When the others were gone, Alcaeus drew me aside to speak in earnest.
“Do you know that Kleis goes to Charaxos’ house?”
“That she visits your brother’s house frequently.”
“We just went by his place. She’s there now. I would know her voice anywhere.”
“I don’t like his slaves, as you know, and I don’t think they are fit company for Kleis.”
“No, no, certainly, I shall speak to her...”
“It will take more than that, I’m afraid.”
“Oh come now, Kleis must be fourteen or more. If she were my daughter, a pretty girl...” He held up a warning finger, then left.
Fourteen? No doubt he meant well, was sincere, but I resented the implication.
Have I really been lax? Is my little girl in need of direction? 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 at night. 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 were here...
Where is my frivolity? Where is my enthusiasm?
The sun’s color whitened my shutters and I threw them open on the sea and the light burnished the tiles and splashed the masks and my bed and I stared into its eye, to surprise its oracle.
I am criticized for my simple dress, my tastes. The townspeople say I should not be aloof. They say I am too aristocratic. They say my parties are too gay and exclusive. They say my wealth is insufficient. They say...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, below the surface; I must interpret the whole heart. For I know too well the inexorability of time, the disappointments that nibble one’s heels. I must offset the pain, the loss. There is no one to take my arm, there is no one to lean on. There is only my work—and my girls.
All day in the fragrant lemon forest, fallen fruit underneath the trees...all day alone. I have hated loneliness and yet I must be able to rest and get away from responsibilities, to welcome the gods of trees and 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 gods would have chosen to die. Life must be day-by-day and hour-by-hour. And I talk to myself and totally convince myself and then the mew of a gull shatters my conviction.