"I cannot, my sweet mother,
Throw shuttle any more;
My heart is full of longing,
My spirit troubled sore,
All for a love of yesterday
A boy not seen before."
[Sappho ed. Neue XXXII. Translation from Edwin Arnold's
Poets of Greece.]
"She turned pale and asked him: 'Is that your own song?'
"'No,' said he, 'Sappho wrote it fifty years ago.'
"'Fifty years ago,' echoed Tachot musingly.
"'Love is always the same,' interrupted the poet; 'women loved centuries ago, and will love thousands of years to come, just as Sappho loved fifty years back.'
"The sick girl smiled in assent, and from that time I often heard her humming the little song as she sat at her wheel. But we carefully avoided every question, that could remind her of him she loved. In the delirium of fever, however, Bartja's name was always on her burning lips. When she recovered consciousness we told her what she had said in her delirium; then she opened her heart to me, and raising her eyes to heaven like a prophetess, exclaimed solemnly: 'I know, that I shall not die till I have seen him again.'
"A short time ago we had her carried into the temple, as she longed to worship there again. When the service was over and we were crossing the temple-court, we passed some children at play, and Tachot noticed a little girl telling something very eagerly to her companions. She told the bearers to put down the litter and call the child to her.
"'What were you saying?' she asked the little one.
"I was telling the others something about my eldest sister.'