The night before her marriage to Menelaus, Helen joined other young girls to dance and sing on the last night of her youth. In the morning, Helen joined in the preparations for her new adult life.

Within the immense palace complex, a massive banquet is being prepared. Accounts of entertainments in Mycenae reveal enormous events with an equally large support staff. Menus included lentil broths flavored with cumin, celery, and coriander; chickpea pancakes; grilled meats; stews; roast boar, hare, duck, and venison.

Guests participated in providing provisions, each proving his status by putting on a more elaborate feast than the one before. A poor man might bring a single goat – a rich one contributed a cow, 2 bulls, 12 pigs, one fattened pig, 1 ewe, 15 rams, 13 male goats, 8 yearlings, 375 liters of wine and over 1,000 liters of olives.*

Entertainment was a cacophony of sounds: torch lit dancing, music played on lyres and flutes, cymbals, rattles, whistles made from hippopotamus teeth. In the moments of relative silence, bards and poets regaled the guests with heroic tales of gods and men. Revelry went on for days with athletic contests and gambling.

Alas the path of love and politics is less than smooth. While Helen grew to a marriageable age, a young herdsman came to Zeus’ attention. Paris was the youngest son of Priam, King of Troy, and his wife Hecuba. Paris didn’t receive the welcome one might expect for a royal baby. Two prophecies insisted this boy would cause the downfall of Troy and must be killed. Hecuba disagreed. Priam quietly told his head herdsman to take the newborn and do the deed.

The shepherd exposed infant Paris on Mount Ida, expecting him to die of hunger and exposure. But when the shepherd returned a week later, the child still lived. So the shepherd took him home. As Paris grew, it was clear he wasn’t the average shepherd boy. He was beautiful, strong, and bright. His exploits brought him to Zeus’ attention, because it’s always useful to keep a clever mortal on file.

As luck would have it, Aphrodite, Goddess of Love; Hera, Goddess of Marriage, and Athena, Goddess of Wisdom asked Zeus to decide who should have the golden apple inscribed “For the Fairest.” Zeus demurred and gave the task to Paris. Poor lad. Three voluptuous goddesses demanded he choose. He saw them with and without their clothing. He vacillated. So the goddesses offered bribes.

Hera offered the entire known world.
Athena offered battle skills and wisdom.
Aphrodite offered the love of the most beautiful woman in the world:

Helen of Sparta.

Guess who got the apple?

Paris made his way to Troy, gained King Priam’s recognition, and was appointed to lead a fleet to Sparta where he would visit King Menelaus, among other activities. Unaware that Paris was after his wife, Menelaus put on nine days of entertainments. Paris openly flirted. He wrote, “I love you, Helen” in red wine on the tabletop. He picked up Helen’s goblet and drank from the lip where her lips had been. He played the lyre. He flaunted his beauty. All in good fun, of course.

And then, Menelaus had to go to Crete to perform rituals for his deceased grandfather. He left Helen in charge of further entertainments for Paris.

The first evening after Menelaus left, Paris came to Helen’s chamber. Aphrodite intervened. Paris and Helen gave in to their desires and eloped, but not in secret. Helen took her son, Pleisthenes, most of the palace treasure, three talents of gold stolen from Apollo’s temple, and five serving women. Helen left her nine-year-old daughter Hermione in Mycenae – perhaps because the child was her father’s heir. Paris no doubt took his entourage. So, it’s not as if the couple stole away in the dead of night with none the wiser. It was, however, several hours before Hermione realized her mother’s absence and gave the alarm.

Meanwhile, Paris and Helen escaped to a small island called Kranai where the fleet took on supplies and Paris allegedly said to Helen,

“Let’s go to bed, and lose ourselves in love!”

It’s not like Helen could change her mind at this point. Paris possessed Helen’s body and wealth. The minute Paris presented his prizes to King Priam, the king knew war would not be far behind.

Goaded by Aphrodite, Paris insulted two kings (Agamemnon and Menelaus), disrespected the rules of hospitality, grabbed another man’s wife, and stole a substantial treasure.

Yet somehow everyone blames Helen. It was her beauty. Her lust. Her duplicity. Her sex.

I like to think Helen has risen above these unjust accusations. When we think of Paris, most of us think of France. The name Helen is another matter.

Acknowledgments:
*Data from pp 83-84, Bettany Hughes

Featured Image: Portrait Helen of Troy, 1863 by Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-1882. Public domain. Wikimedia Commons

Bettany Hughes. Helen of Troy. Goddess, Princess, Whore. London: Jonathan Cape. 2005.

The post IMMORTAL HELEN first appeared on Sandra Wagner-Wright.

Jane Austin, timeless observer of human foibles, hit the nail on the head (or should it be the tissue in the hand) when she pointed out that her sore throats were worse than anyone else’s. I think we all feel that way. Today’s featured image is a watercolor of Jane done by her sister, Cassandra Austen. Perhaps Jane has a sore throat as she contemplates the view, hopefully not.

When a partner or friend [that would be you] clutches his or her throat, slathers it in some menthol concoction and falls on the sofa as if playing dead, the still healthy person [moi] thinks it’s more a case of overacting. But when I’m the one spewing, well, that’s a completely different matter. And I’ve been suffering [cue sympathetic music] for days – I who am never [hardly ever] ill.

“And so,” I said holding out my crumpled note to the Muse of Writing, “I couldn’t write my blog yesterday because of this deathly illness.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

“Pretty much.”

Second Writerly Excuse: “I have to cut flowers for my desk, because…”

“Arranging a bowl of flowers in the morning can give a sense of quiet in a crowded day.”

– Anne Morrow Lindbergh

These are definitely words to live by. The Handsome Bloke grows beautiful roses by the side of the driveway, I seldom a.) Stop to enjoy their aroma or b.) Cut fresh roses to put by my desk. When I do these two simple activities, I feel grounded. But usually I’m too busy backing up the car.

While planning a day of errands, I don’t think about the Victorians who assigned attributes to flowers. In the rose family, pink meant friendship; red symbolized passionate love; red & white together inspired unity; and white proved innocent purity.

This past Valentine’s Day the most popular rose color was red, coming in at approximately 75 per cent. Does that mean that when giving flowers to the object of one’s affection, a young man or woman thinks only of passionate love?

Yet, the white rose is the most traditional flower for weddings – at least since 1840 when Queen Victoria, the symbol of public purity, married her Prince Albert. Does that mean that marriage kills passion? I suppose some people might say “yes.”

There’s also an entertaining myth about white roses. The first rose was white, but …. It was tainted by blood when Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, pricked herself on the thorns.

Needless to say, these aren’t the thoughts I have while backing down my steep driveway. I’m thinking, “I hope I don’t hit the rose wall in this rain.” Or, sometimes, “I need to cut some roses when I get home, because, as Rutgers University researchers have recently discovered, flowers make us happier people. If you can avoid the thorns.”

Uh-Oh. My Muse is standing next to the computer looking cross.

Third “Writerly Excuse.”

“I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.” – Steven Wright, Comedian

Some days I sit at my computer, and that’s exactly how I feel. I put page numbers at the bottom center. I set the format to double space. I select a soothing background color – I’m into lavender at the moment. I look at the roses. I flex my fingers. At the top of the first page I put CHAPTER ???

The best days are when I don’t have a cold (sniff), have gathered a bouquet of flowers for inspiration, and filled out the page above the number. Then I can lean back in my chair, stretch, and say to myself: “Life is Good”

Information:

Watercolor of Jane Austen by her sister, Cassandra Austin done in 1804. Public Domain. Wikimedia Commons.

Some information on flowers taken from:
http://www.aboutflowers.com/health-benefits-a-research/emotional-impact-of-flowers-study.html

The post WRITERLY EXCUSES first appeared on Sandra Wagner-Wright.