III

“I’ve come to say good-bye, father. Orestes and I start to-morrow.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione—I don’t want to lose you. And going off with that—”

“Don’t say anything against him, father! You’ll understand him better, perhaps, some day.”

“That won’t be a reason for liking him better. Just where are you going on your wedding-journey—or is it a secret?”

“We don’t know exactly. To Delphi, Orestes says, but that doesn’t sound interesting to me. The main thing is, he needs a complete change. We’ll hit on some place that suits us both.”

“When are you coming back?” said Menelaus.

“We haven’t the remotest idea, but it won’t be soon. Orestes can’t stay at home, of course, and we both of us need to see the world.”

“Well, you know what I think of it all,” said Menelaus. “You’ll probably starve, or you would if you hadn’t something to fall back on besides your husband. I’ve asked Eteoneus to put together some food and some treasure; one of the men will carry it wherever you tell him to.”

“Thank you, father, but I can’t take it. Orestes will provide very well, I’m sure.”

“He hasn’t a thing in the world,” said Menelaus, “and he has no friends now.”

“Even if that is so, I can’t accept your gift,” said Hermione. “Unless you have changed your mind and will receive Orestes.”

“I’ll never speak to him!” said Menelaus.

“You see why I can’t take it. Good-bye, father.”

“You can do this at least,” said Menelaus. “If ever you are in serious trouble, let me know. There’s no point in your going without anything when your mother and I have plenty.”

“You’ll never hear from me again,” said Hermione, “unless you accept my husband.”

“Isn’t it enough for you to marry him?” said Menelaus. “Must I love him, too?”

“You know very well what I mean; unless you treat Orestes like a normal son-in-law, and not like a criminal, I cannot consider myself any longer a member of this family.”

“Well, there’s nothing to say, then. Good-bye. Tell Eteoneus, as you go out, to unpack those things and put them back in the cellar.”

“Oh, there’s one thing I meant to say, and I almost forgot,” said Hermione. “I think you’re a little hard on mother.”

“Hard on your mother, did you say? Since when?”

“Ever since you came back—though I realised it only recently. You misjudge her, and you say things to her that might be interpreted as criticism. A person as sensitive as she is must find her position at times uncomfortable. I hope, for your sake and hers, you’ll try to understand her point of view.”

“I had no idea the curse worked so quickly!” said Menelaus. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Don’t worry about that curse, father—it isn’t going to come off. I’ve still the same mind I inherited, and you used to say I took after you. Mother and I disagreed about Orestes, and in general she and I are quite different, but I’m just beginning to see her quality. There’s nothing little about her. She’s magnanimous.”

“I never heard such nonsense in my life, and if you still have your wits about you, Hermione, you won’t try to tell me that I’ve been less than generous to your mother. She’s the magnanimous one, is she?”

“I didn’t mean to set up a contrast between you,” said Hermione, “but only to speak of her large-mindedness. Since you mention it, however, there was a contrast on the occasion when I first noticed this remarkable trait in her. You know how she always says you should do your criticising in advance, and afterwards drop it? I had no idea she would live up to that if she had to do the forgiving. But when we learned that Orestes had killed her sister, did you notice how quickly she pulled herself together, and refused to expel Orestes from the family circle?”

“A parable for my benefit, eh?” said Menelaus. “It’s clever—I see your brain is still working, daughter, but so is mine. Orestes is outside the family circle, so far as I’m concerned. I’ve my own opinion of your mother’s magnanimity.”

“May I hear what it is?” said Hermione. “I can’t imagine anything finer than such a prompt reaching out of kindness to a person who had brought so great a sorrow on you. It’s the first time I saw the unselfish side of mother; perhaps I’ve been overlooking the other occasions when she was equally generous.”

“They haven’t been many, even granting this one, which I don’t. You say I fail to understand your mother. You’re quite right. The only thing about her I understand is her looks, and I don’t understand how they last so well. To my eyes, she never has been so splendid as during these weeks, when heavy blows have fallen on her. She was the same way that night at Troy. Her beauty can rise to a critical moment!”

“Of course she’s very handsome,” said Hermione, “but it was of her character I was speaking.”

“I’m coming to her character now,” said Menelaus. “I spoke of her beauty first, as being of some importance. I’m really not sure she has any character; I wonder if she has a heart. Do you know—I can speak to you more intimately about your mother, now you’re married—do you know I never saw your mother excited about anything. She says she was passionately in love with Paris—passionately! I wish I could have seen her in the state of mind she describes. Before she ran off with him, she was treating him with that calm detached sort of courtesy she has for almost anybody; each time she began to speak to him, I was worried with the fear that she had forgotten his name. Imagine how I felt when she went off with him! And imagine how I feel when she talks to me—to me, in that brazen way of hers—about the passion she had for Paris! She’s a very selfish person, I say. Always determined to be frank! Who wants her to be frank? You’d think she was yielding to a public demand. Now, this wish to send for Orestes at once. What reason had she for fancying he wished to come?”

“Father, I’m the last one to say mother treated you kindly, or behaved properly. I meant only that she has a magnanimous side I hadn’t noticed, and perhaps you haven’t noticed it either. She can allow for a different point of view, and she’s not stubborn. You are, father, a little bit, you know, and perhaps that’s why you don’t get on better with her.”

“I don’t know what Orestes would say if he heard this talk,” said Menelaus, “but it bodes no good for him. He may prove to be as forgiving a husband as I have been, but will he get the slightest credit for it? No! They’ll say that you are magnanimous!”

“Father, are you getting mixed in your figures of speech, or do you really expect me to duplicate mother’s career? Not even Orestes thinks I have the equipment. Since he saw mother, he has praised me for everything but my looks.”

“But he hasn’t seen her since he was a baby!”

“He saw her two days ago—had a very satisfactory talk with her. That’s exceedingly fine when you come to think of it; his mother was her sister, yet she was positively sympathetic, Orestes said, and didn’t upbraid him, nor imply that he was beyond mercy, not a syllable of that kind. Orestes confirmed my impression that with all her faults, she’s a very remarkable woman.”

“Again I get your meaning,” said Menelaus. “If Helen, with a greater grief, can forgive Orestes and treat him cordially, why cannot Menelaus, who after all lost no relative by the sword of Orestes—only an unwelcome guest. Well, there’s room for only one remarkable person of that kind in this family. I give way to Helen.”

“You really are mistaken,” said Hermione. “Of course you think I am speaking for Orestes, but really it’s for you. Orestes and I are going on a journey, and whether or not you appreciate him is only a matter of sentiment with me. But I’d like to feel that you and mother were entirely happy again—my own happiness makes me wish that for mother—and I begin to see that the chief obstacle is your lack of—”

“Do you realise how impertinent you are?” said Menelaus. “What business is it of yours whether or not your mother is happy with me? And how would you know whether I understood her? You have been at swords’ points with her yourself, so far as I could see, until this very moment, and I believe you haven’t the temperament to see things her way, even if you cared to. You must remember I’ve been rather intimate with Helen and her doings for a longer time than you’ve been alive; she’s almost an intuitive habit with me now. I understand her all right. Don’t worry. If she isn’t happy it’s her own fault. I suppose you still admit she has faults?”

“What are they, father? She is human, of course, but I’d like to hear you name the things you would like to change. Her appearance?”

“We’ll discuss her character,” said Menelaus. “I’ve just told you I believe she has no heart. She can do anything at all, or have the most tragic things happen to her, and not be disturbed in the slightest. She’s without feelings. Then I might as well say I think her utterly immoral. Almost every sin has a bright side for her. If she elopes from her home and gets caught and brought back, she says ‘My mistake!’ and goes on as though nothing had happened, and she doesn’t always say it’s her mistake. That’s the magnanimity you are praising. She has had so much practice forgiving herself, she can forgive anybody now.”

“I knew you didn’t understand. Have you ever thought of sitting down and talking with her about her philosophy of life? It would be illuminating. Orestes said this morning that if he hadn’t heard her talk on the subject of his own troubles, he would never have caught the angle from which her conduct can be understood.”

“I’ve said so much against your husband, Hermione, that I’m reluctant to imply anything further, but strictly with reference to your mother I’ll confess I’d have to commit a few murders before I could catch that angle. Your mother’s philosophy would do me no good, if she has one, but I suspect she moves from point to point in her life without a settled plan.”

“Orestes says she made such an interesting distinction between sin and error.”

“Oh, that!” said Menelaus. “That part of her philosophy we work out frequently. She makes all the mistakes and I commit all the crimes.”

“No, seriously—she told him that her calmness, what you call her coldness, is simply her resolve to take the consequences of any action once it is done. Our marriage, for instance; she said frankly that she disapproved while it was debatable, but now it was over, she wished us joy and wanted to be friends. She told Orestes to look on his own experiences the same way. If he had done his best, he should have no regrets, not even if the consequences proved he had done wrong. You see she is too proud to go about saying she is sorry; she prefers to accept the punishment, if there is any—and usually, she says, there isn’t.”

“I don’t believe she’s sorry at all—you’ve got that wrong, but I believe she’s too proud. As for the rest of it, I don’t get it very clearly. Orestes liked the doctrine, did he?”

“I wouldn’t quite say that. He thinks it’s dangerous unless carefully applied. But he has said several times that he’d like to talk with her again about it, and he believes he could clarify the ideas for her, and take the danger out, in a little quiet conversation. If he can, why can’t you?”

“Because I’m her husband,” said Menelaus. “Are you going to let him continue those ethical discussions?”

“There may not be time until we come back, and that will be, as I said, not soon. But he is hoping to see her to-morrow before we go. He thinks as I do, that you cannot have seen the possibilities in her character.”

“Hermione, keep your husband away from her! He’s simply another victim. That woman has only one career—to be fascinating. She’d rather have Pyrrhus than Orestes, but Orestes will do. The upshot will be that he will become discontented with you—you see if he doesn’t! I dare say she told him she greatly admired his ideas, or something, and flattered the fool. Those tricks no longer deceive me, that’s why I’m disqualified for any little chats with her about the philosophy of life.”

“Mother isn’t flirting with Orestes, if that’s what you mean. Orestes is not the easily flattered kind. And she didn’t say she admired him—only that she was sorry for him. He thought her whole position showed remarkable self-respect.”

“She has that,” said Menelaus. “Did your husband say he thought she was extremely beautiful?”

“No, only that she was far handsomer than he had been led to expect.”

“You see—he’s cautious with you already! Don’t let him see her again, Hermione. It has happened too often for me to mistake the symptoms. He will talk to her for her good, and she will listen in the most docile flattery, and she won’t say a word that isn’t correct, but he will never get over it. He’ll dream of her waking and sleeping, and in her honour he may finally throw away his life, as Paris did, though I doubt if she elopes with any more of them. You think you have a good husband. I begin to see that keeping him out of this house was a kindness to you. If you only had shielded him from Helen!”

“If there is any real danger,” said Hermione, “I wish I had thought of it in time. It’s easier not to get Orestes started than to stop him afterwards. I thought, of course, it would be to his advantage to see mother, since she suggested it. You remember I didn’t like the proposal at first, and then I had to persuade him to go. But he certainly is ready to go the second time. How do you think I had better divert him?”

“Get him away if you can,” said Menelaus. “If you begin telling him not to admire her, he’ll guess that you’re jealous. I wish I could tell him a few things!”

“Wouldn’t he suspect that you were jealous then?” said Hermione. “And you wouldn’t talk to another man about your wife, would you? I come back to my first view—you do mother an injustice. If you would talk to her about herself in a cordial and sympathetic way—and it ought to be very easy to be at least as sympathetic and cordial as Orestes was when he went—you would be sensible of her appeal, quite apart from the sort of charm that causes you to be jealous. Don’t waste time talking to Orestes—talk to her. Last night, when he happened to be on the subject, Orestes made a wise remark, I thought; he said he imagined that some married people have never exchanged ideas with each other to the same extent as with their casual neighbours, because most marriages begin irrationally, in passion, and since there’s no connection between passion and intelligence, when the passion fades they don’t know how to proceed to the other form of discourse. I thought that was clever, don’t you? It made me glad that he and I came together through—well, you might call it conviction, rather than a less worthy kind of attraction.”

“H’m!” said Menelaus. “Your mother would say that passion is a form of intelligence. When she gets on that love-of-life talk, she makes me uncomfortable because I half think she means I don’t love her enough. If I loved her as she imagines she deserves, she’d say I had all the love of life necessary. I never meant to say this to anyone, but I’d feel relieved to put it into words. When I first met her, she was no more beautiful than she is now, I dare say, but she had the added effect of novelty; you couldn’t conceive of such a person if you hadn’t seen for yourself. When she chose me, I won’t say I felt as though it were a dream, or anything of that sort; I just felt that she had made a mistake. The other suitors would have felt the same way. I couldn’t persuade myself that I belonged to that loveliness. When we were safely married and I took her home, and we were supposed to be settling down to a normal existence, I was pretty much in torment; I wanted her, I had got her, and she always seemed to be contemplating me as you might an infant, half amused; it seemed as though she were saying to herself, ‘He wants to worship this beauty! Well, let him go ahead and worship. But he’s not quite up to it, poor child!’ The fact is, Hermione, I wasn’t up to it, and I never have been. I can’t do without her, and I don’t know what to do with her. Ordinary beauty calls for human embraces, in the love we are accustomed to speak of, but the men who have had Helen in their arms have all been baffled and humbled; you can’t embrace a stream of music, or light on the sea. You needn’t tell me—I know she has craved for a lover who would be her equal, but there is none. In my heart I forgave her long ago, especially since Paris was no more of a success than I. The reason I didn’t kill her that night was that when I saw her there she seemed younger than ever, and strangely virginal; and it came over me that in the sense in which I have been speaking, nobody, not even I, had ever loved her, and since I had failed, there was no point in punishing her. Of course, she was looking her best that night, too. But the moment we had words, I began to be irritated with her, as I was before Paris came. She is so inaccessible, she makes me feel so inadequate, she is so close to laughing at me most of the time … Well, this is more than I intended to say. You may forget it at once. Whatever you do, don’t repeat it to Orestes. But you see, I understand your mother from my point of view, and since you have hers, as you think, you might as well have mine. We shan’t be different now, not in any marked respect. She will be lovelier as she grows older, and I dare say I shall be more irritable.”

“You really are in love with her, aren’t you?” said Hermione. “She’s not nearly so beautiful as you think her.”

“I ought to have said,” Menelaus went on, “that the full quality of her charm has never been discernible to her own sex. The instinct of self-preservation, I suppose.”

“Do you know,” said Hermione, “since you have confessed so much, I’ll admit that I’m jealous of mother. I mean, I’m afraid that her charm will upset Orestes. You’ve convinced me! I wish you’d help me, father!”

“I’ll do anything I can.”

“Then I’ve an idea—see Orestes to-morrow! If you’ll see him and forgive him in the hour he would have spent with mother, I’ll look after him from then on!”

“Of course, this isn’t a neat little plot!” said Menelaus. “You never intended to work me into a position where I’d have to receive your husband! Oh, no!”