I told her not to do it. I told her that it was wrong, that it would be more trouble than it was truly worth, that it was impious, that there would be a public scene (I could not have known then how public), that it was a phenomenally stupid idea and I had never heard anything worse, and that she had better not come crying to me if things went badly. I may be a hypocrite, but at least I have had the sense to carry on with a man whom I do not love. If all my plans should be set at naught, then at least I will not suffer when it is time to dispose of Aegisthus. He is a tool, just as an axe or a distaff is: nothing more, and nothing else. My sister, being beautiful, was fundamentally useless, and thus could not see that there was no point in her involvement with Paris.
Truly, she had no reason to do it. Menelaus is a wealthy man. He is powerful; even if something were to befall our familial connections, and he were to become estranged from my husband or from my parents, Sparta is well-placed and he has alliances. And he is not a bad man, although he fancies himself a great joke teller; if my own experience is representative, I expect Helen wanted to kill him after the third ill-paced joke in one banquet. I doubt that he is capable of some of the things I have known his brother do. Anything Helen wanted, she could have; she had a beautiful, healthy daughter, and if she had ever had a thought in her head, she would not have had to look far for intellectual stimulation.
I told her all these things. I reminded her of the alliance that Dad had made everyone promise, and I reminded her that her indiscretion would make things difficult for me. Had we been serving-girls or chambermaids or the daughters of an artisan, I would not have cared, and I might even have given her a little to establish herself in her new life. I have been known to do as much for others; I have always been mindful of my station.
"We are the daughters of a king," I said, "and we cannot simply do whatever we like." In those days, I had high-minded ideals. They have had to fall by the wayside; I play for larger stakes now. "Agamemnon will suspect that I had something to do with this. The public eye is on both of us, Helen, and your behavior will reflect poorly, not only on you, but on your husband and daughter, and on Agamemnon and me, and on Mum and Dad." This may have been a grave error on my part; she had no sense of altruism.
I will not regale you with her sniveling about how deeply in love she was with Paris (whom she cannot have seen more than twice or thrice before) and simply couldn't bring herself to give him up. It was trite, and I told her as much; I told her, too, that she would simply have to steel herself and do the right thing. If one must have a lover, then he ought to be expendable.
She was beautiful, as I have said. I suppose, having grown up with her, I have become somewhat insensitive to that; it has been a fact of life for as long as I can remember. Only as an adult did I realize that she was used to people making allowances for her because of it. In retrospect, I think she wanted me to give her permission, and there was a marked coolness in her manner towards me before she left. Well, what on earth did she think I was going to say, the silly bint?
She looked at me with her watery eyes and said, "Oh, Clytemnestra, you just don't understand."
Oh, I understood. I understood then, and I understand now. I understand more than she knows. Our behavior has been the same, although the rationale has been very different.
I, at least, stand to gain something.