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Updated: May 17, 2025
You could read the Categories in the wrinkles of his colorless face, and contested passages of Thucydides in the crows'-feet round his eyes. The everlasting grind at the educational tread-mill had worn away all he might once have had of imagination; he translated with precisely the same intonations the Tusculan Disputations and Erôs anikate machan.
Desire: imeros. Eros. There was the chorus in the Antigone: "Eros anikate machan, Eros os en ktaemasi pipteis." There was Swinburne: "...swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire, Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire." There was the song Minna Acroyd sang at the Sutcliffes' party. "Sigh-ing and sad for des-ire of the bee." How could anybody sing such a silly song?
The chorus limped to its end and the student left the coach to some curious reflections. "Eros anikate machan!" "Oh Love, unconquered in fight!" It sang in her ears persistently, joyously, ironically a wedding-song, a battle-song, a song of victory. Bastian Cautley was right when he said that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong.
The voice was not Miss Quincey's voice; it was the monotonous, melancholy voice of the Fixed Idea. Her knowledge of him. After all, nothing could take from her the exquisite privacy of that possession. "Eros anikate machan," said Rhoda. Miss Quincey was gone and the Classical Mistress was in school again, coaching a backward student through the "Antigone." "Oh Love, unconquered in fight.
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