Title: The Private Life of Helen of Troy (1926)
Author: John Erskine
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Title: The Private Life of Helen of Troy (1926)
Author: John Erskine
CONTENTS
I HELEN'S RETURN
II THE YOUNGER GENERATION
III THEIR ELDERS
IV DEATH AND BIRTH
V HELEN'S BEAUTY
NOTE
After Troy, Helen re-established herself in the home.
It will be seen that apart from her divine beauty and entire
frankness she was a conventional woman.
PART I
HELEN'S RETURN
I
The point of the story is that Paris gave the prize to Aphrodite,
not because she bribed him, but because she was beautiful. After
all, it was a contest in beauty, though Athena and Hera started a
discussion about wisdom and power. It was they who tried to bribe
him. They had their merits and they had arguments, but Aphrodite
was the thing itself.
Her remark, that he would some day marry Helen, interested him as a
divine experiment in prophecy. It might happen or it might not.
Very likely the goddess did not mean it as he thought; a wise man,
even though he believed the oracle, would always wait and see.
Meanwhile he did wonder what Helen looked like. He needed travel.
He might as well visit Sparta as any other place. Cassandra told
him not to, but she always did. OEnone warned him, but she was his
wife.
When he came to the house of Menelaus, the gatekeeper let him in,
and since he was a stranger they wouldn't ask his name nor his
errand till he had had food and rest. Menelaus put off a journey
he had thought of, and practised the sacrament of hospitality. But
when he found out who it was, he told Paris to make himself free in
the house, and after polite excuses went down to Crete, as he had
planned.
So they all intended well. But Paris saw Helen, face to face.
II
When the war ended in Troy, with the fall of the city, Menelaus
went looking for Helen, with a sword in his hand. He was undecided
whether to thrust the blade through her alluring bosom, or to cut
her swan-like throat. He hadn't seen her for some time. She was
waiting, as though they had appointed the hour. With a simple
gesture she bared her heart for his vengeance, and looked at him.
He looked at her. The sword embarrassed him. "Helen," he said,
"it's time we went home." They tell the story another way, too.
Menelaus was not alone, they say, when he came on Helen in that
inner room; Agamemnon was there, and others, to witness the final
justice of the long war. Several who had never seen Helen, crowded
in for a first and last look at the beauty for which they had
fought. When Menelaus saw Helen standing there, he was conscious
of his escort. Anger and strength oozed out of him, but those
sympathetic friends were at hand, to see a husband do his duty. He
raised the sword--slowly--not slowly enough. Then he heard
Agamemnon's voice.
"Your wrath might as well stop here, Menelaus; you've got your wife
back--why kill her? Priam's city is taken, Paris is dead, you have
your revenge. To kill Helen would confuse those who ask what
caused the war. Sparta had no share in the guilt; it was Paris
entirely, he came as a guest and violated your hospitality."
Menelaus understood why his brother was called the king of men.
But later in the evening he was heard to say he would have killed
Helen if Agamemnon hadn't interfered.
He had to take her to the ships for the night, with the other
prisoners, but he couldn't make up his mind in what order they
should set out. Not side by side, of course. He in front,
perhaps. That idea he gave up before they reached the street. The
emphasis on the procession seemed misplaced. He sent her on ahead
to take unprotected whatever insults the curious army might care to
hurl at her. But the men gazed in silence, or almost so. They
didn't notice him. He heard one say she looked like Aphrodite,
caught naked in the arms of Ares, when Hephaistos, her ridiculous
husband, threw a net over the lovers and called the other gods to
see her shame. A second man said he felt like the other gods on
that occasion, who expressed a willingness to change places any
time with Ares, net and all.
III
Some other men, that night when Troy was sacked, having less cause
for violence than Menelaus, showed less restraint. Ajax found
Cassandra in Athena's temple, where she served as priestess--a girl
lovely enough for Apollo to desire, but of no such beauty as
protected Helen. There, as it were in the very presence of the
goddess, he violated her, and went on to other business in the
riot. Afterwards when Athena's anger was clear enough, he admitted
he had injured the woman, but asserted that he had not desecrated
the temple, for Odysseus had already stolen away the sacred image,
and the room, therefore, if a shrine at all, was an abandoned one.
But the distinction was not likely to commend itself to the deity,
and Agamemnon announced at once that the fleet would delay its
homeward sailing until prolonged and thorough sacrifices had been
offered, due rituals of introspection and repentance, lest the
goddess should wash their sins away in cold water. Agamemnon was
tender in the matter from the moment the prizes were distributed.
Cassandra fell to him.
All day he stood by the priest while the flames were fed on the
altars, in the midst of the respectful army, and Menelaus stood
beside him--the two kings without a rival, now that Achilles was
gone. At dusk they let the offerings burn down and smoulder, the
soldiers kindled supper-fires, and the priest said the omens so far
were good.
"The sacrifices are well begun," said Agamemnon.
"For me," said Menelaus, "they are ended. It wasn't our own sins
that brought us to Troy, but as you said last evening, the sins of
others. Whatever errors we have fallen into since we arrived,
we've had reason to regret as they occurred. If anything was
overlooked, through pride or ignorance, this day of sacrifice must
have made up for it, and something more. I sail for Sparta
tomorrow."
"When I think of sailing," said Agamemnon, "I remember Aulis. Our
setting out from that harbour cost the life of my child, offered to
appease the gods. You did not object to excessive sacrifices then.
It was all for you, my brother. My quarrel with Achilles I atoned
for long ago, since I was in the wrong. But since at other times I
may have been wrong when I thought I was right, I must now satisfy
even the unsuspected angers of Zeus and Athena before this host of
mine can face wind and wave and what lies between us and our
homes."
"What you really fear," said Menelaus, "is your wife."
"Your wife is with you," said Agamemnon, "and your daughter is safe
in Sparta, no doubt looking after your affairs. We've all been
looking after them. Now I must care for my people. What I really
fear is the vengeance of Athena on every one of them, on you and
me, on the meanest that row in the ships, for the theft of her
image and the outrage to her priestess."
"Odysseus stole the image," said Menelaus, "but only because the
city couldn't be taken while the image was there. For that and for
some other measures in which he proved helpful, he should perhaps
offer many sacrifices. As to what happened to Cassandra, I look
upon it as justice, though rather crude. Paris was her brother.
The fault of Ajax was haste. She might have been his in the
partition of prizes, to take home and treat as he chose, beyond the
criticism of the gods and secure from the wrath of mankind, for he
has no wife waiting for him."
"My wife," said Agamemnon, "has caused no scandal in the family as
yet. In some respects she differs from her sister. How many men
have captured Helen, or been captured by her? Theseus, before your
time, and you of course, and Paris, and Deiphobus--and wasn't there
something between Achilles and her? Did Hector admire her, or was
it only she that thought of him? Our special philosophies,
brother, are evolved that we may live peaceably with our own past.
You are in no position, I can see, to condemn the work of Ajax.
Cherish your philosophy; you will need it."
"As I was saying," said Menelaus, "I sail for home to-morrow. I'm
sorry we part in this mood of dispute. If staying here would do
you any good, out of gratitude I'd stay. But the will of the gods
is common sense, I think--or essentially so; and if your whim for
prolonged sacrifices had really to do with religion, I should argue
that the gods who enabled us to burn up Troy, never intended us to
live here."
"You go to your fate," said Agamemnon. "I shall not see you
again."
"Another mistake on your part, I prefer to think," said Menelaus,
"and calling, I hope, for no ceremonial repentance."
Helen was sitting in the tent, motionless by the flickering lamp.
The scented flame and smoke of the tripod went up before her face,
and made him think of goddesses and altar-fires. Why was she
there? Had she been there all day? Out at the sacrifices he had
imagined her humbled among the other captives, feeling at last the
edge of retribution. She might have stood up when he came in.
"To-morrow we sail for Sparta."
"So soon?"
"Is it too soon? You prefer Troy?"
"Not now," said Helen, "and you remember I never had much
preference for places. But so many ships and men to get ready in a
day! You were longer in starting when you came--with more reason
for haste, I should have thought. Why, there must be sacrifices,
there are gods to think of, the wide dark ocean, the ghosts of so
many dead to quiet before we go."
"The dead are at peace and the gods are satisfied," said Menelaus;
"we've given the whole day to sacrificing. The ocean remains wide
and dark. Agamemnon will continue the sacrifices for that and for
some other things prayer cannot change. We have had words about it
and parted. He and the host will stay a while longer, I go home to-
morrow with my men and my captives."
With her, he meant. He didn't know how to say it. Not "with my
wife and my captives." He hadn't the courage to say "you and my
other captives."
"Menelaus," she said, "of course I shall share the journey with
you, however unwisely you undertake it. But you are wrong, and
your brother is right. Those who are conscious of wrong-doing need
time for regret and for remorse, and those of us who are conscious
of no wrong-doing, we most of all should offer sacrifices against
our pride. You have your old common sense, Menelaus, an immediate
kind of wit, but you still lack vision. If you had more vision you
would be more conventional."
"If I hear you," said Menelaus, "you are advising me not to depart
from established rules of conduct?"
"That is my advice," said Helen.
"I am overtired and my brain refuses to work," said Menelaus.
"Will you return to--whatever place you have just come from, or
shall I leave this tent to you? We start early in the morning."
IV
The wind was against them, and the men were at the oars. Menelaus
sat near the helmsman, and Helen before him, her face bare to the
wind. The rowers looked up at her, not as in anger at one who had
brought on them war and labour, but curiously at first, then with
understanding and awe, as though there were a blessing in the boat.
Menelaus watched the change in their gaze, and wondered why he had
come to Troy--and remembered why.
Helen shifted her position, for the first time in hours, and looked
in his eyes. The oarsmen looked up at him, too; they forgot to
row.
"Menelaus," she said, "you should have offered sacrifices. There
is something very strange about this boat."
"On the contrary," he replied, "the boat is perhaps the only thing
here that is beyond criticism. The wind is unfavourable, but the
men row well, except when you distract them."
"In Troy at this moment, or somewhere along the shore," she said,
"Agamemnon offers up prayers which I dare say will be effective; he
will doubtless reach home. Our own prospect seems to me uncertain.
You know my point of view--I have no love for adventure unless I
know where I'm going."
"We are going to Sparta," he said.
"I fear we are not," said Helen.
"We will hold to the course," said her husband, "and unless the
stars are disarranged in this much troubled world, we shall arrive
in Sparta in a week. That will be excellent time, don't you
think?" he asked the helmsman.
"It took us longer to reach Troy on the way out," said the
helmsman.
"When I went to Troy," said Helen, "it took only three days, but
that was an exceptional voyage."
Thereafter the rowers bent to the oars and the helmsman read the
sun and the stars. At first Helen would look at Menelaus from time
to time, serene enough, but as though she could say something if it
were worth while to do so. After many days she only sat
motionless, gazing far ahead across the sea, and the oarsmen kept
their patient eyes on her, as though she and they were faithful to
something Menelaus could not understand. He passed the time
feeling lonely, and wondering whether the water and the food would
hold out.
"Ah, there is Sparta at last," he said.
"I doubt it," said Helen.
As a matter of fact it was Egypt. Helen walked ashore on the
narrow bridge the sailors held for her, as though one always landed
in Egypt. The wind died completely. The weary men set up the
king's tent and shelters for themselves, and went to sleep.
Menelaus could not remember that he had given orders for
disembarking, but he wasn't sure and didn't like to ask.
"This famous land is more interesting than I had thought," said
Helen some weeks later. "In my afternoon walks I have met several
of the natives, and they seem to have reached here an average of
culture somewhat above our best in Sparta, don't you think?"
"Helen, you exasperate me," said Menelaus. "I'm not here to tour
the country nor to compare civilisations."
"Of course you aren't, nor I either," said Helen, "and when you are
ready to sail you have only to tell me. Meanwhile, Polydamna, the
wife of that substantial man who sold you the food for our next
voyage, is teaching me her skill in herbs and medicines--a good
skill to have in any house, and here they all seem to have it.
Unless you offer sacrifices in the next few days, I shall learn
much of what she knows."
"I will make no more sacrifices," said Menelaus. "The wind will
rise of itself."
"Then I shall learn it all before we go," said Helen.
After a fortnight or thereabouts, she saw him one day coming from
the house of Thonis, Polydamna's husband, with a small lamb under
his cloak. While he called the men to a quiet spot and sacrificed
the animal, she kept herself discreetly in the tent. Menelaus
found her there.
"Be prepared to sail to-morrow," he said, "in case a wind should
rise."
She was ready, and the wind rose, but it turned out to be only a
frail breeze, young and short-lived. As they reached the island of
Pharos it died altogether.
"Oh, well," said Menelaus, "there's a good harbour here and a
spring of fresh water. We'll put in till the wind freshens, and
fill the casks."
Helen walked ashore on the narrow bridge the men held for her, as
though one always landed in Pharos. After twenty days the food
gave out, and the men crawled along the stony shore, trying for
fish with a little cord and bare hooks. All those days Helen
walked, composed and gracious, in the smoothest paths she could
find among the rocks, or sat near the brow of one modest cliff,
watching the purple waters and the gulls and the far sky-line.
Menelaus avoided his men and wandered alone, at the other end of
the island from Helen. But she was not surprised, so far as he
could see, when he strolled up at last to her position on the
cliff.
"I'm thinking of going back to Egypt," he began. "These men need
better food than they can find here, and we could row to Canopus in
a day."
"If you are asking my advice," said Helen, "I can only follow your
own best judgment. As you say, we seem to need food."
"At times, Helen, you irritate me," said Menelaus; "any fool would
know we must go back to Egypt. I wasn't asking your advice. In
fact, I ought to have gone back long ago."
He was prepared to tell her why he hadn't gone back before, but she
annoyed him by not asking. He turned and saw three of his men, wan
and hungry, and the helmsman with them, waiting, as it seemed, to
say something unpleasant.
"Menelaus," began the helmsman, "we have followed you so long that
you must know we are faithful, but we've come to ask you now if
you've lost your wits. Do you enjoy suffering yourself, or do you
like to see us suffer? You keep us on this island to starve, while
there is food in Egypt, within one day at the oars, if we had our
strength. A few hours longer here, and we shall be too feeble to
launch the boat. Waiting for a wind, you say. But if it came now,
there's not food enough to keep us till Sparta; we can't fish as we
sail."
"I forgive your bad manners because of your hunger," said Menelaus,
"but as it usually happens in such cases, your advice comes late
and is therefore superfluous. I had already decided to return to
Egypt for supplies, and we shall start at once. Get the boat
ready. . . . Did I make myself clear? Launch the boat. . . . Oh,
you have something more to say?"
"Yes, Menelaus," replied the helmsman. "When we reach Egypt we
shall make proper sacrifices to the gods, that we may return home
in safety. We would have sacrificed at Troy, with our fellows, but
you commanded us to come away. Now that we have suffered your
punishment with you, we will obey you no longer in this matter, but
only the gods. Clearly it is the fate of none of us to see our
friends again unless we offer hecatombs to the deathless who keep
the heavens and the paths of the sea. No doubt we should have
perished before this had there not been with us our lady yonder,
your wife, to soften the anger of the gods--herself immortal in our
eyes, reverent and careful toward those above who give life or
withhold it."
"It might be well," said Menelaus, "to offer further sacrifices at
this time. I had considered that also, but there is nothing here
of any value to sacrifice. In Egypt, as you suggest, we can secure
rich offerings, and I had already resolved to do so at the earliest
convenient moment. You may now launch the boat--unless, of course,
there is something further?"
They hastened down to their fellows, and Menelaus turned toward
Helen.
"I hope you won't keep us waiting. This talk has somewhat delayed
my plans."
Thonis gave them food to store in the boat, and cattle for the
sacrifice, with bowls of dark wine. In the sight of them all
Menelaus drew the pitiless knife with certain flourishes of
irritation across the throats of the victims, and they fell gasping
to the ground. Then he turned the wine from the bowls into cups,
and poured it forth, and prayed in an incisive voice to the gods.
"O Zeus, most glorious, most great, O Athena, wise and terrible, O
all ye immortal beings! Now do your works in the light, that men
may look on justice. Punish the guilty and reward the good. Who
among us have sinned against you let them starve on the sea rocks
or drown in the waters. But those who with pure hearts have done
your will, bring us soon to our own people!"
And the wind blew them all safe and sound to Sparta.
V
"Menelaus," said Eteoneus, the old gate-keeper, "I've hoped for a
few minutes of your time ever since you came home. You've been
absent a long while, and I dare say you'll want a report of the
household."
"Nothing wrong, is there?" said Menelaus.
"Orestes has been here."
"Oh--my brother's son," said Menelaus.
"Yes," said Eteoneus, "and I might add, your wife's sister's son."
"What do you mean by that?" said Menelaus.
"I mean," said Eteoneus, "I had some doubt whether I ought to let
him in."
"It seems to me," said Menelaus, "you imply something rude about my
wife's relatives."
"To tell you the truth," said Eteoneus, "I had no idea, until you
returned, that you still counted your wife among your relatives."
"You forget yourself," said Menelaus.
"No, Menelaus," said Eteoneus, "it's an awkward subject, but we'll
have to face it. I have to, at any rate; I'm partly responsible.
When Paris came, I let him in. What happened afterwards we all
know--at least, we know the events, but some of us are at a loss to
interpret them. You entertained Paris, of course, without question
as to what he came for, and he stole your wife. Naturally you went
off for your revenge, and I may say that none of us who stayed at
home expected to see Helen again, certainly not restored to your
esteem. If you would explain the new situation to us--give us at
least a hint as to what our attitude should be toward her, it would
relieve what is at present an embarrassment to your domestics."
"You were about to speak of Orestes," said Menelaus.
"I was," said Eteoneus. "When you went away, you told me to look
after the house with peculiar vigilance, since your strongest men
were with you, and your daughter Hermione remained here, with
considerable treasure still in the vaults. Then Orestes appeared.
Perhaps I should have asked him in, like any other stranger, and
found out his errand afterward, but in your absence I couldn't take
the risk. I kept him out until he would say who he was. He may
tell you of his displeasure."
"If there's one thing I dislike," said Menelaus, "it's a family
quarrel. I hope you didn't come to words?"
"I fear we did," said Eteoneus. "He wanted to know what had come
over this house, that all virtue, even the most elementary, had
deserted it. He suggested, as I recall, that the stench of our
manners must sicken the gods. He went into some detail which I
shan't repeat; in outline, he noticed that having begun with a
comparatively excusable slip, such as the infidelity of your wife,
we had sunk at once to a point where we were no longer hospitable.
I assured him that with us, as with other civilized people, nothing
was more sacred than the rights of a guest, but that recently we
had become interested in the rights of the host, also, and that
since these had been ignored once in this house, we were a little
nervous about good-looking and anonymous young men; in these
times we felt that unusual caution on our part should not be
misinterpreted."
"I see nothing in that speech to insult him," said Menelaus.
"Well," replied the gate-keeper, "that isn't all I said. When he
made that remark about your wife, I felt that loyalty to the house
compelled me to say something. I inquired after his mother's
health."
"That's sometimes done," said Menelaus, "even among the polite."
"I mean," said the gate-keeper, "I asked him whether it wasn't more
delicate to leave your husband's roof before you betrayed him, than
to be false by his own fireside while he happened to be absent.
Orestes got the point--that's why he was angry."
"If Orestes understood you," said Menelaus, "it's more than I do."
"I suppose you haven't heard," said Eteoneus, "but all Sparta knows
the scandal. Your sister-in-law Clytemnestra--your double sister-
in-law, I might say, your wife's sister and your brother's wife--
has been living with Ęgisthus ever since Agamemnon went to Troy.
It's hardly worth while for him to come back."
"There! I never liked her!" exclaimed Menelaus. "I'm shocked but
not surprised, except for the man. Ęgisthus will regret his
daring. My brother will come back. He may not be wanted, but he
will return all the more surely for that. He has had considerable
practice recently in dealing with men who steal other people's
wives."
"What Sparta is curious about," said the gate-keeper, "is whether
he has had enough practice in dealing with Clytemnestra. She's a
formidable woman, even in her innocent moments, and she's making no
secret of her present way of life. She thinks she is justified by
something Agamemnon did. Of course she doesn't doubt, any more
than you do, that he'll return. It's thought she has a welcome
waiting."
"This is terrible!" groaned Menelaus. "But after all it may be
only gossip. Women so beautiful as those sisters pay for their
gift in the malicious rumour of envy. Really, Eteoneus, I don't
wonder that Orestes was angry."
"I don't wonder myself," said Eteoneus, "but angry or not, he
denied nothing. How could he? These rumours that spread about
beautiful women are often malicious or envious, as you say, but
they're rarely exaggerated."
"That's digression we needn't discuss," said Menelaus. "So Orestes
went home? Frankly, Eteoneus, I should like to hear his side of
this story."
"You may, easily enough," said the gate-keeper, "for he's been here
at regular intervals, and unless his habits change he's due in a
day or so."
"I thought you didn't let him in?"
"I didn't, but he never asked permission again--he just came in. I
ought to add that he came always to see Hermione, and she arranged
it somehow, I never knew just how. She doesn't like me much more
than he does."
"I can't believe anything scandalous of my daughter," said
Menelaus, "and you made a grave error in introducing the idea. I
have an impulse to question your judgment as to these other
reports. Of course I've been away a long time and she's now quite
grown up, but her character seems to me essentially unchanged.
I've always thought her propriety itself."
"So do I, so do I," said Eteoneus, "and when it comes to the
conventions, Orestes is rather strait-laced. It often happens that
way, I've noticed--the children go in for correct behaviour.
Especially when they are not so good-looking."
"My daughter is said to resemble me," said Menelaus, "and I believe
she and I understand each other. But if you agree that their
meetings were entirely proper, what on earth are you talking about?
Why didn't you let him in, in the first place? They were intended
for each other, before our family life was upset; now that we've
returned, I dare say they'll be married shortly, if they wish to
be."
"Menelaus," said Eteoneus, "it's a difficult thing to explain to
one who hasn't followed my profession. I'm a family gate-keeper,
and the sense of responsibility makes me alert to what I let in.
When I opened the gate to Paris, I had a presentiment that love was
entering, and instinct told me that the entrance of a great passion
would disturb your home. You did not feel the danger. Now
Orestes, I'm quite sure, brings with him some new ideas. If you
realised what it would mean to your house, to let in new ideas,
you'd be on your guard."
"Eteoneus," said Menelaus, "I've heard a good deal of oratory since
I left home, and though I'm no critic in such matters, I've become
sensitive to possible innuendo in the spoken word. Much of what
you have said sounds to me like diplomatic insult."
"I may have overstepped my intention," said the gate-keeper, "but I
did want to rouse you to a problem which only you can solve. We
are all loyal to you but we don't know where we stand. It used to
be that a wife who deserted her husband and children was in
disgrace, if possible was punished. You thought that way when you
sailed for Troy. We at home here have prepared all these years to
cheer your lonely grief as well as we might, if ever you came back
to your--"
"Didn't you say something like this before?" asked Menelaus. "You
repeat yourself and you wander from the subject. I thought you
wanted to give an account of the house since I left it?"
"That's just what I'm doing, Menelaus," said the old gate-keeper,
"and if I go at it in a roundabout way, it's only to be tactful.
I'm trying to say respectfully and harmlessly that there are some
dangerous new ideas abroad in your household, and I want to find
out whether you know about them and dislike them, or whether you
share them. I'm terribly afraid you share them, and if you do, I
suppose I ought to leave you, old as I am, for I'm too old to
change. The reason I suspect you've picked up some of these new
ideas is--well, when the ship was sighted we learned that you
weren't to be lonely; Helen was coming back with you. That was a
new idea, Menelaus. But we got used to it, and we rehearsed what
we thought would be respectful manners toward the repentant captive
brought home in disgrace. But she doesn't seem aware of any
disgrace, and she isn't repentant. She doesn't behave--neither do
you, in fact--as though she were a--"
"Look here, Eteoneus," said Menelaus, "I've taken all I'm going to
from you. You pretend to have household business on your mind, and
then you pretend to have damaging news of Orestes, which turns out
to be more to your discredit than his, but what you really want is
to discuss my wife's reputation. I'm home now, and I'll run the
house myself. You get out and watch the gate. . . . Here, wait a
moment! If the madness comes on you again to talk about Helen, do
it where no word of yours will reach me. You wonder why I didn't
kill her. Well, she was too beautiful. You don't resemble her in
the slightest. Be careful!"
"The gods be praised, Menelaus," said the gate-keeper, "you talk
now like your old self! May I go on with what I was about to say?"
"Finish up with Orestes, and get out," said Menelaus.
"I'll have to go back to pick up the thread," said Eteoneus. "Oh,
yes. We talked it over, of course, with the men on the ship, and
they answered as though we were demented; even to them who have
lived through Troy and its miseries, Helen seems altogether
admirable. We try to get a clue from you, but though you are at
times, if I may judge, somewhat embarrassed, and though you are
irritable now that I have ventured to raise the question, you too
seem to accept Helen as the unshaken authority and inspiration of
your home. And here's where Orestes comes in. I used to believe
Hermione looked at things in the old fashion. She was rather
pathetic, I thought, circulating stories about her absent mother,
stories which if we were deceived by them would make Helen out
quite innocent, rather a victim than--well, we'll leave it there.
I admired the daughter's loyalty, though it took a fantastic form,
and I was sure, of course, she didn't believe her own tales. But
now Orestes has put ideas into her head which once would have
troubled you. I had a talk with her one day about him--told her
what was said about Clytemnestra and Ęgisthus, and warned her
against compromising herself with that branch of the family. If
you'll believe it, she actually defended Clytemnestra. I imagine
she had the argument from Orestes. Though her aunt wasn't doing
right, she said, Agamemnon hadn't done right, either; he asked her
to send their youngest daughter, pretending he had arranged a
marriage with Achilles, and when the delighted mother got her
ready, and safe to Aulis, he killed the child as a sacrifice to the
winds, so that the fleet might sail. After that, Hermione asked,
what loyalty did Clytemnestra owe to Agamemnon? And I couldn't
think of the reply I wanted. I did say that Clytemnestra's conduct
wasn't sanctioned by religion, but sacrifice was. She laughed at
me. There you are, Menelaus! I call that dangerous. If you
hadn't changed, you'd thank me for putting you on your guard."
"Now that you've got to the point at last," said Menelaus, "I don't
mind telling you I have indeed changed. I'm not afraid of new
ideas as I once was, and as you still are. We've been away a long
time, we've seen many countries and other people, and we must have
broadened. Before I went I wasn't interested, for example, in
Egypt, but it's a remarkable country, and the people know a lot
more than we do. And we've been through the war, you should
remember. Nothing can be quite the same again. When your emotions
have been stretched in unusual directions for a protracted period,
you discover that your ideas have changed, and not necessarily for
the worse. Those who go to war seem to have more new ideas than
they who stay at home. I won't say I like these ideas of Orestes,
but they don't scare me. Before I went to Troy, if you had told me
that Achilles would give back Hector's body to be buried by his
relatives, and would stop the war for twelve days so that the
funeral would not be interrupted, I shouldn't have believed you,
but that's what he did. When Helen went off with Paris, I followed
to kill them both. Now here she is home with me again. You can't
get over it. It's the one new idea you've had in twenty years--
your surprise that my wife is at home and not in the tomb. I'm
rather surprised myself, but not so much as you are. I can't
explain it--I can only say, with you, our ideas change."
"The parallel between Hector's corpse and your wife eludes me,"
said the gate-keeper, "but I gather, Menelaus, that you think a
great deal of good has come out of the war--not for the Trojans, I
take it, not for Hector, not for Patroclus nor for Achilles, but
for you. The logic of your position, I suppose, is that your wife
did you a good turn when she ran away with another man."
"I don't know that my gate ever needed watching so much as it does
at this moment," said Menelaus. "Did you happen to favour my wife
with any of your conversation just before she left for Troy? I've
often wondered what drove her away; Paris was never the only reason
enough."
VI
"How good of you, Helen, to return my call so promptly," said
Charitas. "I was distressed that you weren't at home. Just as
soon as I heard of your unexpected return, I went over to your
house. It seemed the least a girlhood friend could do. There's so
much I want to hear. The other side of the garden is shaded--we'll
go there."
"You've changed the garden, Charitas, I shouldn't have known it,"
said Helen. "It was lovely before, but you've improved it since I
saw it last."
"Time does wonders," said Charitas. "Helen, your servant can wait
outside with the sunshade--you won't need it."
"She may stay with me," said Helen. "Adraste and I get on well
together. Come here, Adraste, I want my friend to see you--a
friend of my girlhood."
"Oh, Helen, how beautiful she is! What an amazing person you are,
to keep a beautiful girl like that in the house."
"I have no prejudice against beauty," said Helen--"why shouldn't I
have Adraste with me?"
"Well, perhaps your husband isn't susceptible, and you haven't a
son to worry about. My boy, Damastor--you remember him? Oh, of
course you don't; he was about to be born when you left for Egypt.
Damastor is handsome as Apollo, and he loves everything beautiful.
It's terrible. I've tried to bring him up well. He's an artist,
I'm afraid--my father had a second cousin who was. I've tried to
keep his mind occupied, and there are not many occasions in Sparta.
There's Hermione, of course, and I'd be ever so pleased if he took
a fancy to her. I've interested him in gardening--most of this is
his work. But I don't think it will hold him long."
"You're afraid," said Helen, "that if he saw a beautiful girl he'd
fall in love with her?"
"Well, you know what I mean," said Charitas.
"No, I don't," said Helen.
"I want him to be a credit to his bringing up, and fall in love
at the right time with the right girl," said Charitas. "You
and I know that beauty often leads to entanglements with the
inexperienced."
"It often leads to love, I believe," said Helen, "and in the
presence of great beauty all men seem to be inexperienced. There
isn't enough of it, I suppose, to get used to. You wish your boy
to be respectable--fall in love with a plain woman? Or entirely
conventional--marry one he doesn't love at all?"
"How cynical it has made you--I mean, you didn't talk this way
before you went away."
"Before I went away," said Helen, "we never mentioned the subject,
your son not yet being born, but I dare say I should have talked
the same way then. I hope so. It isn't cynical--it's merely
honest. You know as well as I that it's quite proper to marry
someone you respect but don't love. Society never will ostracise
you for it. And you know it's getting into the realm of romance
when you really lose your heart to your mate, even though he or she
isn't beautiful. That's more than respectable--it's admirable.
Something like that, I understand, you dream of for your boy."
"That doesn't quite cover my point of view," said Charitas.
"No, it doesn't quite cover mine, either," said Helen. "I ought to
add that those two formulas, love without beauty and marriage
without love, though they are respectable and conventional, are
also very dangerous. Rare as beauty is, you can't always prevent
it from coming your way, and if you see it you must love it."
"I don't know that you must," said Charitas; "some of us have
previous obligations."
"If you've never given yourself to beauty," said Helen, "there are
no previous obligations."
"Then you wouldn't try to stop a boy from falling in love with the
first beautiful girl he sees?"
"I'd try to prevent him from falling in love with any other," said
Helen, "and when the beautiful girl arrives, it's his duty to love
her. He probably will, anyway, whether or not he has contracted
obligations with the respectable and plain, and I'd rather have him
free and sincere. The way you are going at it, Charitas, you will
make your boy ashamed to love beauty, and he'll pursue it in some
treacherous, cowardly fashion. Your ambition to keep him
respectable may prevent him from being moral."
"Do you talk this way to Hermione?" said Charitas.
"I've had little opportunity to talk to her on any subject," said
Helen, "but I should say the same thing to her. I hope she will
love the most wonderful man she knows, and I'd like her to fall in
love at sight, but in any case she probably will love as fate
wills, and there's no use interfering. The ones that take advice
are heart-free."
"Would you mind Adraste's waiting at the other end of the garden?"
said Charitas. "There are one or two things I'd like to whisper to
you."
"Adraste will wait at the end of the garden," said Helen. "But now
she's gone, I must say, Charitas, I see no point in whispering. If
it's unmentionable, don't let's say it."
"Helen, it's all very well for you to be frank, but perhaps you do
harm to others. You oughtn't to say such things before the girl--
and with reference to my son; you'll put ideas into her head."
"Dear Charitas, what possible ideas of ours are new to the young,
who listen to nature? I mentioned your son only because you did,
and I wished him a happy fate. You, it seems to me, gave him a bad
character; you expressed distrust of him, and before the girl. She
hasn't lost her heart to your description. You really ought to
send him over to our house some day soon, to prove he's more of a
man than you've tried to make him. I'm curious to see the boy."
"He's been there several times recently, to see Hermione," said
Charitas. "I couldn't say it before your servant, but I'd be quite
satisfied if he cares for Hermione. No one could breathe a word
against her."
"They probably could, in some circumstances," said Helen, "unless
human nature is falling off. But I agree that she doesn't deserve
it. Does she happen to be interested in Damastor? Her father
always wanted her to marry her cousin Orestes."
"She never mentioned Orestes to me," said Charitas, "nor my son
either, I must say. She wouldn't to his mother. She's been here
quite often recently. Come to think of it, she's talked chiefly
about--"
"Go on," said Helen, "about what?"
"Why, about you. She explained it all, and I must say she took a
weight off my mind."
"You evidently expect me to understand you," said Helen, "but I'm
quite mystified. What did she explain? What was on your mind?"
"Oh, Helen, I really didn't mean to bring the subject up--not so
soon. But now I might as well go on. She explained about you and
Paris, and I was so thankful to know that you were the innocent
party."
"Innocent of what? Are we speaking of crimes? A gratifying idea!
Perhaps Hermione will explain it to her mother when I get home."
"Well, not crimes, if you prefer," said Charitas, "but I understood--
we all did--that you ran away to Troy with Paris--that he was your
lover, and you--you loved him. I confess I believed it, Helen--
your husband made the same natural mistake. And since Paris was a
prince, we thought he really was a gentleman. The moment Hermione
explained his low character, and told me of the miraculous rescue
heaven provided for you, I knew at once that you had been an
unwilling victim, first and last. We're all so glad that Menelaus
could see it too, and forgive you."
"Menelaus!" said Helen. "Well, to come back to Paris. Why does
Hermione think his character was low?"
"He stole the furniture," said Charitas.
"What?" cried Helen.
"So I learned from Hermione," said Charitas, "and he forced you to
go with him. Hermione expressed it very delicately, as a young
girl should, but I got the impression that you resisted him all the
way to Egypt, and there you were rescued. Really, Helen, it must
have been a thrilling adventure."
"Charitas," said Helen, "I'm deeply interested in my daughter's
version of my story. When did she tell you all this?"
"Most of it before you came home, some of it since. The other day
she looked in to say that since your return she had been able to
confirm several details about Egypt."
"What about Egypt?" said Helen. "You mentioned the country when I
came in this afternoon, and I didn't understand to what you
referred."
"Oh, Hermione gave me the names of the man and his wife with whom
you stayed--Thon--Thonis? Is that it? and--Oh, yes, Polydamna."
"I stayed in Egypt with Thonis and Polydamna, did I?" said Helen.
"Didn't you?" said Charitas. "Hermione says you did."
"You'd better tell me all she said," replied Helen, "and then I'll
correct anything that's wrong."
"It seems silly to be telling you, Helen--I'd rather have you tell
me what happened. But you know, we thought you just ran away with
Paris, until Hermione explained that he took you against your will,
and robbed Menelaus of some things of value, and altogether showed
himself for what he was. Then the wind blew you to Egypt instead
of Troy--I'm sure it was the gods protecting you--and there you
appealed for help, and Thonis would have killed Paris if he hadn't
been in a sense a guest, entitled to sanctuary. But he made him go
on to Troy alone, and you and the stolen things remained with
Thonis and Polydamna until your husband came for you and brought
you home. That's true, isn't it?"
"Is it Hermione's idea," said Helen, "that there was no war with
Troy?"
"Dear me, no--I mean yes," said Charitas, "the war was a deplorable
but natural blunder, she says. Your husband and his friends went
to Troy and demanded you back, and the Trojans said you weren't
there. Of course our men wouldn't believe them. The Trojans said
you were waiting for Menelaus to call for you in Egypt. That
sounded terribly facetious, especially as they didn't deny that
Paris had reached home. So there was nothing for it but to fight.
Naturally, if you had been there, as Hermione says, the Trojans
would have been glad to give you up."
"She says so, does she?" said Helen.
"Yes--to save the city; it stands to reason. But they could only
defend themselves, once they were attacked, and when the city fell
and the truth came out, it was too late. So much time lost! And
nothing for Menelaus to do, after all, but go back to Egypt and
bring you home. If I know your husband, Helen, he was irritated."
"He was," said Helen; "the voyage from Egypt was anything but
agreeable. What else did Hermione say?"
"That's all, I think--"
"Charitas, have you told these stories to any of our friends?"
"To every one I could, Helen; I knew it would make them happy to
have your reputation cleared--we're very fond of you."
"I see I shall be busy for some time," said Helen, "correcting all
this nonsense. I may as well begin with you now, Charitas. You
really didn't believe Hermione?"
"Certainly I did! It was entirely plausible, and for your sake I
wanted to believe it. I shouldn't have been much of a friend if I
hadn't done my best."
"You thought it plausible," said Helen, "that Hermione should know
the circumstances of my leaving home, when she was only a child at
the time? For my sake you wished to believe I waited twenty years
in Egypt because I couldn't come home without Menelaus' escort?
Well, let me correct your error. Menelaus and I were blown down to
Egypt on our way back. I never stayed with Thonis and Polydamna,
though they are the people who sold us food and supplies. Paris
and I made a very direct voyage to Troy; at least I enjoyed it and
it didn't seem long. I loved him dearly. He never would have
taken me away if I hadn't wanted to go. And he didn't steal the
furniture. Some pieces did disappear, I understand, in the
confusion, but they must be here somewhere in Sparta; Paris took
nothing to Troy, and Thonis certainly gave nothing back to Menelaus
on our voyage home."
"Oh, Helen, don't tell me that; I've hoped for the best!" said
Charitas. "I can't believe it as I look at you. You look so--you
won't mind the word?--so innocent! And for you to contradict the
creditable story yourself, and insist on being--on being what we
thought at first! I can't make you out at all. And I can't
understand now why you came home with Menelaus."
"Or why he came home with me," said Helen. "That is the queer part
of it. All the relatives and friends are puzzled. I'm not going
to suggest any explanation of his conduct. But he did want me to
come back; he intended to kill me, but he changed his mind. If you
want to go deeper than that into his motives, Charitas, ask him
yourself sometime when he is over here. But I can give you at once
my own explanation of myself. Thank you, dear Charitas, for saying
I look innocent. I am innocent. That is, of everything except
love. From what you said this afternoon, perhaps you think love is
a crime. Let's compromise, and say it's a great misfortune--a
misfortune one wouldn't have missed. There's every reason why we
should be frank about our misfortunes, about our faults, too, for
that matter, and certainly about the misery our faults and our
misfortunes bring on others. Now if I allowed you to believe that
shabby story about Egypt, I should be shirking the blame for all
the trouble at Troy. I was there, and I was the cause of it all;
to deny it would be to deny myself--to exist only in falsehood."
"For goodness' sake, Helen," said Charitas, "I'll go mad with your
reasoning. You want the world to know you caused the trouble at
Troy, and you want us to think you're as innocent as you look.
What's your idea of innocence?"
"Charitas, I'm not easily provoked," said Helen, "but I've a mind
at this moment to learn what is your idea of respectability. Here
we are sitting in your garden, in broad daylight; your servants and
perhaps the neighbours can see what disreputable company you keep.
Shall I go now, or not until you've heard the rest of my story?"
"Don't be sensitive, Helen--finish the story. Of course I want to
hear it. I hope for light."
"You won't get it from me," said Helen; "our experience hasn't been
of the same order, and our ideas probably won't be. But here is my
account of my innocence. I am used to having men fall in love with
me, but I never wanted them to, and I never flirted with a man in
my life. I simply existed; that was enough. And I never wished to
love. To marry--yes; I was glad to marry Menelaus, but I had some
of your prudent conviction that marriage is easier to arrange and
carry through than love is. Against my will I fell in love with
Paris. It just happened to me, and I don't consider myself
responsible. But I could be sincere--that at least was in my
choice, whatever else was fate. Since love had befallen me, I saw
it through to the end. Charitas, sincerity was the one virtue I
salvaged out of the madness, and I kept a little intelligence,
too--I had enough wit to know that the end would be bad. I was
deserting my child; what would happen to her character, growing up
alone, and with such an example? When we reached Troy, the
Trojans, I was sure, would repudiate Paris and me, else there would
be war. But as it turned out, the Trojans did nothing of the sort.
They welcomed me. When the war was going the wrong way for them,
they said more than once that it was worth it, just to have me with
them. Charitas, a woman who does a wrong she feels she cannot
help, yet expects to suffer for it, and is ready to pay the penalty
as though it were altogether her fault--such a woman, in my
opinion, is moral far above the average. By your own standards, I
think--certainly by mine--the Trojans lost their sense of moral
consequences. Hermione's story would save their reputations, but
it does less than justice to mine. I am proud of my willingness to
pay for what others suffered from my misfortune. Without that
moral clarity, I could have no peace of mind. And I think
Menelaus, like the Trojans, showed that he was ethically confused.
From the beginning of the siege, I thought our people would win,
and that Menelaus would kill me. But instead he brought me home,
as you see. Even the gods, it might be said, were delinquent, not
to annihilate me--but perhaps I'm to suffer exquisitely now through
my neglected daughter, who has grown up to have a respectable and
dishonest imagination. Had I been here, I should have taught her
to love the truth."
"Well, with the facts this way, Helen," said Charitas, "I can't
understand Menelaus any more than I can you. I'd have sworn he'd
be insane for revenge. He was always such a devoted husband."
"He was," said Helen, "he came for me with a knife or a sword or
something. I hardly noticed; it made no difference to me. I
expected it, and made no attempt to escape. I even made it easy
for him, drew my robe away from my heart--so."
"Oh, it was then he decided not to kill you? Poor man! . . .
Helen, you're impossible!"
"Why impossible, Charitas? Obvious and innocent, I think," said
Helen. "Far more moral, I claim, than the world in which I have
tried to lead a good life. If you had had my experience, and had
grown used as I have to the odd turns things take, you'd either say
that our ideas of justice have no basis in experience, or else that
our misfortunes are the work of powers above us, who use us for
their own purposes. Love, for instance. You'd better lift up your
hands to it. It's terrible as well as beautiful. It isn't what
you think it is, Charitas--it isn't just a word for a feeling we
have."
"I haven't gone into the subject so deeply as you have," said
Charitas. "No doubt you've talked this over many a time with
Paris. You haven't said much about Paris."
"I loved him," said Helen, "and he is dead. What would you like me
to say about him?"
"You don't mind my asking, do you?" said Charitas. "I wondered how
he fitted into your philosophy. You loved him enough to run away
with him, but now that he is dead you seem rather tranquil about
it. Helen, it does make you seem hard-hearted; you ought to appear
sad, anyway."
"If I tell you the truth, you'll not understand me," said Helen,
"but the truth is, it wasn't Paris I loved; I loved something he
made me think of. At first I thought I loved him--afterwards I
loved, and always shall, what I thought was Paris. First I loved
him, then I was sorry for him."
"That's what I have against romance," said Charitas, "the
disillusion afterwards."
"Ah, you've heard of it?" asked Helen.
"Yes," said Charitas, "and in your case the disillusion must have
made you feel it was an unusually bad mistake. That's why I can't
see much in your philosophy of innocence, Helen."
"If that illusion was a bad mistake, Charitas, then most marriages
are a fatal error. Please understand why I was sorry for Paris; I
felt that he too was lost in a madness, lost for something not me,
for something I made him dream of, something he would never find--
lost as I was lost. But it happens in marriage too, if you begin
with love. Many a good husband is a lost man. When it comes to
that, Charitas, how about the wives? Isn't it my turn to ask how
your own heart has weathered the years?"
"I don't think I could speak of anything so intimate, Helen, not
even to you. Besides, I've nothing to tell. My husband and I have
been entirely faithful to each other."
"But might not be," said Helen, "if there were a beautiful serving-
girl in the house. As for yourself, Charitas, do you mean you are
still in the heyday of amorous illusion, or do you feel virtuous
because you have always managed to care for other men a little
less, even, than you have cared for your husband?"
"Don't talk that way, Helen; it hurts. I confess I'm old-
fashioned. I like the old ways of men and women."
"Adraste likes them, too," said Helen. "She seems to have met a
friend at the end of your garden. He's been talking with her most
confidentially, not to say affectionately, for the last fifteen
minutes."
"Kind gods!" cried Charitas, "that's my boy Damastor! There, I
told you, Helen, I told you!"
VII
Hermione was Helen's child, but Menelaus was her father. She had
his dark hair, his black eyes, and his kind of regal bearing. She
had the manner of knowing who she was. Helen was queenly by birth,
Hermione by inheritance. She was not beautiful herself, but she
called beauty to mind, and she had an admirable character. The
world, she thought, might be set straight by intelligence and
resolution. She was disposed to do her part. She stood before
Helen now, tall and slender, much at ease, wondering why her mother
had sent for her.
"Hermione, I find certain scandalous rumours circulating about me
here in Sparta. Perhaps you can explain them."
"Which do you refer to, mother?"
"So you have heard of them. I must know their source, if possible,
in order to stop them. Scandal is always annoying, and usually it
is unnecessary."
"At times, mother, it is inevitable."
"Never," said Helen. "I've met people who thought so, but I don't
share their view. In any case, the question hardly concerns us. I
wish to get at the bottom of these stories in which I figure rather
discreditably. When did they first come to your attention?"
"I'd rather forget than talk about them, mother."
"We'll dispose of them first and forget them afterwards," said
Helen. "Since there are several of these stories, which did you
hear of first, and when?"
"There's the legend," said Hermione, "that you deserted your
husband and ran away with Paris to Troy. I first heard of it
immediately after you went."
"But that's not scandal," said Helen, "that's the truth."
"If that's not scandal, I don't know what it is."
"I see you don't," said her mother. "In scandal there's always
some falsehood, something malicious and defamatory. Scandal, to my
mind, is such a story as I heard yesterday afternoon from Charitas.
She says I never was at Troy at all. Paris carried me off, against
my will, and some valuable furniture, too. The winds blew us to
Egypt--you know the absurd tale? Well, that's what I call scandal.
What should I be doing in Egypt? And should I have gone off with
Paris if he had been a thief?"
"The furniture was missing," said Hermione, "and you must admit,
mother, Paris was the natural one to blame, since he--well, he
did--what he did."
"What did he do?" asked Helen. "You were an infant at the time;
I'd like to hear your account of the episode. Perhaps you supplied
the malicious part of the scandal. Paris didn't steal me, as you
were about to say, I was quite willing. But if he had stolen me,
I'd prefer to think he would have had no margin of interest left
for the furniture."
Hermione said nothing.
"Well?" said Helen.
"Mother, this is a terrible subject--I'd rather avoid it," said
Hermione. "It isn't a subject for a girl to be talking to her
mother about."
"What isn't?" said Helen.
"The character of the man who--who seduced you," said Hermione.
"Nobody seduced me, and I have not desired your opinion of Paris.
You were a year old when he saw you last. What I want to know is
something you may be able to tell me--how did these scandals
begin?"
"If you insist on our coming to an understanding," said Hermione,
"I think you oughtn't to turn the discussion from its natural path.
I didn't want to say anything, but if we talk of it at all, it IS a
question of Paris. Of course, when he left I had no opinion of
him, but I have one now. I don't think highly of him. He's dead--
and all that, but his conduct has seemed to me, still seems,
shocking."
"My impression is that he couldn't help it," said Helen. "You'll
admit I was in a better position to understand him. But that's not
the point. How did such a story begin? Do you know?"
"Since you are determined to find out," said Hermione, "I made up
all the stories myself."
"That's what I gathered from Charitas," said Helen. "I'm glad you
have the frankness to own it. Oh, Hermione, how could you tell
those lies? You needn't answer; it's the result of my leaving you--
you had no bringing up."
"You hurt me," cried Hermione, "you hurt me with the hard things
you say and the cool way you say them! I try to be dutiful, I call
you mother, but we don't belong to each other. If you were human
you'd know why I did what I could to save your name, to keep even a
wild chance it might be a mistake, to support at least a little
good opinion for you to return to--if you came back. Don't look at
me so--you've no right to! If I had a daughter telling me such
truth as I'm telling you, I'd feel shame--I couldn't be so shining
and serene!"
Helen continued radiant and serene. "Respectability based on
falsehood," she said. "That's what your love for me suggested.
I've seen it tried before, Hermione, you're very like your father.
Like my sister, too, I'm sorry to see. By the way, have you seen
Orestes in my absence?"
"From time to time," said Hermione--"that is, not very often."
"What if you had?" asked Helen. "It wouldn't be a crime, would
it?"
Hermione said nothing.
"You needn't blush," said Helen, "it's not your daughter speaks to
you as yet; it's only your mother, who embarrasses you with her
liking for sincerity. As a matter of fact, I've no doubt you've
seen your cousin frequently."
Hermione said nothing.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, if you have," her mother went
on; "we once planned that you should marry him, and I dare say he
likes you. I raised the question merely to examine your character
a bit further. You lacked courage about me, but I could excuse
that--you're young, and mine is an unusual case. But you ought to
have enough courage to tell the truth about your own blameless
life. You thought my reputation would be improved by those
extraordinary tales; will you tell me what your reputation can gain
by lack of frankness?"
"Orestes has been here often, I suppose," said Hermione, "but it
doesn't seem often. Perhaps that's because I'm in love with him,
as he is with me. I should have told you before, but I thought you
didn't care for him."
"I don't care for him," said Helen, "but then I don't intend to
marry him. Do you? You see the dilemma you've placed yourself in.
If you wished to marry him, yet gave him up because I disapproved,
I'd know you valued my opinion--and I'd know you weren't altogether
in love. But if you are to marry him anyway, and defer to my
opinion only by concealing your intentions, then I'm not flattered,
and I foresee no happiness in your marriage. In marriage, if
anywhere, you need the courage of your convictions, at least at the
beginning."
"You hurt me so," cried Hermione, "I'm tempted to speak plainly
enough to satisfy even you! I don't know whether it's the courage
of my convictions, or just that I'm angry, but I don't admire your
kind of courage, nor the kind of man you ran away with, nor your
ideas about scandal! I still have some impulse--I don't know why I
have it--to spare you the things you don't like but which can't be
helped. I'm not so old as you, but I don't feel very young. I've
grown up watching what you call your unusual career, and I realise
without the slightest shame that I'm more old-fashioned than you
are; I like the respectability you seem to dread, I want a lover I
can settle down with and be true to, I'm going to have an orderly
home. I'm sorry I tried to save your reputation for you, since you
prefer it the other way, but no great harm was done--none of your
friends really believed me. What I did was out of duty, I have no
reason to love you, I owe you gratitude for nothing. You never
made me happy, you never made anyone happy, not even those who
loved you--not my father nor Paris, nor any of them. Paris must
have seen--he was a fool to take you."
Hermione was a bit amazed, and on the whole gratified, at her own
indignation and spirit. She felt it was a big moment. Helen, too,
strange to say, seemed pleased.
"Now you are telling the truth," she said. "Thank heaven you are
beginning, though it's at the bottom, where we so often begin--with
unpleasant things about others. But I'd rather hear this than
those silly fabrications of yours. Correct at every point; you
have no reason to love me, and none to be grateful. As for Paris,
I've often wondered why he loved me. For the same reason, I
suspect, that your father didn't kill me, that night in Troy. I
told Paris precisely what you have said--that I had made no one
happy. I also told him that no man had made me happy--that what
promised to be immortal ecstasy would prove but a moment, brief and
elusive, that our passion would bring misery after it, that for him
it would probably bring death. With his eyes open, and I can't say
he was a fool, he chose our love. Or perhaps there was no choice.
But surely your father knew the worst when he came to find me,
sword in hand and murder in his heart. He had every right to kill
me, and I thought he would. Or perhaps I didn't think so."
Hermione was put out that her mother wasn't angry. It seemed her
turn to speak, but she couldn't get her wits together; she felt
unexpectedly exhausted. She had been standing for some time; now
she sat down on the couch beside her mother.
"Your facts are correct," Helen went on, "but some aspects of them
you are too young to understand. I ought to have made you happy--
one's child ought to be happy. But not one's lover; I deny any
obligation there. If we only knew beforehand, and accepted the
implications, that happiness is the last thing to ask of love! A
divine realisation of life, yes, an awakening to the world outside
and to the soul within--but not happiness. Hermione, I wish I
could teach you now that a man or a woman loved is simply the
occasion of a dream. The stronger the love, as we say, the clearer
and more lifelike seems the vision. To make your lover altogether
happy would be a contradiction of terms; if he's really your lover
he will see in you far more than you are, but if you prove less
than he sees, he will be unhappy."
"Don't you think you're a peculiar case?" said Hermione. "To you
love may be this uncertain kind of trouble, but to other people, as
far as I've observed them about here, it's a fairly normal,
reliable happiness. At least they don't talk as you do, they look
comfortable, and they congratulate the young who have agreed to
marry."
"My dear child," said Helen, "I am a peculiar case--everyone is who
has known love. But there's some general wisdom about the matter
which I'd share with you if I could. It's useless to try. You'll
have to learn for yourself when you fall in love."
"I am in love," said Hermione--"with Orestes."
"Yes, child, in love--but not deeply. I dare say he has never
disappointed you, as yet."
"Never!"
"The early stage," said Helen. "We have to build up the illusion
before we can be disappointed."
"I've a new light on scandal," said Hermione, "and I'll do my best
to grasp your idea of love. May I ask you a personal question? I
suppose this theory ought to apply to you as well as to the men who
loved you. Has love for you, too, always been a mistake?"
"Never a mistake," said Helen, "always an illusion."
"So when you ran off with Paris, it wasn't really Paris you loved--
as you found out later?"
"You might say that--it wasn't the real Paris."
"But you'll admit you hadn't the excuse you give me, of
inexperience," said Hermione. "You had already loved my father,
and I suppose had found out that he, too, wasn't what you wanted.
You shouldn't have been deceived a second time."
"I married your father," said Helen; "I never said I loved him.
But not to shock you and not to misrepresent myself, let me say
I've always been fond of Menelaus, and he's an impeccable husband.
Yet your argument would miss the point, even if I had been
passionate over him. I should then have to confess the same
disillusion in my love for Menelaus as in my love for Paris, but
perhaps I preferred my illusion for Paris. It's the illusion you
fall in love with. And no matter how often it occurs, no matter
how wise you are as to what the end will be, one more illusion is
welcome--for only while it lasts do we catch a vision of our best
selves. In that sense, as I understand it, love is a disease, and
incurable."
"Well, then," said Hermione, "when once a person has occasioned in
you this divine vision of yourself, you might keep the happiness if
you never saw the person again?"
"That's a profound insight," said Helen, "but to be so wise would
be inhuman."
"One other question, mother--does father think as you do?"
"I doubt it, but you never can tell," said Helen. "Your father
hasn't spoken to me at any length about his ideas of love--not for
a long time."
"I'm sure he wouldn't agree with you," said Hermione, "and neither
do I. Your praise of truth gives me courage to say I don't think
all the people I know, except you, are wrong, nor that what seems
their happiness is an illusion. For myself I want the kind of
happiness I believe they really have. I shall never understand how
you, so beautiful and so clever, with a husband you had chosen
yourself from so many splendid suitors, could throw yourself away
on that person from Asia. I've tried to imagine just what was your
state of mind when you ran off with him, but I can't."
"No, in that direction," said Helen, "you failed rather notably. I
come back to the scandal you spread. You told Charitas I went away
because I couldn't help myself--Paris took me by force."
"It seemed the kindest version."
"Oh--was there a choice of versions? What have I escaped--which
were the others?"
"Oh, what's the use, mother?" said Hermione. "I've owned up about
the stories, and since you don't like them, I'm sorry. You only
make me angry by the way you examine me. I tried to do right, but
you make me feel cheap."
"If you were trying to do right, you have no cause to feel cheap,"
said Helen. "But I suspect you were uncomfortable even at the
time; I credit you with too much intelligence to think you knew
what you were talking about."
"I knew what I was about--I was telling a lie, for your sake, and
also for the sake of the rest of us. I could have told more than
one lie; I tried to choose the best. The first I thought of
wouldn't do--I had it out of old-fashioned poetry--that situation
you get so often where the gods deceive the lover by a spell, and
he doesn't know who it is he takes in his arms, but afterward his
eyes are cleared and he knows he's been tricked. I was so
desperate at first, I thought of saying Aphrodite enchanted you, so
you thought it was Menelaus, but it turned out to be Paris. Don't
smile--I didn't waste much time on that threadbare poetry. Then I
could have said you went with Paris willingly, but that was so
obviously disreputable, and I couldn't explain it away. Besides,
it was just what people were thinking. I saw it must be Paris
taking you by force."
"Very strange, considering what I was telling you only a moment ago
about love," said Helen, "but that first idea isn't threadbare
poetry, and if you had told it I should never have called it
scandal, for it's the truth. Paris couldn't have stolen me against
my will. In a sense I went of my own accord. But in the deepest
sense the story would have been true--it was the spell."
"Now really, mother, that's too much--not that--not at this late
date!"
"Truth, Hermione, profound truth! You always think it's Menelaus
you're embracing, and it turns out to be Paris."
"I give you my word, mother, never in my life have I heard a remark
more cynical!"
"On the contrary," said Helen, "it's one of the most optimistic
remarks you will ever hear, especially coming from me. You don't
understand yet, and many who ought to know seem reluctant to tell,
but in love there's always a natural enchantment of passion to draw
us on, and when the enchantment dies as it must, there remains
behind it either a disillusion, or a beautiful reality, a
friendship, a comradeship, a harmony. This wonder behind the
passing spell I've never yet found, but I have always sought it,
and I persist in believing it may be there."
"If we all lived on your plan," said Hermione, "I don't see what
would become of people. We haven't the right to lead our own
lives--"
"If we don't lead our own life," said Helen, "we are in danger of
trying to lead someone else's."
"I mean, we're not alone in the world," said Hermione. "You can
talk me down, but I wonder you don't realise how queer your sense
of proportion looks. You take me to task because I spread a story
about you--false, I'll admit, but in the circumstances remarkably
generous and favourable. Yet you have been preaching ideas here,
with your quiet voice and those innocent eyes of yours, ideas which
would make us all wicked if we followed them. Telling a little
falsehood for a kind purpose doesn't seem to me so bad as
destroying homes and bringing on war and taking men to their
death."
"It wouldn't seem so bad," said Helen, "unless you asked what
started the destroying of homes, the war and death. You might find
that the remote cause was a little falsehood for a kind purpose.
If we all lived on my plan, you said. I have no plan, except to be
as sincere as possible. We certainly are not alone in the world,
and the first condition of living satisfactorily with the others, I
think, is to be entirely truthful with them. How can anything be
kind that is partly a lie? And you don't see what would become of
people! Well, what's becoming of them now? Ever since I returned
I've noticed how the kind ways of our fathers, the manners wise men
agreed on for each other's happiness, can be turned to very mean
uses. Charitas came over to see me at once. What could be kinder
than to welcome an old friend home? Had she any honest business in
my house if she didn't come as a friend? I've returned the call,
and I know her through and through. She told me the legends you
tried to circulate; of course she hoped they weren't true. She
hoped for the worst. What she wanted when she rushed over here
was the first bloom of the gossip, news of my most intimate
experiences, to discuss my wickedness more specifically with the
neighbours. And then, poor woman, she's never had any adventures
herself. I disappointed her. She got no news, and made it clear
that I am an entirely moral woman."
"Mother! How could you?" said Hermione.
"I won't go into the argument now," said Helen--"I'm growing tired
of myself as a theme for conversation, and it's you I wanted to
talk about. But I might leave this suggestion with you--that of
all those who went to Troy on my account, I'm the only one who
returned with an unimpaired sense of morality. If this talk has
opened your eyes in the least degree, you may watch the people
around you, and watch yourself, and you'll see what I mean. We
have the right to lead our own lives--you've the right even to
marry Orestes, though I still hope you won't. But that right
implies another--to suffer the consequences. If I'd been home to
train you properly, I shouldn't be telling you now that for
intelligent people the time for repentance is in advance. Do your
best, and if it's a mistake, hide nothing and be glad to suffer for
it. That's morality. I don't observe much of it in this
neighbourhood."
"It's only fair to remember," said Hermione, "that Charitas has
been a good friend to me in your absence. She'd be astonished if
she knew what you think of her."
"She knows now, and she is astonished," said Helen. "I consider
her a dangerous woman. Mark my words, she'll do a lot of harm.
What sort of boy is that son of hers?"
"Damastor? Oh, he's all right," said Hermione. "He hasn't his
mother's steadiness of character, but he's harmless. He's devoted
to Charitas."
"What do you mean by harmless?" asked Helen.
"Oh, he's well-behaved, sheltered and quiet, a bit young even for
his years."
"You must admire his type," said Helen.
"What, Damastor?" cried Hermione.
"His mother says he's devoted to you."
"To me? I scarcely know him! Oh, I've seen him at his mother's,
but not often. He's shown no signs of devotion, thank heaven!
I've thought of him as a mere child."
"Then he hasn't been calling on you lately?"
"Never--who told you that?"
"Charitas. She says he told her. I thought myself it wasn't so.
They're a very respectable family. No more than the normal amount
of lying, I dare say. You might do worse."
PART II
THE YOUNGER GENERATION
I
"Menelaus," said Helen, "may I have a word with you?"
"I'm busy. What do you want?"
"I want to talk with you about Hermione."
"Now, what's wrong with her?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just want to discuss her future. We haven't
given it much thought yet, and you must feel as I do that we should
plan together for the happiness of our child."
"That can wait," said Menelaus. "I've a great deal to do this
morning. The thing isn't important, anyway; Hermione isn't
unhappy."
"It's important to me, Menelaus. Hermione may not be unhappy--she
isn't, I hope--but she has been much neglected. Now that we are
home again we ought to study her, and provide the sort of life that
will develop the best in her, and give her satisfaction as she
grows older. I don't see how you can postpone the obligation a
moment longer."
"Well, I like that!" said Menelaus. "If she has been neglected,
kindly tell me who neglected her? You speak as though it were my
fault!"
"We both of us left her, though for different reasons," said Helen.
"I'll take the blame, if you like, but now we are here again, let
us repair the harm. You share that ambition, I assume. For me,
nothing is more important this morning; if you are too busy to put
your mind on it now, will you fix a time when we can talk? But you
really aren't busy, Menelaus. When I came in you were standing
there, gazing out the door."
"I wish you'd learn that a man may be profoundly occupied even
standing still and gazing out of a door. You don't half give me
credit, Helen. If I didn't think hard and often, this place
wouldn't hold together. It's perilously run down. I rather think
I'm planning well for my child if I merely keep the property in
order."
"You do manage well, Menelaus; no one appreciates it more than I.
That's why I want to talk about Hermione--it's your advice we need,
before she commits herself too far."
"Commits herself to what?"
"Well, for one thing, to a husband."
"Oh--Orestes."
"That's one possibility, I suppose," said Helen. "She thinks she's
in love with him."
"Good!" said Menelaus. "Then that's settled. Was there anything
else?"
"We haven't finished with Orestes yet," said Helen. "I don't think
it's good that she imagines herself in love with him. I doubt if
she knows what love is. She's determined to marry him."
"May I say 'good' again--since you're asking my advice? Why
shouldn't they marry? I thought we all agreed to that long ago."
"Exactly. Long ago. We've learned a good deal since. What's
experience for? Orestes is no husband for my child."
"Do you refer to our child? I like to be counted in, while my
advice is being asked. As a matter of fact, I know what you're up
to, Helen; you've made up your mind to do something or other, and
you're breaking the news to me. I've had my advice asked before.
Now please understand, once for all, that Orestes suits me, if
Hermione wants him. And I haven't heard of any rivals. Come to
think of it, you and I haven't seen him--since when? We shouldn't
recognise him if we met. Hermione knows him much better than we
do--they've been somewhat thrown together, I understand, by common
interest in absent parents. What does she report of him?"
"She reports that she's in love with him. Nothing more specific.
I certainly have no first-hand acquaintance with him, but I know
his mother and you know his father--that's the politest way to put
it; he must resemble one or the other."
"I can't say I ever liked your sister," said Menelaus, "but you
ought to be more complimentary to Agamemnon, I should think; you
often approve of his point of view--at least, you usually side with
him against me, and he's uniformly civil to you. One of your
admirers, in fact. But whatever you think of him and Clytemnestra,
it seems unfair to lay the blame on Orestes."
"Blood will tell," said Helen. "I've always considered that the
weak side of the house."
"Clytemnestra weak?" cried Menelaus. "Do you know your sister?
Long ago I told Agamemnon he was a brave man to marry her. He'll
believe me now, if ever he gets through with those bonfires of his
and comes home. The night we parted I suggested that he wasn't
eager to face his wife again. He'll remember the remark."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, I didn't like to tell you before--she's your sister--it's
one of the things I was thinking about when you came in. Eteoneus
says Clytemnestra is finished with Agamemnon--she has been living
quite openly with Ęgisthus, and she intends to have it out with my
brother when he comes back. There'll be a dreadful dispute. I'm
sorry for Ęgisthus, whichever way it ends. If I knew just where
Agamemnon is now--when you came in I was wondering how I could help
him without hanging about Clytemnestra's door-step in an awkward
way."
"She never did know how to treat a husband," said Helen, "and
though I don't care for Agamemnon, I've always felt sympathy for
him. Any man deserves a certain attitude on the part of his wife.
If it's impossible for her, she ought to leave. But I don't see
how Clytemnestra's behaviour is an argument for marrying our
daughter to her son."
"None at all," said Menelaus, "nor an argument against it. Don't
condemn Orestes before we know him. Why not send for the boy and
see what he is like? Or wait till he calls--Eteoneus says he'll be
here soon."
"How does he know that?"
"He doesn't really know it, but he says Orestes has been coming at
regular intervals, and he may be expected shortly."
"So Eteoneus has been encouraging this affair when my back was
turned?"
"You wouldn't think so, to hear him talk," said Menelaus. "He
seems to like Orestes less than you do. They've quarrelled--cursed
each other, according to our gate-keeper, and I dare say he didn't
tell me the worst. On the whole he supports your side of the
question."
"Then he probably told you some sound reasons for not approving of
Orestes. What does he say of him?"
"Since you press me," said Menelaus, "he fears that Orestes too
much resembles you--in ideas, that is."
"That's his mother in him," said Helen. "Eteoneus never understood
me. I'm sure the boy is Clytemnestra all over again; children
usually take after the parent of the other sex."
"Nonsense!" said Menelaus. "You can't account for children so
simply. Besides, that amounts to holding them responsible for
their parents, and it isn't fair. As a matter of fact, they
usually behave much more prudently."
"That's rarely a virtue on their part," said Helen. "It should be
laid to their immaturity or to improper bringing-up."
"There you go!" exclaimed Menelaus. "How are you expecting to make
a sane person believe that prudent behaviour is the result of a bad
education?"
"They shouldn't be prudent so young," said Helen, "it's a bad sign.
It's beginning at the wrong end. Youth should begin by loving
life. Prudence is a form of caution, it's a control of your
impulses--but you must have the impulses before you can control
them. Or it's a kind of foresight--but how can you have foresight
until you have accumulated some knowledge of the world? And how
can you accumulate experience if you begin by avoiding it? When
they're young they can have nothing better in them than the love of
life. Now, that's just what they haven't, and their prudence is
therefore an empty thing, in my opinion."
"From what I've heard of the young people," said Menelaus, "they've
about all the love of life we can stand. Eteoneus thinks so of
Hermione and Orestes, and I dare say he's right."
"Since when have you gone to your gate-keeper for your philosophy,
Menelaus? Eteoneus is a faithful drudge, I have always thought--
and a very ignorant man. He knows as much of life as one can
contemplate from a door-mat. I feel you are trifling with me.
Won't you be serious?"
"I am serious. I can be more so, if you really wish it. But
before we begin, may I say I didn't go to Eteoneus for anything--he
came to me. He sometimes leaves the door-mat to seek a moment of
my society, and though he's not the companion of my choice, he's
far from being a fool. But seriously--as you put it--since you
won't leave me in peace, what's all this about Hermione's bad
upbringing, and the love of life she hasn't got, and the husband
she ought to have? I'm distracted this morning, Helen, over the
news of Agamemnon, and other matters seem less important than
perhaps they are. What do you want?"
"I want your attention," said Helen, "and if I can't have it now,
I'll wait. But Hermione is in a danger, I think, from which we
could save her if we planned quickly, and since I fear she got into
this peril through my leaving her, I'll run no risk of not saving
her now. If we don't prevent it, she'll marry Orestes, and that
marriage, I'm sure, will bring her nothing but misery. She's seen
no other man of her age but Orestes and Damastor--Charitas's boy.
By contrast Orestes must seem a god. It's usually by contrast.
Some day she'll meet a real man, and be sorry she married
prematurely."
"Upon my word!" said Menelaus. "Upon--my--word!"
"What she needs is experience--experience," Helen went on, "and as
quickly as possible!"
"Oh, that's what she needs, is it?" said Menelaus. "Well, perhaps
I can arrange for some one to elope with her without marrying her,
and after a while she'll be able to pick the kind of husband she
won't want to run away from. Let's consider it settled. Have you
any one in mind for the trial flight?"
"You're not serious now, of course," said Helen. "But do you know,
that wouldn't be a bad idea, if it could be carried out. It can't,
I suppose, and it does go rather beyond what I thought of.
Besides, it wouldn't do any good, she wouldn't learn anything,
unless there were somebody she wanted to elope with, and I don't
think there is."
"On the whole, isn't that a weight off your mind?" said Menelaus.
"The way you talked, I thought she was eloping this afternoon. My
own idea of Hermione is that she's steady and sensible and
trustworthy. She's a great comfort to me. Why don't you let her
live her life, as you've lived yours?"
"Menelaus, can't you, can't you see? That's precisely what I want
for her, but it's what she'll never do. If Hermione had my
temperament, I shouldn't worry about her; I'd be sure she would
live her own life, as you say, and whether or not she made
mistakes, she wouldn't miss anything. But she's full of
convictions and prejudices--what the world expects of her, as
though the world cared--what she owes to herself, as though life
were collecting a debt--and how much does she know about the world,
or about herself? All her ideas are shallow and sentimental,
purely formal; she has picked a scheme of things out of this little
neighbourhood, and she thinks she knows the universe. Poor child!
Her heart is asleep. When she wakes up some day she may be
terrible. Clytemnestra as a girl was just that way--positive,
silly and sentimental. She married Agamemnon largely because you
married me; the double alliance seemed to her romantic. I'm sure
Hermione thinks there's something touching and pretty in marrying
her cousin and keeping the family together. I don't call her
prudent--she is blind. If she weren't so like her aunt, I
shouldn't worry. A girl without any latent force of character
might as well marry now as she wishes, find out her mistake at
leisure, and take refuge in a comfortable, self-stifling career,
like Charitas; the world's full of them, and at least they're safe.
But if I know my child she'll find out her mistake by discovering a
great passion, and she won't know what to do with it--she'll simply
be violent. It's bad for that type when the love of life gets hold
of them and they think it's too late."
"I'm not sure I understand what the love of life is," said
Menelaus. "It's a phrase you often use, and like other phrases of
yours it has a critical edge which seems to cut my way. I fancy
you refer to something you think is lacking in me. Yet I really
believe I love life as much as I ought to; I've never wanted to
die. I've loved my people, and my home. I've loved you, Helen, in
my poor way, for some time. I'm very fond of Hermione. Is there
anything I've overlooked?"
"In your own way you have loved me, I think," said Helen. "We'll
agree it's more than I deserved. But I don't thank you for it,
Menelaus. Love is something that happens to us, we can't help
ourselves, and the real passion isn't a compliment or a gift, and
it isn't a sign of generosity in the lover. Your kindness and your
patience when you haven't understood me--that's what I can thank
you for. We're not farther apart than most husbands and wives, I
dare say, and when we get to the end of our days we'll remember
chiefly how long we have been companions. But, oh, Menelaus, I
wanted Hermione to know the real thing! To have the passion and
the heart-ache when she is young, when her body and her mind are
undulled, when the ecstasy is in the senses and yet seems to be in
the soul! And then, when the body flags and grows old, to find the
ecstasy indeed in the spirit after all, their two souls melted in
that fiery happiness! Or if she missed that joy, at least to come
so near it that she'd know it could be, and she'd always think of
it with yearning and measure life by it. It must happen to some
people, Menelaus, and I wanted it for her. Those who have it never
grow old, I think, never lose courage, nor lose interest; they may
suffer, but their world remains beautiful. They can let their
heart go--it won't be chilled or dwarfed or warped."
"You are frank," said Menelaus. "I'm glad you told me--I suppose
I'm glad. I suspect it's not the younger generation you are
talking of. Well! So that's what you mean by love of life?"
"No, that is love," said Helen.
"Since we're on the subject, I might as well hear the rest of it,"
said Menelaus. "Can you give me a brief definition of whatever it
is the young people lack?"
"I meant simply, they don't love life as they should," said Helen.
"We usually pretend they do, because it would seem natural to
delight in the world before us when we are young. But they take it
very cautiously and seriously; haven't you noticed they see its
faults first of all, and are highly critical? Love of life doesn't
just happen to us, like that other love--I suppose it's an art, to
be learned by practice, after a great deal of time. When we have
learned it at last, we have probably ceased to be young. Perhaps
these children can't be expected to love what they know so little
about. They are afraid of life, afraid they won't succeed, or
won't get married, or something. When their fears are removed they
are so relieved that they settle down and never take a risk again.
That's the only way I can explain most of the people I've met."
"But why do you explain Hermione that way? So far as I can see
she'll love life if she gets a chance; till now, you'll admit,
she's had more to worry about than young people ought to have.
Even at that, though I don't pretend to be a judge of these things,
I've thought she was getting on pretty well. If she isn't,
probably Orestes will teach her--I understand he's an enterprising
young man, with the modern ideas."
"Oh, Menelaus, you don't get the point at all! Orestes is
incurably serious and dangerously resolute, with no experience,
with no gift for living, with absolutely no sense of humour. Every
one says that of him. Perhaps you think it a favourable report.
He's the kind of young person who sees the flaws in life before he
sees life, and is too conscientious not to remedy at once every
flaw he sees. He will do his duty at any cost to others; he'll
carry out what he thinks is the will of heaven even if he has to
kill somebody. Of course he would commit the murder with the
finest feelings, very reluctantly. I know that type. He's not the
man to teach Hermione--he's unteachable himself. Can't you imagine
what a wretched time he's going to have--and any woman who marries
him? Menelaus, do help me to save Hermione!"
"It's too bad we can't point to a shining example in the
neighbourhood for her guidance--unless she could be persuaded to
copy your career."
"No, I don't want her to copy my career," said Helen. "I want her
to have a far more brilliant one, a happier one, with more love in
it. She doesn't admire me, and I don't blame her. I wish she had
more of Adraste's temperament. There's a child who has the love of
life. I've trained her carefully."
"God help her!" said Menelaus. "From my point of view she's more
likely than Hermione to get into trouble."
"I should say the danger is about equal, though for different
reasons. That silly Charitas boy is besieging her, and in an
underhand way. He tells his mother it's Hermione he's in love
with. I fear Adraste takes him too seriously."
"Once in a while," said Menelaus, "your vein of thought escapes me
entirely. You don't want Hermione to fall in love, because she
hasn't the love of life. You don't want Adraste to fall in love,
because she has. Isn't anybody to fall in love?"
"For a woman," said Helen, "falling in love means falling in love
with a man. As usual, you overlook the central part of the
problem. Certainly I don't want either of these girls to give
herself to an unpromising man. Orestes and Damastor are not much
alike, except that they are both impossible. Orestes has no love
of life--Adraste would see through him in a minute. Damastor
pretends to have a love of life, but at bottom he's the coward his
mother has made him. I hope Adraste will find him out in time. I
wish Pyrrhus were here."
"Pyrrhus--Achilles' son?"
"Yes."
"What do you want with Pyrrhus?"
"I'd like him for a son-in-law," said Helen.
"Now the cat's out of the bag!" said Menelaus. "But would Hermione
like him for a husband? I suppose we'll leave her some privilege
of choice? She's a grown woman, and she never saw Pyrrhus in her
life."
"Ah, but there's always a danger she may see him, any time. Better
to see him now, before it's too late. He has it in him--all I've
been speaking of, and when Hermione sees him, she'll recognise it
without being told. Unless she's past saving, she'll lose her
heart to him."
"I've seen him often," said Menelaus, "and I didn't lose my heart.
There's nothing wonderful about Pyrrhus."
"Oh, there isn't?" said Helen. "I really thought there was. I
understood that you and Agamemnon had to ask his help after his
father died. Perhaps there was nothing wonderful about Achilles,
either. We needn't argue about terms. Pyrrhus is the kind of
miracle I want for Hermione. When I think of a passionate
excellence, of a soul alive, I think of that young man. For a good
reason, too--he was the child of a great love."
"A love-child, you mean," said Menelaus. "Something shady, as
you'd expect of Achilles. His birth was a scandal."
"It was not!"
"It certainly was!"
"It certainly wasn't!"
"Oh, very well! I dare say it looks quite edifying to you. He
masqueraded as a girl, and so got into Lycomedes' house, to be a
companion to the old man's daughters. One of them soon found
herself the mother of Pyrrhus. By all means, let's introduce him
to Hermione as soon as we can!"
"You're not fair, Menelaus! It was his own mother who tried to
bring up Achilles as a girl, because she knew he would die in
battle, and she hoped desperately to cheat fate. I don't admire
her strategy, but any one could understand it. Achilles didn't
masquerade a moment after he was old enough to realise the trick.
He never did an underhand thing. Deidamia wasn't deceived or
betrayed!"
"She certainly wasn't," said Menelaus, "but her parents were.
Those two famous young people were a wicked pair."
"You have a base heart to say so--you know better!" said Helen.
"They grew up boy and girl together, closer in their childhood than
brother and sister; when the time for love came, and the mystery
enveloped them, they drew into each other's arms as beautifully as
their hearts and their dreams had already drawn together. Achilles
loved her till he died. He left her only because you asked him to
fight for you and Agamemnon. He left her with her father
Lycomedes, who held him always in honour. She taught the little
boy to revere his absent father as a god, Achilles loved news of
his child. I don't see the trail of shame there. I see rather the
heroic youth who chose to live a short time gloriously, rather than
last out the usual prudent and meaningless years. I see the lover
who, really knowing his mate, took her, and was utterly happy
himself, as he made her happy. If the child they begot isn't a
miracle, he's nearly so--their love was miraculously perfect."
"It's my turn to say something now. Talk all you want about the
love of life," said Menelaus, "and define it so as to prove I
haven't any. But when it comes to Achilles, I knew him better than
you did. At least, that's my conviction. I've never believed the
story the army used to whisper, that you and he met in secret
during the siege."
"I never met him in my life," said Helen.
"I'm sure you didn't," said Menelaus.
"But I would have met him if it had been possible," said Helen.
"I'm sure of that too," said Menelaus. "But if you had known him
you wouldn't praise him so extravagantly. Achilles was a legend.
He bolstered up the army, and in that sense was necessary, but only
for the psychological effect. The Achilles you think you know was
a myth. Loved Deidamia all his life, did he? Why, our whole
quarrel was over that woman of his, Briseis!"
"To be sure--or you might say it was over Agamemnon's woman,
Chryseis," said Helen. "The quarrel was over the spoils, and women
figured in it, but neither was in love with his captive. You know
very well Achilles, at least, had nothing to do with Briseis. His
honour, not his heart, was offended when your brother took her
away. She loved Achilles, of course--that was inevitable."
"We're not likely to agree," said Menelaus, "and it's ancient
history now. In any case, even if Achilles had all the virtues,
why this enthusiasm over Pyrrhus? You can't marry Hermione to
Achilles, and very probably Pyrrhus will resist your kind intention
to marry her to him. He may not like us any more than I like his
family. Before you pin too many hopes to him, you should consider
that he isn't his father."
"I consider that he's the next best," said Helen. "With experience
perhaps he'll be even more remarkable. He showed the same high
spirit when Odysseus came to fetch him for you, and his mother
wouldn't let him go, to die like his father. You remember how the
boy insisted on his right to live out his fate, thinking that to be
safe in those circumstances, when you needed him, was to be
disgraced. His old grandfather was proud enough of him, and sent
him off with a blessing. You'll not deny that he finished the war
for you, and went home with a great reputation. If he didn't earn
it, how did he get it? If you and Agamemnon hadn't thought well of
what he did, you wouldn't have given him, among his other prizes,
Andromache, Hector's wife. I want Hermione to know Pyrrhus. At
least to talk with such a man, to meet him familiarly in the house
for a few days, and see for herself. After that, let her make her
choice. You're quite right--he may not care for her, but after his
visit she won't be so ignorant. Ask Pyrrhus to come here, Menelaus--
do ask him to come at once!"
"Certainly not!" said Menelaus. "He and I don't sleep under the
same roof!"
"Why not, pray?"
"I won't have him in the house, that's why not. I wonder I put up
with you--you--! I can't excuse myself for listening to your
impudence--telling me--YOU telling ME--what your ideas are of a
satisfactory love and a happy home! So far your good looks have
got you out of what you deserved--may the gods forgive themselves
for that!--but it won't be your fault if you don't go too far, even
yet. You haven't the first instincts of a decent woman! You took
me in at the beginning--this morning, I mean--with your solicitude
for your child's future. Much you care for your child's future!
Sooner or later you give yourself away--it's your love affairs, not
Hermione's, we're to plan for! Any man, old or young, mean or
noble, any at all, when the mood comes on you to make a fool of
him! You loved Achilles, and still do, dead or alive, so I'm to
invite his son here as the next best! For Hermione to see! Much
chance she'd have of seeing him! Paris--Hector--Achilles--I won't
mention the years, but can't you consider you've had your day? And
quite a day! Measure in all things; do confine your disgrace to
one generation!"
"Menelaus," said Helen, "your bad manners when you lose your temper
are nothing new, but I had no idea you were so jealous. Jealousy
is the one form of insanity which is dishonest. It begins in a
wilful perversion of the facts. If I had ever given you any cause
for jealousy, and if you had ever thought well of me, you would
have grieved over your generous but unintelligent mistake; you
wouldn't have cursed me for being myself, therefore sufficiently
cursed already. If you thought me in love with Pyrrhus, you
wouldn't be content to live with me, you wouldn't be at peace, just
to know that Pyrrhus was out of my reach; you couldn't bear to live
with me, if you thought me what you just said. You reminded me of
our years. It's too late, therefore, to improve your manners. But
I detest lying, at any age. Try to be honest with yourself,
Menelaus, and try to be as frank with me as I am with you. I will
take no insults from you--and you may understand that nothing true
is to me insulting. The details of my life are well known--largely
through my own efforts to disguise nothing. Your career, I regret
to say, is more obscure. But for this once we are going to
understand each other completely and equally. Do you wish me to
stay here as your wife, honoured and respected? There's no
question of other men for the moment--this is between you and me.
Do you want me? Or do you wish to kill me? If you really have no
use for me, I won't stay a day longer. If you'd feel better to
kill me, I'll gladly go and bring your heroic sword. You left it
in the dining-room, I think. But it's one or the other. Which do
you want?"
"I merely said I wouldn't have Pyrrhus--"
"Which do you want, Menelaus?"
"Which what?"
"It's no use, Menelaus, you'll have to answer me. I left this
house once, and I can do it again. If I leave it this time at your
own request, you can't bring me back. I'll stay on the one
condition, that you insult me no more. Do you wish me to stay?"
"The question is rather complex," said Menelaus. "May I think it
over?"
"It is complex," said Helen, "but it will be worse if you think it
over. It's best to make one simple decision and be done with it."
"If you go now," said Menelaus.
"Or if you kill me," said Helen.
"It would be very difficult," said Menelaus, "to explain it to
people. It would seem to indicate a certain indecision."
"Oh, you could explain it easily enough," said Helen. "Tell them
the truth. Truth conquers all things--or is it love? Truth to be
equally impressive. Tell them that I loved Paris and ran off with
him--deserted you--spent years in his arms--and you forgave me and
took me back. Then tell them that afterwards you knew I admired
Achilles, who was dead, and whom I had never seen--so of course you
had to put me out or kill me, to take the stain off your honour.
They'll understand you."
"I doubt if they will," said Menelaus. "Paris would, or any one
else who had intimate experience of your gift for putting a man in
the wrong, but most people, I dare say, will always think you're as
easy to live with as you look. I'd rather put the question to you.
Stay if you like, or go. If you stay, and if you won't irritate me
too much, I'll try not to say what I think."
"That won't do," said Helen, "you mustn't think it."
"I'll try," said Menelaus, "I can't do more."
"I don't want any more," said Helen. "I've learned to be
reasonable. Now let me be quite clear about the other men. I
loved Paris. That's always been understood. I respected--even
revered--Hector, but I couldn't love him. He was the finest
example I shall ever meet of a temperament I don't like. He wasn't
a joyous person--wasn't even before the war. That love of life we
were talking of--he hadn't a bit of it. Anything gloomy looked to
him like duty. He worried over any trouble he escaped. Of course
he enjoyed life more than he liked to confess. He'd say that war
was tragic, and no good would come of it, and in the same breath
he'd pray that his little boy might grow up to be a more famous
fighter than himself. As for Achilles--don't get excited now--if I
had known him, I'm sure I should have loved him, him only, forever.
We must love the best--there's no sin in love like failing to love
the best--and he was the greatest of you all. Had he been one of
my suitors, and had I known enough of life then, I should have
taken him. It's not your fault nor mine, and you will be just
enough to admit that I think of him only what the world thinks. I
hope you will do me the justice also to recognise that I want his
son, not for myself, but for my daughter."
"Will you do me the justice," said Menelaus, "to remember that I
too may have ideas of life and love? That I too, though less
remarkable than Achilles and you, have a part in the world,
important at least to me? When people marry, and one of them is
exceptionally brilliant, it's enough to ask of the obscure husband
that he be proud of his wife, helpful to her career, and loyally
keep in the background. He deserves some reward, I think."
"He does," said Helen, "and he's practically certain to get the
reward he deserves. He'll lose his wife. Poor thing, she thought
she was marrying a man, a great man, some one to be her mate, not
her slave. She probably has exaggerated his merits, as he has
hers, but she'll make believe he has them, as long as she can.
When he begins to insist that he's nobody, in comparison with her,
it's all over."
"What is?" said Menelaus.
"Their life together," said Helen.
"But suppose, speaking in the abstract," said Menelaus, "suppose
the deserted husband went after her and brought her back; that
would be an improvement, wouldn't it? She'd begin to think more of
him, wouldn't she?"
"In the abstract, yes," said Helen--"especially if he were able to
manage it all single-handed."
"My word!" said Menelaus.
"And you'll ask Pyrrhus to come at once?" said Helen.
"Not at once nor later!" said Menelaus.
"It's at once we need him," said Helen.
"He'll never set foot in my house!" said Menelaus.
"The details can be arranged at any time," said Helen. "The
important thing is to get him here soon."
II
"Hermione, my child, come here," said Menelaus. "I must ask you a
question. Sit down. Have you the love of life?"
"What's that?" said Hermione.
"Don't ask me hard questions--answer mine," said her father. "Do
you love life?"
"Oh, yes indeed!" said Hermione.
"Very well, then, do you love it enough?"
"How should I know? What is enough?"
"We will now apply the test," said Menelaus. "Do you earnestly
desire to marry Orestes?"
"Yes, I do," said Hermione.
"That answers it. You haven't the love of life."
"I don't see how that proves it," said Hermione.
"Nor I," said Menelaus, "but it proves it to your mother, who knows
more than we do about such matters. I hope you will conduct
yourself accordingly."
"Father, I wish you wouldn't tease me about what I consider--any
one would consider--a serious thing!"
"Just to what do you refer?" said Menelaus.
"To marriage, of course!"
"That is serious," said her father, "but I hadn't got to that yet.
I was finding out whether you had the love of life, because if you
have it, you may marry any time, even if it's the wrong man, but if
you haven't, you must postpone the wedding, even if it's the right
one."
"I wish you'd tell me what you are talking about," said Hermione.
"All in good season," said Menelaus. "I must first ask you another
question or two. Is there any one you would like to elope with?"
"I don't want to elope! I want to marry Orestes."
"Hasty again," said Menelaus. "You should elope first. Your
mother says you should, though she fears you won't."
"My mother wants me to elope?" said Hermione. "Why?"
"I believe the idea is that sooner or later one elopes, and your
mother, having tried it later, thinks it had better be sooner.
Enough of that. Would you like to see Pyrrhus for a few days?"
"Who's Pyrrhus?"
"You know--Achilles' son."
"Why should I want to see him for a few days?"
"It would be good for you--for your acquaintance with the world at
large. Pyrrhus is the cure for your sheltered life. If our high
opinion of you is justified, you would fall in love with him."
"I'm already in love with Orestes, father!"
"Then you might elope with Pyrrhus, discover your mistake, and
marry Orestes afterwards."
"I don't think this is funny," said Hermione. "I'm rather hurt.
May I go?"
"No, daughter, you mayn't. Come back here and sit down again.
Help me to collect my wits. I've been talking with your mother
about you and Orestes, and I'm rather worried. She fears he isn't
the right one for you, after all, and I dare say we ought to think
the matter over. Your mother's ideas she'll probably lay before
you herself; I've merely sketched them in outline. For myself, I
approve of Orestes, and you and I understand each other well enough
to discuss him without reserve, and I hope, without excitement.
Tell me what sort of a man he's grown to be."
"He's rather tall--really very good-looking," said Hermione, "and
he has a winning personality. I don't think it's my partiality--
I'm sure you'll like him."
"Of course," said Menelaus. "Leave his charms and come to his
virtues. What sort of temperament has he--character, and all
that?"
"He's very thoughtful," said Hermione, "if anything, a bit too
serious, but it's what you'd call a good fault. He's much more
introspective than you'd expect a young man to be, and he has a
profound sense of duty. I feel quite frivolous when I'm with him.
He's much too good for me."
"I doubt that last statement," said Menelaus. "See here, Hermione,
that account of him is all very well for me, but don't give it to
your mother. You'd better describe his wilder side when you talk
to her--his faults. What are some of his worst?"
"He hasn't--well, I won't say he hasn't any, since every human
being has some, but he's so kind and considerate to me, so devoted
to his parents, so careful to guard my reputation and his own, that
I don't see where you could find a bad fault in him."
"He's clearly a remarkable youth," said Menelaus, "but I can tell
you now, your mother will never approve of him. You must choose
eventually between your mother and Orestes."
"I choose Orestes now," said Hermione.
"I'll stand by you," said Menelaus, "but I'm not sure your mother
won't have her way. Did I understand that he's devoted to his
parents?"
"He worships his father," said Hermione.
"How does he feel about his mother?"
"You've heard about it, then," said Hermione. "I didn't know the
story had got about, and I preferred not to be the first to tell
it. Of course he grieves over his mother's conduct, but she is his
mother, after all, and Agamemnon hasn't treated her too well.
Orestes is terribly unhappy. I've advised him at every stage--he
has no one else to consult."
"What's the matter with his sister--what's her name--Electra?"
asked Menelaus.
"He can't see her," said Hermione. "She's at home, in a very
dangerous position, hoping to warn her father, or help him, when he
gets back. She hurried Orestes out of the way as soon as Ęgisthus
became the head of the house; she said Ęgisthus wouldn't let him
grow up to take revenge. That's why he's leading such an unsettled
life; he's hiding, yet watching for the moment his father will
return and need him."
"How long has all this been going on, Hermione?"
"Oh, several years. Just when Clytemnestra began to care for
Ęgisthus, nobody knows, of course, but they've been talked of for a
long time, and about three years ago, I should say, she introduced
him to every one as her true husband. That's when he openly took
possession of Agamemnon's property, and Electra got Orestes safely
out of the way. He came and asked me what to do. Our old gate-
keeper wouldn't let him in."
"I understand that the visit, and other visits, took place,
nevertheless," said Menelaus. "Eteoneus regrets the unpleasantness.
But I ought to tell you, if you don't know it, that Orestes didn't
make a good impression on the gate-keeper. In fact, your cousin
isn't popular here. How do you explain it? You don't want to
marry a man who can't get on with people. When your mother
criticised him I stood up for him, naturally; she's no judge of
men. But I had in mind all the while the opinion of Eteoneus, and
the old fellow is rather shrewd. Understand me, Hermione, I'm not
against Orestes, but you ought to look at the thing from every
point of view."
"The trouble with Eteoneus, father, is his age. He thinks he can
settle the affairs of the universe, and he has seen no more of the
world than has come through your door. He lives on gossip--he was
whispering about Clytemnestra before Orestes told me a word about
it. How can he take the point of view of young people brought up
as Orestes and I have been?"
"I wish you would tell me how you've been brought up," said
Menelaus; "it might perhaps reassure your mother."
"I mean, we've been thrown on our own resources, and we know our
own minds. It's too late in the day to lead us by the hand. Our
elders have made a mess of things; we're the true conservatives.
How could Eteoneus, with his head full of etiquette, lighten the
burden Orestes is carrying?"
"There's something in that," said Menelaus, "but you haven't
answered the whole question. Even if we grant that Orestes is in
trouble not of his making, and that he knows his own mind, he still
may be the wrong husband for you. How's it all going to come out?
How am I to arrange the wedding for you? I can't have anything to
do with Ęgisthus, and I wouldn't be found in the same town with
Clytemnestra. We'll have to wait till Agamemnon comes home and
puts his house in order; then we can see what's left. In the
meantime, hadn't you better postpone making up your mind about
Orestes? Oh, yes, I know, you're in love with him--no objection to
that--but don't do anything hasty. I don't let Helen's prejudices
influence me, but the more I think of Orestes, the more I wish he
belonged to another family. You must be happy, if your mother and
I can assure it. And I'll confess I'd like to recover thoroughly
before we take on another quarrel."
"See here, father, how did you and mother come to have this
obsession about marrying me off? In the five years before you two
got back, I hadn't thought so much about marriage as you've made me
think in the last few days. My mind was on you and her, and on
your troubles and I was concerned for the family reputation; I had
Orestes and his difficulties to worry over, and what sort of advice
I ought to give him. Really, I haven't thought of myself at all.
In a general way I knew I should marry Orestes, sometime in the
future, when all these other things were completely straightened
out; meanwhile he was my best friend, my one companion. We are
made for each other, I believe. When mother asked me if I loved
him, I said yes, and I told her I expected to marry him. It made
me feel rather brazen to say it right out, but she was insistent.
I felt in my bones she wouldn't approve of him; of course, he
entirely disapproves of her. But I certainly was surprised when
she scolded me for not telling her more bluntly what my plans were.
Have you heard her talk on the virtue of being perfectly frank?
But I must say, father, you are now almost as difficult as she; you
ask me whether I have the love of life, and other facetious
questions, and then you abruptly turn serious and advise me to
think it over and not marry Orestes in haste. What made you think
I was going to marry him in haste? Won't you tell me frankly, as
mother would say, what you really want of me? Don't you wish me to
marry any one at all? Very well, I won't, if you need me at home.
I dare say Orestes won't be able to think of matrimony for some
time. Or are you hard on Orestes just because his parents aren't
happy together? I naturally can't see any justice in that
reasoning."
"To tell you the truth," said Menelaus, "I hadn't thought much
myself about your marrying--perhaps not nearly enough--until Helen
talked to me about it; we expected you to marry Orestes sooner or
later, but meanwhile I was glad of you here--your being in the
house makes it very pleasant for me. On the other hand, I dare say
you are old enough to have a home of your own and lead your own
life; it's easy for your mother and me to forget where the years
have gone, and to think you still a child. So I certainly do want
you to marry. I haven't a thing against Orestes--nothing whatever,
and strictly speaking I don't blame him for his parents. But
Clytemnestra does spoil it all for me, I must say. I wish you
could find a safe young man whose mother isn't too good-looking."
"It's no use, father, I simply won't marry Damastor!"
"Well, who wants you to?"
"Mother suggested it, and I gather from your last words that you
agree."
"Your mother wants you to marry Damastor?"
"Now, I won't say that, father--she suggested him, and said I might
do worse, but I doubt if she likes him, and I thought her tone
rather satiric. I don't know mother well enough to get all her
meanings."
"I don't either," said Menelaus, "but of one meaning I'm sure--it
isn't Damastor she means you to marry!"
"Who, then?"
"She'll tell you in her own way. Remember to be completely
surprised when she comes out with it. But just to provide against
a shock, I'll drop the hint now--she intends to marry you to
Pyrrhus."
"But I don't know the man! I don't want him! He probably doesn't
want me!"
"It's curious," said Menelaus, "but those very ideas occurred to me
when she proposed it."
"Then why does she persist in so crazy a scheme?"
"Better ask why she schemes at all," said Menelaus. "I rather
think your mother is getting old. She doesn't look it, I'll admit,
but she's in her forties and been through a great deal. All this
talk about the love of life's a bad sign. The same way with this
match-making. You'd think marriage would be an exhausted adventure
for her. It is; that's why she begins to arrange marriages for
others. When we are finished playing leading parts ourselves, we
try to play God and control the new actors. It's a gesture of
farewell."
"Is Pyrrhus good-looking?" asked Hermione.
"Very," said Menelaus.
"I wouldn't be too sure about the gesture of farewell," said
Hermione. "If mother happened to like him, I should say her youth
is not beyond recovery."
"You've thought of that too?"
"What too, father?"
"I mean, you think she may be in love with Pyrrhus?"
"Oh, I know only what you've told me, but I don't agree that mother
is growing old. Quite the reverse. She's so--what shall I call
it?--she's so vital, she makes me feel, after a talk with her, as
though I had been keeping up with some one who had wings."
"I won't have Pyrrhus here, that's all there is to it," said
Menelaus. "Later it may be safe, but as you say--"
"That's not what I meant, exactly," said Hermione. "She's a
difficult person to talk about accurately. About my marriage, now,
I really think she's very serious. I really believe she's sincere.
But she can't possibly suspect the effect she has on some people.
I suppose I've seen her weaknesses too clearly to come under the
spell, but on the other hand I'm glad I can feel her earnestness.
In fact, mother's too earnest. The whole trouble is her lack of
humour. You have it, and thank heaven I've inherited a little, but
she hasn't any."
"Isn't that good!" said Menelaus. "I wish I'd thought of that when
she was having it out with the younger generation. Hermione,
that's the absolute truth--she's terribly in earnest, and since she
has no sense of humour, she's always liable to be earnest in the
wrong direction."
"And she's so energetic," said Hermione. "If she got me once
married, I wonder what she'd give her attention to next. I don't
see how a person who looks so serene, even placid at times, can be
such a miracle of energy. This frankness she's always talking of
is just an excuse to start something. I begin to understand now
what the old stories mean when they speak of a devastating beauty."
"Yes, that's your mother," said Menelaus. "I suppose it's a gift.
I dare say I waste time blaming her for it."
"But at least she ought to know herself better by this time," said
Hermione. "She ought to make allowance for the way the susceptible
will admire her and imitate her. When you've conceded all you can,
you can't excuse her entirely for misleading the innocent and the
unsuspecting."
"Oh, come, that's a trifle strong," said Menelaus. "She doesn't
mislead you, who I suppose are innocent, and no one who knows her
seems to be unsuspecting. Every one, from the family gate-keeper
to the neighbouring gossips, seems to hope for the worst. Besides,
the curious thing is she has had her triumphs most often with the
sophisticated. At least they've been married. Paris wasn't
innocent nor unsuspecting."
"I was thinking of Adraste, that girl she's so fond of," said
Hermione. "I don't care for the type, but she certainly is devoted
to my mother, and I rather think she'll imitate all her faults."
"What is Adraste's type?" said Menelaus. "Every once in a while
you talk like your mother--you refer to some private notion of your
own as though it were an axiom any but a fool would know. I don't
know what types there are, nor which one is Adraste."
"Oh, she has what mother would call the love of life, I suppose,"
said Hermione. "In plain words, she seems to me--it isn't a nice
thing to say of a girl, but I think she is rather passionate. You
know what I mean--the unpleasant sense. If there were a man about
and she were in love with him, I dare say she'd say yes after
almost no courtship at all."
"Any man?" asked Menelaus. "Or is there a particular one?"
"Any one would do, I think," said Hermione. "Please understand I'm
not saying anything against her. In fact I don't blame her--it's
all mother's fault. If mother had taught her to control herself,
to wait properly for love to come into one's life, not to be
violent and unmaidenly! But from some remarks Adraste has dropped
in my presence, I fancy she thinks romance justifies anything, and
of course I couldn't argue with her--mother's example and all."
"Your own relation to Orestes has been a little informal, hasn't
it?" said Menelaus.
"That's different," said Hermione. "Our relation has been
exceptional, but proper throughout. I hardly feel that we had any
courtship, we passed so quickly to exchanging advice about the
family difficulties. You've no idea how admirable Orestes is; I
shall always be glad I knew him first in emergencies--he's at his
best under a strain. Of course, we've seen each other alone, when
Eteoneus didn't know, but you were away, and we thought of
ourselves as always destined for each other."
"You'll have to remind your mother about the destiny," said
Menelaus. "Meanwhile--coming back to Adraste--I'm glad there's no
man about just now, unless you count Damastor. Helen thinks he may
be making love to Adraste."
"Nonsense!" said Hermione, "his mother has told me several times
he's fond of me--rather foolish of him, you might say, but it
indicates, at least, the type he admires. He's been carefully
trained, and besides, he's only a boy. I doubt if he would marry
out of his tradition, and even if he thought of it, he hasn't
enough force of character yet to make love to Adraste, and face his
mother. The sort of man I meant was Pyrrhus, perhaps; you might
send for him after all, and marry him to Adraste. Then mother
would have him in the family circle, as she desires, and I could
take Orestes in peace."
"I won't have Pyrrhus," said Menelaus. "I'll tell her that again
the moment I see her."
"Tell her now," said Hermione; "here she comes!"
III
"Helen," said Menelaus, "I tell you again, I won't have Pyrrhus
here!"
"I'm glad you mentioned Pyrrhus," said Helen; "I want to talk to
Hermione about him, and it saves time to come straight to the
point."
"Then let me tell you at once, mother," said Hermione, "I won't
marry Pyrrhus--nor Damastor."
"Damastor? Heaven forbid!" said Helen.
"Didn't you ask her to marry him?" said Menelaus. "She understands
that you did."
"Never in the world," said Helen. "I told her that Charitas said
he was in love with her, and I remarked that she might do worse
than take him. That's true, she might. But I want her to do
better rather than worse. At the moment I was finding out whether
Damastor had been paying his addresses to Hermione, as Charitas
supposed. I learned what I suspected, that the boy was deceiving
his mother. I have very little use for Damastor, as for Pyrrhus, I
have not asked Hermione to marry him, and never shall. She may
marry whom she chooses. She will, anyway. Indeed, I've never
mentioned him to her, but I was about to tell her she ought to make
his acquaintance before she chooses finally. You've been reporting
our conversation, have you?"
"Yes," said Menelaus. "I told her you wanted Pyrrhus for a son-in-
law, and you suggested having him here for a visit."
"No doubt the report had a good deal of your point of view in it,"
said Helen. "It's a familiar form of cooperation. Well, what do
you think of the idea, Hermione?"
"Hermione agrees with me," said Menelaus, "that it's not safe to
ask Pyrrhus here."
"Not safe?" said Helen. "Who's going to hurt him? Guests are
always safe."
"But the host isn't, nowadays," said Menelaus. "We've made up our
minds to practice some of your frankness. Hermione thinks with me
that she and I wouldn't get much out of a visit from Pyrrhus. With
you here, she wouldn't see much of him. He'd be charmed, of course--
so deeply enchanted that he mightn't notice there was such a
person as your daughter--or your husband. It won't do, Helen."
"Mother, that isn't quite what I said. I--"
"I'm sure it isn't, daughter," said Helen. "Go on, Menelaus."
"There's nothing more," said Menelaus.
"There must be," said Helen. "No man can speak so to his wife, and
before his daughter, without a great deal more. This is the way
you insulted me the last time we discussed this subject. I told
you then I would not stay with you if you repeated the offence.
Now I shall go. I'm sorry, Hermione, to have you a witness of such
unhappy clashes between your parents, but since your father is
determined to have it so, perhaps it's as well you should know this
episode at first hand. I asked your father to invite Pyrrhus here
so that you might have a wider experience of society before you
finally chose your husband. Your father accused me of having been
in love with Achilles. I reminded Menelaus that I had never seen
Achilles, who now is in his grave, but I said I surely would have
loved him had I met him, for he was the greatest man of his time,
and the most winning. We needs must love the highest when we see
it, and if we don't wish to love it, we had better not see it.
Pyrrhus is like his father, in my opinion; so far as I know, he's
the finest man now in the world. Perhaps it would be kindness to
you not to bring him here, if only we could be sure you never would
see him, by chance, elsewhere; for you and Orestes are apparently
content with each other. But some day you will see Pyrrhus, almost
certainly, and what then, if you are bound already to another man?