“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!”