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 Ægisthus 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. Ægisthus 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 Ægisthus, 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.”