read aright. I know I see it to be so with me... The fundamentaltruths reported in the four Gospels as from the lips of Jesus, and that I firstheard from the lips of my mother, are settled and fixed moral precepts with me.I have concluded to dis­miss from my mind the debatable wrangles that onceperplexed me with distrac­tions that stirred up but never absolutely settledanything. I have tossed them aside with the doubtful differences which dividedenominations. I have ceased to follow such discussions or be interested inthem. I cannot without mental reser­vations assent to long and complicatedcreeds and catechisms.

The White House

I had a visitor this morning who needed to be reassured. Heis a trembling old man from Arkansas, a local politician. After spelling outsome good news for his benefit I told him this anecdote... I think it workedvery well...

An eccentric old bachelor lived in the Hoosier state and wasfamous for see­ing big bugaboos in everything. He lived with an elder brotherand one day went out hunting. His brother heard him firing back in thecornfield and went out to see what was the matter. He found him loading andfiring into the top of a tree. Not being able to dis­cover anything in thetree, he asked his brother what he was firing at. “A squirrel,” the man said,and kept on firing. His brother thought there was some humbug about the matterand looked him over carefully and found a big louse crawling about on one ofhis eyelashes.

Executive Mansion

October 12, 1863

After my nomination Springfield filled with ox carts, wagons,buggies, horsem*n, trainloads of folk. Fifty-thousand poured into my littletown. Hordes jammed the street in front of my house, yelling “Speech...speech!”

I greeted them, said a few words, joked.

Reporters swarmed around me. Friends came and went. I forgotto stable the horse, forgot to milk the cow. Mary scolded me for forgetting mysupper.

Tad got lost in the crowd.

Wind blew, dust blew.

It seems very amusing to me now. Unreal.

Streets were lit with burning tar barrels and torches.People sang, paraded the streets.

“ Ole AbeLincoln came out of the wilderness,

Out of the wilderness, out of the wilderness...”

I turned in mighty late that night, yet singers were stillsinging, singing “Gen­tle Annie” and other favorites.

October 13, 1863

Before leaving for Washington, I went to my office to saygood-bye to Billy Herndon. It wasn’t easy climbing that stair. It was difficultto say good-bye to my old partner and friend. I gathered up some books andpapers and laid them on the big table. I stretched out on the old couch, withthe buffalo robe under me.

“How long have we been working together, Billy?”

“Over sixteen years,” he replied.

“We’ve never had a cross word all that time, have we?”

He nodded.

“That’s right.”

I asked him to retain our old shingle, on its rusty hinges.

“If I live, I’ll be coming back, and then we’ll go on as ifnothing had ever happened.”

At the bottom of the stairs, we shook hands.

In keeping with my philosophy I felt certain that I wouldnever return to Springfield.

October 21, 1863

White House

Library

The unfinished dome on the White House continues to troubleme. The in­completion has become a symbol. I peer through its maw and it seemsa war wound. When will it be finished? And when it has been completed will theunion of the North and South begin? A carpenter tips his hat: “Good morning,Mr. President.” Throughout the morning I have heard hammers and saws. Patience,I tell myself. A wise man invented patience. The emancipation of man will re­quiregreat patience.

It is pleasant writing in the library. I will return again.

Here is a book, on my desk, entitled Sparta. I be­lievethat the Spartans were often respected for their courage.

What is it men fear most? Death?

Ten men will have ten answers.

From the days of the Spartans men have floundered overfreedom—spelling it a hundred different ways! The Iroquois had their idea offreedom. The Pilgrim had his. The blacks. The list can go on and on.

Freedom and death... I see they have an ugly affinity.

Nov 1st – 63

The Library

As far back as I can remember I have always watched over mydollars. In Springfield I knew what each month’s expenses amounted to. Duringmy sixteen-year partnership with Billy Herndon, our agreement was fifty-fifty.There never were any problems. Though it is miles to Springfield, I can summonfig­ures. Our last year together, Billy and I earned $2,300 each. We had 63 casesat $10.00 each; we had 20 at $15.00 each, etc. Twenty or twenty-five brought in$5.00. Apart from these combined earnings I added about $1,200 on my prairie circuits.This is a singular improvement over 31¢ a day at farm labor. As farm hand Iearned about $100.00 a year, eliminating thunder and lightning, hail, soremuscles, broken ax handles, corns, a chronic failure on the part of farmers topay their promised payments. City lamplighters do better.

Few in this capitol have ever enjoyed the intimacy old Jennyand I shared, buggy-sharing, spelled out with faithful grunts, special earsignals and soft nuz­zlings. No, it wasn’t always money-concern for me. Anotherasset was Billy’s library—his Kant, Locke, Spencer, Volney, and Emerson.

Another virtue, one that is very difficult to spell out,Billy kept my inkwell full.

November 12, 1863

Evening

Today has been a day of war problems. Telegramscontradict telegrams. In my bedroom I opened my Shakespeare to Julius Caesar:

There is a tide in the affairs of men

Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

Where is there finer counsel for me?

Foremost in my mind is the termination of this war, theabolishing of black servitude, the welding of our statehood. A triple goal!

Saturday

Iused to wash in an iron keeler, scrubbing hard after plowing or splittingrails. Saturday was scrub night.

Here, at the Executive Mansion, the pretentious bathroomstrouble me. There are thousands of neglected, hungry folk. It is a president’sobligation to assist those in need.

Forall concerned there have been more favored times; as a people we are trappedbetween violence and the mending of that violence; in spite of our be­wildermentwe reach out.

I can not say grace any longer. I have tried. I stumble. Ican not express my thanks for food when men are hungry. When whole communitiesare hungry, when death stalks our nation. If I am fortunate I may be fortunateat another’s expense, another’s disadvantage.

Tomorrow, I will saddle Old Abe. I will shove my newWordsworth book into my saddlebag and ride into the country, along the Potomac.I will eat dry corn bread. I will lie in deep grass and read, all day.

Nov 20, ’63

Early

I prefer art that pictures a Niagara or a lofty mountainrange at sunset or a tall vase full of flowers. I don’t go for the painting offaces—portraits. The painting done by Francis Carpenter troubles me; for onething I wish he would remove it from the dining room where he has excellent chandelierlight. Of course I can not find time to sit for him during the day. And all thosefaces on his canvas are so dull, such solemn faces; seven dull men surround meas I sign the Emancipa­tion Proclamation. People, looking at those men, willthink ill of us. At dinner, if the painting is still in the dining room, I faceaway from it. Carpenter says he will take the picture on a national tour. Ibelieve that is an error.

Monday evening

Fireplace fire

Where are sexual malpractices focused?

Let me indicate:

In 1850 there were 405,523 mulattoes. Very few of these arethe offspring of white and free blacks; nearly all have sprung from blackslaves and white mas­ters. In the same year, there were 56,649 mulattoes in thefree states; but for the most part they were not born there—they came from the slavestates. During this year, the slave states had 348,847 mulattoes, all of homeproduction.

The White House

Since no man is born president of his country, he must crossa difficult bridge between home and capitol. Crossing it, he is involved innational issues and problems he could not anticipate. About him is a sea of newfaces; he must remember each; he must remember names; he must definepersonalities as quickly and as intelligently as possible.

Following my inauguration, Fort Sumter, at Charleston, wasbombarded; within six weeks state secession had begun. “Secession isrevolution,” I reminded my dissatisfied fellow countrymen. Grim cabinetmeetings took place; telegram followed telegram; I soon realized that months ofdecision and indecision lay ahead. I saw it would be months before I couldcontrol my own house.

Needing friends, I reached out and found a few; needingwisdom, I made mistakes. My office window showed me an alien river; there weremore than thirty rooms in the White House, rooms and sounds. And the soundswere more often drum beats, slow beats, suggesting caution, intimating death.

FORT SUMTER FALLEN. Commander AndersonSurren­ders. April 14, 1861, FortSumter, located in the harbor of Charleston, S. C., surrendered yesterday,after 34 hours of Confederate bombardment. The 100 survivors, without food andammunition... 75,000 Union men called up...

I have lost that newspaper clipping but I can repeat thetragic news word-for-word, words that shocked our entire country! That left usembattled! Now, I can not, will not, review in detail the war’s progress. Musteach battle fought on the battlefield be fought again here? I want this diarymore man than history. If that is possible.

W. H.

November 29, 1863

Last year, on May second, I began the banishment ofinternational slave trade. Congress appropriated the sum of $900,000 to aid inits suppression. Five ships have been captured at sea and the slaves on boardthose vessels have been returned to Liberia.

Now, an American ship, the Erie, out of Portland, hasbeen captured off the West African coast, and 893 slaves have been liberated.Captain Gordon has been hung for his crime. To bring even greater pressure andafford greater suc­cess, my Secretary of State has negotiated a successfulAnti-Slave Treaty with England. On April 24th, 1862, this treaty was ratifiedby the Senate. It was a dis­tinct pleasure to have the Secretary congratulateme warmly. Our eradication of slave trade has been a marked success.

Henceforth, the blackbirders will find slave trade dangerousand unprosper­ous, with both the United States and England patrolling the seas.

If I accomplish nothing more than this, my White House termwill be worthwhile. Although it is 2 a.m. and chilly—I must celebrate. I haverung the kitchen for a bowl of soup and some crackers.

November 30

Late

It has been difficult to find a few hours alone. To sit inmy chair by the fireplace...that privilege comes only now and then. I think Iwill write an item for the papers, to increase morale, to lessen the influenceof detractors. I will begin it...

Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faithdare to do our duty...

White House

December 5

Tonight I wish I could eat an apple but there does not seemto be one in the White House. Peaches and apples—they are my favorites, eatenin front of a fireplace. What an appetite I used to have. I used to think thatthe best food in the world was bread and honey—honey in the comb on plainbread.

I rang the kitchen for a bowl of popcorn.

Pretty soon that Greek goddess of the Potomac, little MissRosie, who is the perfect mulatto, traipsed in, holding the green bowl sheloves, balancing it on a silver tray, the tray she thinks belonged to GeorgeWashington.

“Heah you is, Mistaaaa President...popcohnnnn, wid plenty afresh-churned buttaaaah.”

Miss Rosie did a curtsy and smiled and that smile of hersmade me happier than the popcorn because it told me that before long the warwould be over and people like Rosie would be treated like any white woman.

Sunday

1863

A president is not permitted to have smallpox but I have amild case, nonetheless. Bed is a poor spot to keep up a diary. What can I say, thisWednesday? That I have been reading Shakespeare? I have not. That I have readthe newspapers? I have not. During bouts of fever I let myself return to otherdays; I see a woman in a log cabin bending over an open fire. I smell baconfrying. Deep in the night I hear a hermit thrush. Its sorrowful sound assumesgreat beauty. I have a feeling I am in the wilderness, that wilderness almostChrist-like, benefi­cent.

December 12, ’63

Desk

Documents. My pigeonholes are bulging.

In a few days I will feel all right.

I miss our green-shuttered house in Springfield. It seemsmuch farther than 1700 miles away, and it seems more than nineteen years sincewe bought it—back in ’44. We Lincolns were proud of that home. I liked thefireplace in the parlor on snowy nights. I liked the comfortable rockers andthe black hair settee. Mary worked hard to sew and tailor the drapes. Hertouches were everywhere. Yet, when we moved to Washington, she ruled outeverything that was personal.

“Leave things...till we return.” Then we rented our place.What will it be when we do return?

And she threw away a pair of my old boots.

Willie, Bob and Ted packed their toys, kites, drums, bats.How Willie stormed when he was told he could not take every single toy.

When Mary and I married, I had three words engraved on herwedding rings: Love is Eternal.

Ihad not reckoned with death.

Evening

I would like to have opportunities for meditation. Surelythe bettering of life has to come from within. I would like to steal an hour ortwo every day. The only time I can steal is at night, when the White House iswrapped in memories. Then, candle or lamp beside, a fire in the fireplace, Ihunt for inner balance. Per­haps the candles go out. Perhaps the fire goes out.I wait for connections, maybe wilderness connections or connections with theprairie, connections with perceptions that can become new. I may be able to usethose perceptions in my day-to-day.

Library

This evening I have re-read some Volney, that old Frenchscholar and trav­eler; this analysis strikes me forcibly:

Man in his blindness has rivetedhis own chains, and surrendered himself forever, without defense, to the sportof his ignorance and passions. To dis­solve such fatal chains, a miraculousconcurrence of happy circ*mstances would be necessary: a whole nation, cured ofthe delirium of super­stition, must be inaccessible to the impulse offanaticism...this people should be cou­rageous and prudent...

Sound advice for these times! When are we prudent? What,beside the pas­sage of time, years of peace, will evolve prudence? Is war akind of superstition? I have thought so. Certainly it is a delirium.

I see the Library has a copy of Volney’s Travels in Syriaand Egypt. I have asked for a copy.

Evening

In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to theyoung, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The olderhave learned to ever expect it.

The Anns and the boys with their Bibles.

The White House

As I study the office wall map of the war zones I amafflicted by partial blindness. The name Fredericksburg blurs. I hear myselfsaying: I have made a covent to free the slaves. I hear General McClellan say:“We must declare a truce to bury our dead.” Alexandria, Fairfax, Sharpsburg,Harper’s Ferry, Spotsylvania. That peculiar blindness continues, focuses now onfaces I have loved, her face, the face of a friend in Springfield, the stairwayleading to my law office, my children playing on the street in front of myhome, riding in their little red wagon...

I am not a cartographer of war; however I surpass some of mygallant mili­tary officers. Their logistics have led to useless slaughter.Hellish bungling, I call it. But that blindness intrudes: I am surveying apiece of property near Salem, it seems.

What if this was a map of the entire world? What if I werein command? What then?

I hear my mother speak to me:

“Abe, shall we go out now and plant those squash seeds?”

W.H.

How are we to establish labor relations in the North and inthe South? I am glad to see that a system of labor prevails under whichlaborers can strike when they want to, where they are not obliged to work underall circ*mstances, and are not tied down and obliged to labor whether you paythem or not! I like the system which lets a man quit when he wants to, and wish*t might prevail every­where. In mill and cottonfield there has to be a leveling,hours, pay, conditions. We have to regulate a work week.

The White House

December 16, 1863

Thomas Jefferson was a great man, but no great Americankeeps slaves, and Jefferson had two hundred. Call it custom, excuse it ascustom; yet not every wealthy man kept slaves.

I admire the Adams family: their racial integrity standsout, their intelligent diplomacy. The relationship with foreign nations isoften a delicate one; the Adams succeeded—their statesmanship stands out.

Recently men have asked me to comment about GeorgeWashington. I declined. I sympathize with his problems but I can not get deeperinto the man. History does not always afford us ample means for fair judgment.

Thirty-three states oppose eleven states in this conflict.If I were to ask a citi­zen of Europe which entity he might support I think theanswer would be the state group with the largest population and greatestwealth, surmising that these advantages would bring about a definite resolution.However, in this conflict, the gamble is also a moral gamble. With this moralissue in mind we must pursue a sane course of action for everyone in thiscountry, a course of action that must embody prolonged patience.

The White House

December 29, ’63

I met Harriet Beecher Stowe the other day, and liked her. Wesat in front of my white fireplace and she said she loved a fireplace, and Isaid I liked one too—that we had a couple of them at home. She said she wrote alot of her Uncle Tom in front of her fireplace; then she asked mefriendly questions about Springfield, the people, the town.

I shared my conviction that writing has a lasting influence.I tried to make her realize what books have meant to me. I am afraid Ireminisced too much about what I had read. She nodded very pleasantly and didnot say much; wrapped in a blue shawl she seemed more like a tired housewifethan a person dedicated to writing and the rights of man.

I told her how I used to do my three r’s before our cabinfireplace. Silence came between us. In spite of myself I forgot my guest; Icould see a long road in summertime; I was walking along that road; I hadborrowed Weems and stopped to read; I sat down on a culvert; a frog appeared;there were trees, fields of grass, yet I was in the midst of history.

When she rose to say “good-bye” I was startled.

2

January 4th, 1864

oday I visited the stables and talked to Old Abe. Asusual, he was pleased to see me. I offered him a handful of oats, and he bobbedhis head. The sun was warm in the stall. I stood by, as Abe munched. I couldbelieve that he knew I was thanking him for my escape yesterday.

My hat is lying on my bed—a bullet hole right through thecrown. A good hat. If Abe hadn’t bolted someone might have shot again. We werelucky it was growing dark, Abe and I.

I offered him more oats.

Stablemen were arriving. Bill Slade appeared.

“Good mawnin’, Mistah President. How is you this mawnin’?”

A fine person, Bill Slade—from Kentucky.

I must give away that telltale hat. It cost me eightdollars. Certainly, Mary must never find it; that would mean severe hysteria.

I have been considering the purchase of a taller horse. No,Old Abe will serve me. I must shorten the stirrups. I appreciate his easygaits. Gentleness—something hard to come by these days.

Desk

William Seward—I wanted to call him Will, wanted to bridgethe gap that exists between us, a gap some three years wide. As my Secretary ofState he has assisted the government through his foreign diplomacy; as anardent anti‑slave man he has successfully blocked the Confederacy throughforeign influence. As governor of New York he left an enviable record; assenator he is above re­proach. With his friendly Irish spirit, he has favoredIrish immigration. With his eye on the presidency he has not spared me.

As friend of Jefferson Davis and his wife, I have had towork to allay suspi­cions, suspicions that have proved ungrounded. Seward’s eyeon the presidency will continue beyond my stay in the White House. He has anintense desire to improve our nation, to push on; I admire his faith in tomorrow.Unfortunately, he has not always manifested political balance. When hesuggested an all-out war with Europe, to force an amalgamation of North andSouth, I was utterly non­plussed.

Trainer of Arabian horses, owner of Arabian horses, breederof Arabians, Seward is many things. He is sixty, has white hair, slouches,swears, smokes ci­gars. When asked by an hysterical officer, when Washingtonwas threatened with invasion at the time I took office, “What shall I fireat?,” Seward responded coolly: “Fire at the crisis!”

One winter’s afternoon, Louis Agassiz drove up to the WhiteHouse, with his brilliant wife, Elizabeth. A Swiss-American, he speaks Englishwith a marked but dis­tinguished accent. We three had a long walk through theDecember garden and our conservatory, and he emphasized the value of studyingfrom nature. Bustling to his carriage, parked on the driveway, he returned withhis four-volume study, Natural History of the United States. He waspleased to present it to me—and inscribed the first volume. Elizabeth did herbest to enlighten me on scientific points since I have never studied thesciences, a brief elementary course, I might call it. I found the tworemarkable. When I can, I dip into his History.

Later, he sent his Recherches sur les poissons fossiles,this study in French. I have bequeathed it to the Library.

The visit of this pair has shown me depths that lie inEurope—depths I must explore.

Executive Mansion

1/14/64

I reviewed my Emancipation Proclamation to the best of myability. Lights were on, the house quiet. Rain streaked the windows. I wantedto re-test each word, wholly for myself. In these troubled times I must rescuesomething for myself.

Thus:

...I, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States,order and de­clare that all persons held as slaves are forever free. TheExecutive Government, including the military and naval authority, willrecognize and maintain the freedom of such persons...

I enjoin all people to abstain from violence. I evoke theconsiderate judgment of mankind...

Forever free.

Those words still ring in my mind.

As I signed, I remembered slaves, slaves in a slave depot,slaves on a barge, slaves on a Kentucky plantation; I remembered the dead andthe dying, brother against brother; I thought about pillaged homes, families inrags. I saw. I stared at the Proclamation and saw.

Now, as I sit at my desk, it seems to me that I have beenguided by experi­ence. My presidency has been justified. It seems to me, in allcalmness, in objec­tivity, I have placed a permanent seal on the ages.

Later

In Boston there have been two mammoth celebrations.Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson and politicos attended. Harriet Beecher Stowecame. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony was played.

Throughout the nation, in small towns and hamlets there wereschoolhouse ceremonies, church ceremonies, to honor the Proclamation. Hymns andprayers.

In Norfolk, two thousand former slaves paraded.

I have gone through many newspapers to read of therejoicing.

A black is quoted:

“Freedom are an unbroke filly...but I gwine to mount her.”

Hundreds of thousands of copies of my Emancipation have beenprinted and distributed.

To preserve the union.

Office

Surrounded by war I try to remember what Washington was likewhen I first came here about eighteen years ago. What a bedraggled place itwas! I stayed at Brown’s Hotel. And Washington is again a bedraggled place, ina different way now, with tents, troops, cavalry, guns, death.

In ’47, I leased my house in Springfield for $90.00 a year.This time I have leased it for double. My tenants were neglectful in ’47; Iexpect neglect again.

In the wilderness each Christmas was a day for soberthoughts. Easter was a day of inner conflict. When was time both gentle andkind? Underneath the stars on a summer’s night? Perhaps. Even then we mighthear a wildcat scream. Wild­cats were more numerous than books.

There was that winter when the cold and the snow killed manyof us, us and our livestock. Drifts hung lean-tos on our cabin. Papa shot adeer. Wolves used the crust to raid cattle. We cut wood, lugged frozen water. Afire burned day and night.

I lived ten years in that cabin.

One day, in town, I met a man who offered to sell me a barrelfor 50¢. I bought it. In the bottom, buried under straw, I found a book: Blackstone’sCom­mentaries. 1753. It was warm at the blacksmith’s and I began tostudy the com­mentaries there.

It is very late, perhaps two or three in the morning. Iforgot to wind my watch. I hear men on the street, men and horses; this citynever rests; there is weather here but I do not think of weather. The climateof dread has assumed a reality beyond all else. When you control men andcontrol armies you lack inner core.

White House

January 15, 1864

In spite of myself, I recall the meals I had as a boy, themeals when there was nothing to eat but potatoes. There were better times, whenwe had perch or cat­fish, wild pig, grouse, or venison. But, eating potatoes,here in the White House, brings to mind that struggle. Memory. How constant,how untrustworthy, how valuable. Here, my Shakespearean-aside, will, like ajuggler, toss up thoughts, three or four at a time, potatoes.

In those Illinois days I was lucky when I earned 30 cents aday, working on a farm. Walk to the farm, walk home. At dark I climbed my pegladder to the cabin loft and slept on corn husks, my grizzly bear rug notalways warm enough. Lying among the husks and the squeaky mice I puzzled,knowing that soon I must leave. I determined I must get away. Living there Ilived like an Indian, an Illinois Indian, barefooted all summer, moccasinedduring the winter. Like an Indian, I knew the meaning of silence, the dread ofsilence and its comfort. My father taught me to work but he never taught me tolove drudgery.

Some of those pioneers used to say:

“Don’t see all you see; don’t hear all you hear.”

That is sound advice. It applies here in Washington. Manyaspects of my life have assumed ridiculous proportions among these people. Thefact that I was a wrestler affronts some; that I could plow with oxen annoysothers. My humor shocks many. My lizard joke, that I thought very amusing, isnow in bad taste. If I said: “Spit against the wind and you spit in your ownface” ...well, certain politi­cians might understand and appreciate that.

I see people and more people. My office is often crowded. Iam criticized for the amount of time I devote to the public. My secretaries tryto restrain me.

I’ll do the very best I can, the very best I know how. And Imean to keep doing so to the end. If the end brings me out all right what issaid against me won’t amount to anything. If the end brings me out wrong, tenangels swearing I was right would make no difference.

People have asked me how it feels to be president, and Isometimes say, if there is an appropriate moment:

You have heard about the man tarred and feathered and riddenout of town on a rail? A man in the crowd asked him how he liked it, and hisreply was that if it wasn’t for the honor of the thing, he would much ratherwalk.

W. H.

January 20

The other night I had a dream and in that dream I observedmyself in a huge mirror; my face had two distinct images, one more or lesssuperimposed on the other, the underneath face much paler than the upper face.The dream has per­plexed me; something about it, its shadowiness maybe, seemspart of my wilder­ness life, the shadowiness of those star-roofed nights. Marywas disturbed by my dream. She interpreted it, saying that it meant that Iwould be re-elected for a second term. The pale image meant I would not finishthat term. As she talked about the dream I remembered how emphatically I feltthat I would never return to Springfield, an emotion that nearly overwhelmed meas I waved from the train.

W. H.

1864

It was only a few years ago that John Quincy Adams wasswimming in the Potomac with his son. Adams used to rise at five, to read theBible, Commen­tary, and then read the newspapers. He was about fifty-seven whenhe was President. I recall his vivid description of abolitionist Lovejoy’sprinting press tragedy, in Alton, in ’37, how the mob destroyed the man’s pressand murdered him, such a fate for a truly conscientious man! A martyr to thecause of freedom! Adams recounts preacher Joseph Cartwright’s plea for money,for $450 to buy the freedom of his own three grandchildren. What a meaningfulexemplification of slavery!

JQA—fine President!

White House

January 24, ’64

Job seekers have besieged me. It must be the new year thatsends so many. They come from every part of our nation, even the deep South.Some of the job seekers feel they have every right to storm my office; some arepitifully humble. Some bring recommendations; some have prepared a littlespeech; some have no credentials. Yesterday an elderly woman burst into tearsas she pled for a job. I helped her to sit down. I offered her a drink ofwater. I did my best to console her. In her case there seemed to be no job available;I asked her to return in a few days; I had to ask my secretary to show her out.I am resolved to permit my countrymen access to my office. I can understand mycountry through these seekers. If some are loath to leave, I can sit up laterover my important docu­ments. Of course there are not enough oats for all thesehosses.

February 2, ’64

The howitzers and the rifles and the bayonets and theammunition and the sandbags are gone from our public buildings. The invasioncrisis is forgotten. Some say that 10,000 men guard Washington, perhaps 8,000; Iam wary of sta­tistics today.

There is a hint of spring in the air today.

I stand on the steps of the White House and shout for a boyto bring me the morning paper.

How do I obtain accurate information?

I learn that two million dollars have disappeared from ournational treasury.

I learn that General Grant is seriously ill.

I learn that the Confederate forces plan to invadeWilmington tomorrow at noon.

I learn that I have assumed dictatorial powers.

I read that the Confederacy has 220,000 men under arms.

Tomorrow the Cabinet meets... I will point out some of theseitems to my Secretary of War, my Secretary of State, my Secretary of theTreasury.

February 5, 1864

I think that my strength as wrestler, ox driver, and railsplitter helps me. I channel it into my cabinet meetings, office hours,discussions, late hours. Chase, Sumner, Seward, Trumbul, Usher—each receivessome of that energy. I repeat that the dogmas of the quiet past are inadequatefor the stormy present. I re-affirm that we must act anew. We must continuallydisenthrall ourselves.

Fellow citizens...we of this Congress...ours is a mutualconcern at this time...

And at all times there is someone who wishes to enter by theback door, who has a special message or a letter of prime importance...

Some of my friends predict a final cataclysm; some believethat by wheedling we can conquer; some voice the old voice of the abolitionists;some offer a packet of new tricks; theirs is a jack-in-the-box credibility.

White House

February 8th, 1864

This morning, early, I heard a low rap-rap on my officedoor. S. O. S.

The Morse code... S. O. S.

Tad, still in his nightgown, climbed onto my lap.

Together, we figured out how many bales of hay we shouldorder for his pony, and Willie’s pony. How many bushels of grain. We decidedthat the pony’s halter should be re-adjusted, a new strap over the nose, or anew buckle. We also puzzled over what should be done about the small hole inthe new red saddle.

If these were not matters of state, we made them asimportant—until I showed Tad my pile of correspondence; then, with a wild kiss,he rushed off, banging the door.

February 18, 1864

I suppose that Willie and Tad—although strictlyforbidden—will rig another toy cannon on the roof of the White House. That flatroof is an ideal playground for those scoundrels. With their cannon in placethe boys fire invisible bullets at invisible enemy ships and troops.

How I laughed when Tad gobbled all the fresh strawberriesintended for a state dinner last June. Pranks such as that annoy the kitchenstaff—and I am blamed. They cannot possibly understand that when my boys goberserk I am relieved of war anxiety for the moment. When Willie and Tad ambushme in some room or corridor, that tumbled mass of arms and legs and heads is mymedal for the day. As we tumble, Jip growls and barks and joins in.

Their doll, Jack, a long-legged, blue-jacketed Zouave, hasbeen put on trial re­cently. Because he fell asleep while on picket duty theboys sentenced him to death, and he was to be buried under a bush in thegarden.

“Jack is pardoned. By order of the President,” I wrote, andsigned my name.

However, if I am away, Jack may be accused again and theymay destroy him.

Tad’s Birthday

Tad received a pair of snow-white kittens, toys, a woodenbox of stick candy, and then a boat ride on the Potomac. The spring afternoonwas calm and beauti­ful. Tad loved every moment—especially when the skipperallowed him to steer the sloop. He dashed about the cabin, hung over the bow,waved a flag at the stern. His grinning face is unforgettable.

Back in the White House, he became the devoted master of hiskittens. With them lying on his bed, he stuck each toy in front of a nose,saying :

“Isn’t that a nice one! Look at this little frog, kitty!”

Tad met a woman in the hall, a woman in homespun. She toldTad that her girls and boys were hungry and sick, because their father was inprison in Washington. Tad believed her; taking in every word she said he ran tome. I was at my desk; I had been hearing bad news of deserters; deserterspresent a grave problem; often there are complications that make judgmentdifficult.

Tad’s tear-streaked face shocked me, and, little by little,as he sat on my lap, as I cuddled him, we put together the woman’s story. Hekissed me and clasped me around the neck and begged me to intercede. I promisedI would.

Dashing into the hall, he knelt by the woman, and cried thatshe was to have her husband back, that her children were going to havesomething to eat.

“Papa promised,” I heard him say. “Papa promised.”

March 3rd

Many object to Tad, to his vivacity, his dashing into myoffice, throwing his arms around me, staying or dashing off. There are thosewho think I, in my of­fice, my high office, should be above love. Some of thosesame people object to my rural humor.

I carry Tad to his bed. I tell him stories. I linger, lingeruntil he falls asleep. Young as he is he knows that death is around the city. Iask his fate: shall he ex­perience an early death, live to be old and wise,remembering some of these days in Washington, some of the war stories? A fathercan ask questions.

Make a noise, Tad, dash into my office tomorrow, jump on me,kiss me.

I remember the presidential chair vilified, pilloried. I seethe grim cartoons lampooning me. A child offsets those.

Tuesday evening

This morning I visited one of the hospitals, a tent hospitalby the river. Rain was everywhere. The wounded felt it, that was easy to see. Iwent among them, shaking hands, enquiring; this was not my first visit; I knewsome of the men by name.

“Abraham,” I heard a man whisper to his cot mate.

Can a name influence a life?

Abraham—“father of a multitude.”

Through the centuries, thousands of infants have beenchristened Abraham. What has it meant? And what kind of father am I? In thedeep of the night, or during a cabinet meeting, or while playing with my sons,I ask. Which of the wounded, which of the dead, was my responsibility?

Now and then the candle beside my bed does not want to goout.

Mid-afternoon

Rain

In Springfield, Billy de Fleurville’s barbershop was myfavorite barbershop. We were friends, Billy and I. Billy is a Haitian. HisEnglish is a remarkable mix­ture of soft, sometimes incomprehensible sounds. A stableperson, he has raised a family and has been a civic influence for fifteen yearsor more. He initiated a committee that brought about a school for blacks. Heloves his rabbit paws and his jokes; while he shaves you or trims your hair, heentertains. Since Billy loves gumbo and fricasseed chicken I saw to it that hehad more than his share through the years.

At the depot, as the train pulled out for Washington, he wasthere, handing me a farewell note, to read on the train.

He writes me that tenants are taking proper care of my houseand yard.

“Filibuster has kittens,” he adds, in a postscript. “Onebrown, two yellows.”

Evening

Desk

I treasure a letter from a child named Grace Bedell. Gracewrote me :

“I have four brothers and part of them will vote for youanyway, and if you let your whiskers grow, I will try and get the rest of themto vote for you. You would look a great deal better, for your face is so thin.”

Grace’s suggestion amused me...and I might glean those twovotes! So, I let my beard grow, and Billy de Fleurville trimmed it for my inaugural.In Westfield, at the depot, my train was on a siding. While it was there Iasked the crowd:

“Is Grace Bedell here?”

She came running to the train, and I was able to hug andkiss her.

The White House

Sunday

They were good days in Springfield, our children growing,bursting with en­ergy, up to antics day in and day out. They helped andhindered boisterously, helped pitch-fork the cow’s stall, water the horse,carry in the wood for the stove; they hindered by being unreliable, offsomewhere when needed.

Iliked pulling the little ones in their red wagon, up and down our street, thekids yelping or fussing happily. It would be pleasant to be in Springfield, butnot the same, with Robert away at school. But, I would stretch my legs onto afoot­stool and lie back on the old horsehair sofa.

No, a thousand slaves are throwing up fortifications inRichmond, in Charleston, in Atlanta....fortifications to enslave moreenslavement.

Someone, in the south, has written me:

“I warn you... I will kill you before long. You aredestroying the nation. You have no right to be President...”

March 24th, 1864

Hereis another anonymous letter:

“Dear Mr. President—

“In addressing you, I am prompted by the kindestmotives. I wish to warn you of the peril you are facing if you remain inoffice. The South has strong motives for desiring your death and has resolvedto take your life in the event of your not relinquishing your office. Theblacks are dis­illusioned by your presidency. The whites can not, withoutendangering more lives, allow you to remain in the seat of government...”

So another letter, with “kindest motives,” has reached me.How many have, though both secretaries screen my mail. There is no doubt thatanonymity makes a man courageous.

April 2, 1864

Evening

The North commits atrocities. The South commits atrocities.War is, without the shadow of a doubt, a form of insanity. AsCommander-in-Chief I can order troops to attack; with the cessation of militaryactivities I can not order 50,000 men to reconstruct a devastated area. Thelegality of such an order has never been questioned, as far as I know, by anyvictorious power. Perhaps, during my second term in office, I can weigh theconsequences of such an official directive.

Think of Libby Prison, consider Andersonville. They arecollective atrocities.

Was it two years ago a man handed me two red apples at adepot in Ohio, bowing, and wishing me well?

I insist that the United States form a strictly federalcommunity, that the states are essential to its welfare as is the centralgovernment, and North must never dominate the South or the South dominate theNorth. I also insist that the Chief Executive remain as center of thegovernment. If the President uses his power justly, the people will justifyhim; if he abuses it, he is in their hands to be dealt with by all the modesthey have reserved to themselves under the constitu­tion. This is essentially apeople’s contest, I repeat. On the side of the Union it is a struggle formaintaining in the world that form and substance of government where theleading object is to elevate the condition of man...can I repeat this toooften?