Reflections on the Revolution
Dios plagan ekhousin eipein,
parestin touto g’ exik—
Mrs. Shelley’s voice hung on the consonant and she bit her lip. Keats bent his head beside hers and squinted at the accent marks sprouting like grass from the lines.
“Exix—” he said.
“Exi-hnefse,” said Mavrokordatos, smiling.
Mrs. Shelley repeated it. The half-known script shimmered at them, rising and falling. When a passage was read out, a sense of marble would catch the air in the room, beckoning them to a place where all time conjoined. But there came a snort from the next room and Shelley leaned his head through the doorway.
“Really,” he called, “that is not Greek; that’s a sneeze!”
Mavrokordatos looked up and laughed. For him Shelley was always the same joke, one he never tired of. “Thank you,”
