I shall answer gladly, like the sweet nightingale, ‘I accept it for to-day, to-morrow, for all eternity!’”
“What a wonderful night it is! everything so still and silent; I do not even hear the nightingale now; she is sitting in the acacia-tree among the bunches of sweet blossoms. I can see the tops of the palm-trees in the Nile, and the moon’s reflection between them, glistening like a white swan.”
“Yes, her rays are over every living thing like silver fetters, and the whole world lies motionless beneath them like a captive woman. Happy as I feel now, yet I could not even laugh, and still less speak in a loud voice.”
“Then whisper, or sing!”
“Yes, that is the best. Give me a lyre. Thank you. Now I will lean my head on your breast, and sing you a little, quiet, peaceful song. It was written by Alkman, the Lydian, who lived in Sparta, in praise of night and her stillness. You must listen though, for this low, sweet slumber-song must only leave the lips like a gentle wind. Do not kiss me any more, please, till I have finished; then I will ask you to thank me with a kiss:
“Now o’er the drowsy earth still night prevails,
Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales,
The rugged cliffs and hollow glens;
The wild beasts slumber in their dens;
The cattle on the bill. Deep in the sea
The countless finny race and monster brood
Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee
Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood
No more with noisy hum of insect rings;
And all the feathered tribe, by gentle sleep subdued,
Roost in the glade and hang their drooping wings.”
—Translation by Colonel Mure.
“Now, dearest, where is my kiss?”
“I had forgotten it in listening, just as before I forgot to listen in kissing.”
“You are too bad. But tell me, is not my song lovely?”
“Yes, beautiful, like everything else you sing.”
“And the Greek poets write?”
“Yes, there you are right too, I admit.”
“Are there no poets in Persia?”
“How can you ask such a question? How could a nation, who despised song, pretend to any nobility of feeling?”
“But you have some very bad customs.”
“Well?”
“You take so many wives.”
“My Sappho...”
“Do not misunderstand me. I love you so much, that I have no other wish than to see you happy and be allowed to be always with you. If, by taking me for your only wife, you would outrage the laws of your country, if you would thereby expose yourself to contempt, or even blame, (for who could dare to despise my Bartja!) then take other wives; but let me have you, for myself alone, at least two, or perhaps even three years. Will you promise this, Bartja?”
“I will.”
“And then, when my time has passed, and you must yield to the customs of your country (for it will not be love that leads you to bring home a second wife), then let me be the first among your slaves. Oh! I have pictured that so delightfully to myself. When you go to war I shall set the tiara on your head, gird on the sword, and place the lance in your hand; and when you return a conqueror, I shall be the first to crown you with the wreath of victory. When you ride out to the chase, mine will be the duty of buckling on your spurs, and when you go to the banquet, of adorning and anointing you, winding the garlands of poplar and roses and twining them around your forehead and shoulders. If wounded, I will be your nurse; will never stir from your side if you are ill, and when I see you happy will retire, and feast my eyes from afar on your glory and happiness. Then perchance you will call me to your side, and your kiss will say, ‘I am content with my Sappho, I love her still.’”
“O Sappho, wert thou only my wife now!—to-day! The man who possesses such a treasure as I have in thee, will guard it carefully, but never care to seek for others which, by its side, can only show their miserable poverty. He who has once loved thee, can never love another: I know it is the custom in my country to have many wives, but this is only allowed; there is no law to enjoin it. My father had, it is true, a hundred female slaves, but only one real, true wife, our mother Kassandane.”
“And I will be your Kassandane.”
“No, my Sappho, for what you will be to me, no woman ever yet was to her husband.”
“When shall you come to fetch me?”
“As soon as I can, and am permitted to do so.”
“Then I ought to be able to wait patiently.”
“And shall I ever hear from you?”
“Oh, I shall write long, long letters, and charge every wind with loving messages for you.”
“Yes, do so, my darling; and as to the letters, give them to the messenger who will bring Nitetis tidings from Egypt from time to time.”
“Where shall I find him?”
“I will see that a man is stationed at Naukratis, to take charge of everything you send to him. All this I will settle with Melitta.”
“Yes, we can trust her, she is prudent and faithful; but I have another friend, who is dearer to me than any one else excepting you, and who loves me too better than any one else does, but you—”
“You mean your grandmother Rhodopis.”
“Yes, my faithful guardian and teacher.”
“Ah, she is a noble woman. Croesus considers her the most excellent among women, and he has studied mankind as the physicians do plants and herbs. He knows that rank poison lies hidden in some, in others healing cordials, and often says that Rhodopis is like a rose which, while fading away herself, and dropping leaf after leaf, continues to shed perfume and quickening balsam for the sick and weak, and awaits in patience the wind which at last shall waft her from us.”
“The gods grant that she may be with us for a long time yet! Dearest, will you grant me one great favor?”
“It is granted before I hear it.”
“When you take me home, do not leave Rhodopis here. She must come with us. She is so kind and loves me so fervently, that what makes me happy will make her so too, and whatever is dear to me, will seem to her worthy of being loved.”
“She shall be the first among our guests.”
“Now I am quite happy and satisfied, for I am necessary to my grandmother; she could not live without
