Dearest Clytaemnestra,
Your letters are a great comfort to me when I get them, which is very
seldom. Everything is going on just the same. It is now the tenth
year of the siege, and I see no reason why it should ever end. I am
dreadfully afraid the Greeks will never take Troy.
I can give you no idea of how dull everything is here. We do the same
thing and see the same people every day. We know exactly what is going
on in the Greek camp, and most of the time is spent in discussing the
gossip, which bores me to death. You are quite right in what you say
about Paris. I made a fatal mistake. It is all Aphrodite’s fault. He
has become too dreadful now. He is still very good-looking, but even
compared with Menelaus he is pitiable in every way and every bit as
cross. Hector is very nice, but painfully dull. The King and the Queen
are both very kind, but as for Cassandra, she is intolerable. She is
always prophesying dreadful calamities which never come off. She
said, for instance, that I would lose my looks and make a long journey
in Egypt. As if I would go to Egypt from here! As to my looks, you
know, darling, I never was vain, was I? But I can honestly tell you
that, if anything, I have rather _improved_ than otherwise, and among
the Trojans’ women, who are absolute frights and have no more idea of
dressing than sheep, I look magnificent. Andromache has got quite a
nice face, and I really like her; but you should see her figure--it’s
like an elephant’s, and her feet are enormous, and her hands red and
sore from needlework. She won’t even use a thimble! Cassandra always
dresses in deep mourning. Why, we cannot conceive, because none of her
relatives have been killed.
There is really only one person in the palace I can talk to--and that
is Aeneas, who is one of the commanders. He is quite nice. What I
specially like about him is the nice way in which he talks about his
parents.
The Greeks are quarrelling more than ever. Achilles won’t fight at all
because Agamemnon insisted on taking away Briseis (who is lovely) from
him. Wasn’t that exactly like Agamemnon? I hope this won’t make you
jealous, darling, but I don’t expect it will, because you have never
forgiven Agamemnon, have you?
Everybody tries to be kind to me, and I have nothing to complain of.
They all mean well, and in a way this makes it worse. For instance,
every morning, when we meet for the midday meal, Priam comes into the
room saying to me: “Well, how’s the little runaway to-day?” He has made
this joke every day for the last ten years. And then they always talk
about the cowardice and incompetence of the Greeks, taking for granted
that as I have married into a Trojan family I must have become a Trojan
myself. It is most tactless of them not to understand what I must be
feeling.
I suppose I am inconsistent, but the pro-Greek party irritate me still
more. They are headed by Pandarus, and are simply longing for their own
side to be beaten, because they say that I ought to have been given up
directly, and that the war was brought about entirely owing to Priam
having got into the hands of the Egyptian merchants.
I manage to get some Greek stuffs smuggled into the town, and the
merchants tell me vaguely what people are wearing at Mycenae; but one
can’t get anything properly made here. Andromache has all her clothes
made at home by her women--to save expense. She says that in times of
war one ought to sacrifice oneself. Of course, I can’t do this, however
much I should like to, as the Trojans expect me to look nice, and would
be very angry if I wasn’t properly dressed.
I feel if I could only meet Odysseus we might arrange some plan for
getting the Greeks into the town.
How is everything going on at home? There is a very strict censorship
about letters, and we are all supposed to show our letters to Antenor
before they go. I don’t, of course. I daresay, however, many of your
letters have been intercepted, because I have only heard from you five
times since the siege began, and not once this year. Kiss the dear
children from me.
Shall I ever see you again? I shall try my best to come home.
Your loving sister,
HELEN.
_Clytaemnestra to Helen_