Searching for Sappho

by Philip Freeman

  Acceptance of male same-sex relationships varied in ancient Greece, and the same was true of same-sex relationships between women, though reactions to these are often more negative. Writers, almost all male, generally considered lesbian relations to be contrary to the natural order and beyond the bounds of proper feminine behavior. The third-century-BC writer Asclepiades captures this mood in one of his epigrams:

  The girls from Samos, Bitto and Nannion, don’t want

  to meet with Aphrodite on her own terms.

  But, Lady Cypris, they desert to other practices—and not good ones.

  Shun these fugitives from your bed.

  Archilochus, who mocked sexual relations between upper-class men, complains about women who don’t want to marry men—perhaps an acknowledgment of those who prefer other females or maybe just griping about women who want nothing to do with him. Plutarch, however, is uncondemning when he talks about the women of Sparta, presenting a type of relationship more like the man-boy pairings of Athens: “Love was so esteemed among them that girls became the erotic objects of noble women.”

  Add to this the evidence of homoerotic bonds between adolescent girls in Alcman’s earlier Maiden Songs and we may reasonably suppose that Sparta was more liberal than the rest of Greece in accepting female same-sex relationships. The noted physician Hippocrates agreed that some women by nature were drawn to other women, as did Plato in the famous parable of the original human beings—some male, some female, some both—who were split apart by Zeus for their pride and are forever trying to find their missing halves.

  The second-century-AD Greek author Lucian writes about an intriguing, though fictional, account of three women, two of whom are involved in a long-term relationship. A friend addresses one of the women, Leaena, the courtesan:

  We hear interesting things about you, Leaena. Namely that Megilla, that wealthy woman from Lesbos, is in love with you as a man is in love and that you have sexual intercourse with each other, doing I don’t know what.

  Leaena confirms the rumors and describes a party she attended with Megilla and the third woman, Demonassa. After that, Megilla and Demonassa invite her to lie between them:

  They kissed me like men, not just touching lips but with an open mouth, putting their arms around me and fondling my breasts. . . . Then Megilla removed her wig and revealed a shaven head like the manliest of athletes.

  Megilla then declares she doesn’t want to be considered as a female that evening, but as the masculine Megillus. She informs Leaena that Demonassa is her wife and they have been married for many years:

  I was born a woman like the rest of you women, but my mind and desire and everything else is that of a man.

  Leaena begins to describe to her friend the night of passion that followed, but she refrains from the details, saying they are too shameful. Lucian’s dialogue may be a male fantasy of a lesbian ménage à trois, or it might reflect some reality of same-sex marriage between women in the ancient world. If so, it seems likely that such marriages had to be hidden, as was the case with Megilla and Demonassa.

  Finally, a pair of magic spells surviving from Egypt in early Christian times provides us a rare look at everyday women, revealing their own same-sex desires. The first is from a second-century-AD papyrus that records a spell seeking to draw together two women:

  I implore you, Good Messenger, by Anubis and Hermes and all the gods below, attract and bind Sarapias, daughter of Helen, to this woman Herais, whom Thermoutharin bore. Now, now—quickly, quickly. . . . By her soul and heart attract Sarapias.

  The second example, of a darker tone, is a slightly later spell inscribed on a lead tablet:

  Root of gloomy darkness, jagged-tooth three-headed dog covered with coiling snakes, traveler in the recesses of the Underworld—Come, spirit-driver, with the Furies, savage with their stinging whips. Holy serpents, maenads, frightful maidens, come to my angry incantations. . . . By means of this corpse-demon inflame the heart, the liver, and the spirit of Gorgonia, daughter of Nilogenia, with love and affection for Sophia, whom Isara bore. . . . Burn, set on fire, inflame her soul.

  Spells like these were commonly used in the ancient world for curses and charms between men and women, but it is exceptional to discover examples of one woman imploring the gods and powers of the underworld to bind another woman to her in a passionate relationship.

  A few other Greek women write about intimate connections with their own gender, but most of what we know from a female point of view about same-sex relationships in the ancient world comes, in fact, from Sappho, our earliest and best source on the subject. Her poems of passion for other women are often fragmentary and open to interpretation, but by reading them closely, we can gain not only a better knowledge of lesbian love in Sappho’s age, but a deeper appreciation for some of the greatest poetry the human heart has ever composed.

  THE ONLY SURVIVING poem of Sappho complete from beginning to end comes by way of the Greek historian and literary critic Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who quotes the poem in full in his book on literary composition:

  Deathless Aphrodite on your dazzling throne,

  child of Zeus, weaver of snares, I pray to you,

  do not, with anguish and pain, O Lady,

  break my heart.

  But come here now, if ever in the past,

  listening, you heard my cries from afar

  and leaving your father’s golden house,

  you came to me,

  yoking your chariot. Beautiful swift sparrows

  drew you over the black earth

  with their whirling wings, down from the sky

  through the middle of the air,

  and quickly they arrived. And you, O Blessed Goddess,

  with a smile on your immortal face,

  asked what was the matter now and why

  had I called you again

  and what I wanted most of all to happen,

  me, with my crazy heart: “Who should I persuade this time

  to lead you back to her love? Who is it, Sappho,

  who has done you wrong?

  For even if she runs away, soon she will pursue.

  If she refuses gifts, she’ll be giving instead.

  And if she won’t love, she will soon enough,

  even against her will.”

  So come to me now, free me from unbearable

  pain. All my heart yearns to happen—

  make it happen. You yourself,

  be my ally.

  The poem is remarkable for a number of reasons, most notably the intensely personal interaction between Sappho and the goddess Aphrodite, but we will look at the tantalizing religious aspects of the song in the next chapter. Here we should focus on what this poem can tell us about Sappho and same-sex love.

  No two modern scholars can agree completely on the meaning and significance of the poem, but it is clear to everyone that Sappho is calling on the goddess of love to help her win over a woman she very much desires. The most obvious thing to note is that Sappho herself is part of the song. This isn’t the only poem in which the poet sings of her own longings, but it is one of the few in which she names herself, here through the voice of the goddess. Of course, it’s possible that Sappho inserted herself as a fictional character in her own poem much as Dante did in the Divine Comedy and that she invented the whole scenario of unrequited love as a poetic fiction, but it seems much more likely that the song is a genuine cry from Sappho’s own heart. And if anyone doubts the object of her desire is actually a woman, the Greek language makes it clear that the mysterious beloved is a female. Thus we are left with Sappho’s only complete poem declaring unequivocally that she herself is deeply, passionately in love with another woman.

  Sappho reveals in this poem that she isn’t new to the pain and struggles of the heart. As Aphrodite asks Sappho with a weary sigh in the fourth stanza (the original Greek is even better at conveying the humor of the passage), what is the matter now and why have you called me again to come to your
aid? Sappho deliberately portrays herself as an ever-hopeful woman with a “crazy heart” who is consistently unlucky in love, rather like a character from a modern romantic comedy.

  Fortunately for Sappho, she has a powerful ally in the goddess of love. Not only does Aphrodite agree to help, but she is going to do it in such a way that the unknown woman will beg Sappho to return. The goddess promises she will make the romance happen even against the other woman’s will. She will do this, quite simply, with magic.

  Love charms and magic spells, like the two lesbian incantations from Egypt we saw earlier, were quite common in the ancient world. They were inscribed on tablets, written on papyrus, and worn as amulets from Egypt to Britain, all in an effort to win the love of another. The ancients regarded magic and charms of all sorts very highly, and many believed wholeheartedly in their effectiveness. Homer even sings of incantations able to stanch bleeding from wounds. Spells were particularly effective, it was believed, if they used the incantatory power of repeated sounds. Like the hypnotic rhythm of a child’s lullaby, an ancient magic charm was at its best when it used carefully composed repetitive patterns.

  This is exactly what Sappho does in the sixth stanza of this poem:

  For even if she runs away, soon she will pursue.

  If she refuses gifts, she’ll be giving instead.

  And if she won’t love, she will soon enough,

  even against her will.

  Preserved in this poem may be one of the earliest examples of a Greek magic spell, predating most others by centuries. It may seem unfair that Sappho is willing to use enchantment to win the affection of a woman she loves, but in the ancient world it was an accepted practice. It’s difficult to know in any case how serious Sappho is about calling on Aphrodite to bend the will of her beloved in such a drastic way. It may be that she is simply adopting a magical formula as a demonstration of her poetic skill, but it could also be, as seems likely, that Sappho is quite sincere in using this charm to conquer the heart of the mysterious woman.

  ONE OF SAPPHO’S most striking poems is preserved in an ancient work, called On the Sublime, composed by a writer known as Longinus in the first century AD. Only the final part of the poem is missing:

  He seems to me equal to the gods,

  that man who sits opposite you

  and listens near

  to your sweet voice

  and lovely laughter. My heart

  begins to flutter in my chest.

  When I look at you even for a moment

  I can no longer speak.

  My tongue fails and a subtle

  fire races beneath my skin,

  I see nothing with my eyes

  and my ears hum.

  Sweat pours from me and a trembling

  seizes my whole body. I am greener

  than grass and it seems I am a little short

  of dying.

  But all must be endured, for even a poor man . . .

  Fortunately for us, Longinus explains why he chose to quote this particular poem. It is one of the longest and most insightful ancient commentaries on the poetry of Sappho:

  Sappho each time uses the emotions associated with the madness of love from the attendant circumstances and from the thing itself. How does she display this excellence? She does it by combining the most important and powerful feelings that accompany the emotion. . . . Aren’t you amazed how in this poem she in the same moment seeks out the soul, body, hearing, tongue, sight, and skin as though they were all something external to her, and how she both freezes and burns, is afraid and nearly dead, so that we see in her not a single emotion but many coming together? All this of course is what happens to people in love. But it is her selection, as I have said, of all the most important features and her combination of them that have produced such an amazing result.

  Readers of this poem for two thousand years have agreed with Longinus. Little else in the literature of any age captures the physical sensations of erotic love like Sappho’s description of the overwhelming passion she feels for the unnamed woman of the poem. This song is also one of the clearest examples of same-sex love in the poetry of Sappho, though some readers have tried very hard to see it as something else.

  Many leading male scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries wanted desperately to portray Sappho as a proper Victorian lady, preferably as a kind of headmistress at an ancient finishing school for young women. When confronted by such clearly homoerotic poetry as this and the previous poem, they were forced to perform all manner of interpretative contortions to maintain the image of Sappho that they had created. One ingenious solution was to declare that this poem is set at a wedding banquet and that the woman and man sitting opposite each other are bride and groom. In this scenario, Sappho’s poem becomes a wedding song in celebration of the perfectly acceptable heterosexual love between this pair. Any passion expressed by the poet who watches them is explained as the feelings of the groom toward his bride expressed through the voice of the poet.

  One of the problems with this theory is that nowhere does Sappho mention marriage, nor does she refer to a bride or groom, as she does frequently in her genuine wedding songs. The unnamed man at the beginning of the poem, in fact, disappears almost immediately. What we have instead is a setting no more defined than one in which three people, one man and two women, are sitting near each other at an unknown occasion. It may be a grand banquet or dinner party of some sort, but it could just as easily be three friends resting under a tree. There is also no good reason to suppose that we have here a tormented love triangle. Sappho never says she is jealous of the man, only that she envies him as he sits close to the woman so obviously enjoying his company. The idea that she is jealous has been colored, literally, by the word “greener” in the fourth stanza—a shade not associated with envy or jealousy in the ancient world. What is clear from this poem is that the speaker (who again we know is a woman, thanks to the gendered endings of Greek words) is overwhelmed by intense, erotic feelings.

  Anyone who has ever been madly overcome by passion will recognize the symptoms expressed so poignantly by Sappho, what the modern classical scholar Jane McIntosh Snyder so appropriately calls the “raw physicality” of the poem. First her heart begins to flutter. Sappho was not the earliest to employ this motif; Homer uses the same Greek word (ptoeo, “to flutter, fly away”) to describe the emotions of Penelope’s suitors in the Odyssey, as does Alcaeus when he says that Helen was overcome by her lover, Paris. This is not just a quaint metaphor, but a physical description of a heart set racing by passion and pounding wildly in the poet’s chest.

  From the heart, Sappho moves to her weakening tongue, which “fails” (or literally “breaks”) as she beholds the woman, using the same word that Homer does when he describes a chariot falling to pieces on the battlefield. Next comes a burning fire rushing beneath her skin, and then blindness strikes her eyes, which just a moment before were so fixed on the woman. Her ears begin to buzz like a rhombos, or bull-roarer, a musical instrument whirled around on the end of a string used as a child’s toy, but also in religious rites and, intriguingly, as a love charm. Sweat flows down her body like rain, and trembling seizes her, so that Sappho describes herself as “greener than grass” and “a little short of dying”—both phrases that may be more sexually suggestive than they first appear.

  Sappho uses the comparative form of the adjective chloros (the root of the plant pigment chlorophyll) when she says “greener than grass.” The word indeed has the meanings “green, greenish-yellow, pale” in ancient Greek, but the classical scholar Eleanor Irwin has made a strong case that in early times it meant “moist” or “wet” when used with plants. If Sappho is using it in this sense, the line could instead be translated “I am wetter than grass.” This could refer to sweat, as earlier in the stanza, but it could also mean the vaginal moisture that arises from sexual arousal.

  Immediately following this is Sappho’s statement that she is “a little short of dying,” wh
ich again could be hyperbole for being overwhelmed with passion or could refer to le petit mort (“the little death”)—a long-standing metaphor for orgasm. If this is correct, we can read the poem in a whole new way. In this most erotic of songs, Sappho gazes at the woman she loves and experiences the physical sensations of rapid pulse, breathlessness, inability to speak, hypersensitive skin, dullness of vision, humming in her ears, trembling, sexual lubrication, and finally climax. Victorian scholars would have been scandalized by such an interpretation, but it may well be true.

  A PIECE OF parchment from the sixth century AD preserves a different kind of love poem by Sappho. Like many of her songs, the beginning and end are missing, and the middle has many gaps, but we can read enough of the poem to see that it’s an emotional dialogue between Sappho and a woman as they say farewell to each other, perhaps forever:

  . . . “I honestly wish I were dead.”

  Weeping she left me

  with many tears and said this:

  “Oh, this has turned out so badly for us, Sappho.

  Truly, I leave you against my will.”

  And I answered her:

  “Be happy and go—and remember me.

  for you know how much we loved you.

  But if not, I want to remind

  you . . .

  . . . and the good times we had.

  For many crowns of violets

  and roses and . . .