Helen is the most delightful person in the world to tell stories to. However lamely you tell them, she is absorbed in them, and never asks about the weak points, as other children do. She might, for instance, have asked if I was correct about my dates; did the ‘Agamemnon’ come out in the year that the ‘Promachos’ was made? Instead——
‘And who was I?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell me I was Aspasia, because I don’t like what you told me about her.’
‘No; you were not Aspasia,’ I said rather hurriedly; ‘and I rather think you had had your turn in Greece at some other time. I didn’t know you then, except, perhaps, in the myths, for I am not sure that you were not Electra.’
‘Was she nice?’ asked Helen.
‘She was very nice to Orestes.’
‘Oh, don’t! Who was Orestes? What a nice name!’
‘You were his sister. That’s all about mythology just now.’
The plain quivered under the sunlit haze of blue. To the south the dim sea was in tone like two skies poured together, and the isles of Greece floated in it like swimmers asleep. Below, to the left, lay the theatre where I had seen the ‘Agamemnon,’ empty, but ready as if the play was just going to begin. Who knew what ghosts of those supreme actors were there, what audience of the bright-eyed Greeks followed the drama? And above us stood the presiding genius of Athens, the beautiful house built for the virgin who sprang from the brain of God. A little more, and it would be her birthday again, and we should hear the sound of horse-hoofs coming up the hill, and see the procession of the Athenian youths, and the men with the bulls for sacrifice, and the wine-carriers, and the incense-bearer, and the priests of the great goddess. Another company would be there, too—the hierarchy of Olympus—come down on Athene’s birthday to visit her in her beautiful home. With Zeus would be the mother of the gods; and Aphrodite would be there, the spirit of love that renews the earth; and Apollo, who makes it bright with sunshine; and Demeter, the mother of the cornfields; and Persephone, radiant, and returned from the gate of death; and Hermes, the swift messenger whose feet were winged; and Iris, who was rainbow, the sign of the beneficent seasons.
And ... though we saw them not, there was not one missing. Love was here, and below were the ripening cornfields, on which the sun shone; and beyond was the realm of Poseidon, and a squall of spring rain, that passed like a curtain in front of Hymettus, showed us Iris.
Then it was time to go down townwards again, for the morning was passed; but Helen paused at the doorway at the gate of the Acropolis, and looked towards the temple.