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 Ægisthus became the head of the house; she said Ægisthus 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 Ægisthus, 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 Ægisthus, 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!”