"I have said I would repay you."

"But that was nearly two years ago. And you go right on selling wine and buying equipment. I have heard that you added a ship last month.

Wasn't it convenient to pay me then?"

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

Theatre!

Villa Poseidon

Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria and I went swimming in the bay by the driftwood tree. It was late, the sun misty, its eye sleepy, pelicans roosting, a dolphin or two frolicking close to shore. I had been unable to forget my meeting with Charaxos, until Anaktoria, who is the best swimmer among us, grabbed me by the heels as I floated by, and towed me to the bottom. That ended my anger and irritation. I lit after her, snatching for her long hair. Arms around her, I forced her to tow me toward shore, making myself as heavy as possible.

As the four of us played on the beach, I thought: When will this happen again? Something about the late afternoon-its hammered out sun, its tempered air, its windlessness, its smell of spring-seemed unreal even as it happened. We tossed our blankets on the sand, dashed back and forth to the water's edge, splashed each other, then arranged ourselves in a circle and began combing each other's hair. We sang and laughed, comparing, whose was finest, whose was thickest.

Atthis, whose hair was shortest, bragged she could swim the farthest.

That started an argument.

"Who swam halfway round the island last year?" demanded Gyrinno.

"Who was born at sea?" said Anaktoria.

"You can tell the best swimmer by the shape of her buttocks," said Atthis. "Look at mine, how flat they are." She jumped up, to show us.

"A boy's buttocks," laughed Gyrinno.

"Here. Measure. Mine are smaller," said Anaktoria.

So we measured, laughing, fussing, pushing, our hair streaming around us-a gull on the shore padding back and forth, scolding. Atthis won, but Anaktoria had the loveliest breasts, so round, almost transparent in that evening light. I have rarely seen a girl of such grace, not the childish grace of some, but the accomplished grace of true femininity.

As the others became aware of my admiration, they became jealous and peevish, and tried to shift the praise.

They talked about my smallness, my violet hair... "your deep blue eyes"... "your melodious voice..."

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

"I thought I was homesick... But it is Mytilene I love best... My brother has a girl now. He goes to her house whenever he is not working. I saw very little of him... Life there was very dull. Family visits from door to door. The same cup of wine, the same paste of nuts and fruit, the same questions, answers, family anecdotes and jokes...

How lonesome I was!"

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

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

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

Atthis-lover of yellow ribbons, scared of the dark. To avoid going out, will invent a headache, a toothache or a stomachache. An orphan, she gets homesick for the home she never had. Prefers women to men.

Tells amusing jokes and stories. Loves laughter. Mimics. Is made jealous easily. Speaks slowly...ivory-skinned.

Gyrinno-the daughter of a wine merchant, can outdrink most men.

Worries about her figure, eats next to nothing. Uses violet perfume.

Our best dancer. Otherwise, is lazy, careless of dress and makeup.

Never reads. Wants to marry someone wealthy and entertain lavishly.

Snores.

Anaktoria-hair yellower than torchlight, soft-girl, dabbler in poetry, dreamer, lovely singer. Plays lyre and flute equally well.

Adores games, trees, flowers, swimming, archery. Wants to travel, be a priestess.

Then there are the new girls: Heptha, with copper hair... Myra, who is Turkish... Helen, a scatterbrained darling... Ah, but each is exquisite in her own way. No two are alike. I love them all.

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

Dear, foolish Kleis, who pretends she has never been a child and is yet so far from being a woman.

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

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

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

Sometimes, in the evenings, I recite my poems for friends. Sometimes, I go days, unable to write a word. They are cold days.

Shall I use eleven syllables?

A poem does not grow like a leaf, but has to be shaped. I often think of a lyric as an amphora; little by little I must mold its lines on the wheel of my mind. It is the structure, containing the song. It must be graceful, strong, so that the words and the music can flow...

The wings of the swans have drawn you toward the dark ground,

with yoke chariot bearing down from heaven...

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

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

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

I remember his eyes used to transfix me with their brown hypnosis.

He must be fifty, I think.

He had his beard trimmed and his hair curled, every morning. His robes, so elegant, so clean, were always perfumed. I seldom saw him without his doll, that bull-leaping doll of Cretan ivory, brightly painted! But his apartment was simple, tastefully furnished, elegant as his clothes. Each bath towel, I recall, bore a brilliant red octopus.

When he looked after Alcaeus and me, we ate with him every day at least one meal. Through all the years of our exile, he remained our most faithful friend. His friends were our friends. His house was ours.