Homer: Critical Assessments [3] 0415145279, 9780415145275

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HOMER Critical Assessments

R ou tled ge C ritical A ssessm ents o f Classical A u th ors

F orthcom ing:

Virgil Edited by P.R. Hardie Greek Tragedy Edited by Katerina Zacharia

HOMER

Critical Assessments Edited by Irene J.F. de Jong

VOLUME in Literary Interpretation

ROUTLEDGE

λ

London and New York

First published 1999 by R ou tled ge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, N Y 10001 © Selection and editorial material, 1999 Irene de Jong Typeset in Garamond by J&L Composition Ltd, Filey, North Yorkshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Oata Homer: critical assessments / edited by Irene J.F. de Jong, p. cm. Essays in English, French, and German. Contents: v. 1. The creation of the poems - v. 2. The Homeric world V. 3. Literary interpretation - v. 4. Homer’s art. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-415-14527-9 1. Homer — Criticism and interpretation. 2. Epic poetry, Greek - History and criticism. 3. Oral-formulaic analysis. 4. Oral tradition - Greece. 5. Civilization, Homeric. 6. Greece — In literature. I. Jong, Irene J.F. de PA4037.H7747 1998 883/ .01-dc21 98-11375 CIP ISBN ISBN ISBN ISBN ISBN

0-4 15 -1 45 2 7-9 0-415-14528-7 0-415-14529-5 0-415 -1 45 3 0-9 0-415-14531-7

(set) (vol. (vol. (vol. (vol.

I) II) Ill) IV)

Contents

V O LU M E III Literary Interpretation

Acknowledgements Introduction: Homer and Literary Criticism LJ.F. de Jong (original contribution)

A. T h e P oem s and In d iv id u a l Scenes 43. Hektor und Andromache 44. Das Parisurteil

27

\

45. The Iliad or The Poem o f Force ' 46. Odysseus' Scar

1

25

W.Sbhadmaldt

K. Reinhardt

vii

47 S. W eil

E. Auerbach

66 91

47. The Proems o f the Iliad and the Odyssey B .A . van Groningen

109

48. Zur inneren Form der Ilias

119

A. Heubeck

49. Telemachus and the Telemacheia

H .W . Clarke

131

50. Zeus’ Speech: Odyssey 1 .2 8 -4 3

K. Rilter

145

51. The M otif o f the Godsent Mist in

the Iliad J.Kakridis

163

52. The Shield o f Achilles within the

Iliad

179

0. Taplin

B. Speeches 53. Die M onologe in den homerischen Epen C, Hentze 54. Being Silent - Concealing - Passing Over; the Presentation o f the Unexpressed in the Odyssey S. Beßlich 55. The Tnner Composition' o f the Speeches in the Iliad D, Lohmann

201 203 218 239

vi

Contents 56

T he V oice o f A non ym ity: tis-Speeches in the Iliad

IJ.F . de Jong 57. Heroes as Performers: Odysseus and Diomedes R.P. Martin 58. The Function and Context o f Homeric Prayers: A Narrative Perspective J.V . Morrison

C. Sim iles 59. The Interpretation o f Individual Similes: (A) Elemental Forces H. Frankel 60. The Function o f the Homeric Simile M.Coffey 6 T Violent Juxtaposition in the Similes o f the Iliad D .H . Porter 62. Simile Sequences C. Moulton 63. On the Compositional Use o f Similes in the Odyssey R, Friedrich

D . Inset Tales 64. 65. 66. 67.

258 274 284

299

301 322 338 351 368

383

M ythological Paradeigma in the Iliad M.AÍ. Willcock The Function o f Digressions in the ïliad J.N .H . Austin The Atreid Story in the Odyssey U. Hölscher Die Ich-Erzählungen des Odysseus. Überlegungen zur epischen Technik der Odyssee W. Suerbaum 68. Le miroir et la boucle F. Létoublon 69. Myth, Paradigm and 'Spatial Form’ in the Iliad Oe. Andersen 70. The Structure and Function o f Odysseus’ Apologoi G .W . Most

385 403 419 431 460

Select Bibliography

504

472 486

Acknow ledgem ents

The editor gratefully acknowledges the following who have kindly given permission to reprint articles in this volume: K.F. Koehler Verlag G m bH , Stuttgart, 43; Vittorio Klostermann, Frankfurt am Main, 44; Princeton University Press, 46; Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, 47; Carl W inter Universitätsverlag, Heidelberg, 48 and 54; Johns Hopkins University Press, 49, 60 and 63; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht G m bH & Co. K G , Göttingen, 5Ö, 59 and 62; Ph. Kakridis, 51; Oxford University Press, 52 and 64; D. Lohmann, 55; Universi tetsforlaget AC/Scandinavian University Press, O slo,;56; Cornell University Press, 57; J.V. Morrison, 58; The Classical Journal and D .H . Porter, 61; Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, 65; W . Suerbaum, 67; Editions du Seuil, 68; John Benjamins, Amsterdam, 69; G .W . Most, 70. W hile every effort has been made to contact copyright holders o f material used in this volume, the editor and publisher would be grateful to hear from any they were unable to contact.

Introduction: H om er and Literary Criticism

I.J.F. de Jong

The history o f modern, that is, post-W olfian, literary interpretation o f the Homeric epics, to which this introduction will confine itself, has until recently been inextricably interwoven with the history o f (the debate around) the creation o f the texts. The way in which the poems were thought to have come about determined, often nolens volens, the way in which one looked at them, or at least, prescribed the agenda o f points to be discussed. The first three sections o f this introduction will therefore be chronologically arranged: the time o f the Analysts and the Unitarians (I), the Parry epoch (II) and recent developments (III).1 In a final section I will look at three highly characteristic literary devices (similes, inset tales and epithets) (IV). This introduction takes the form o f an essay, which means that I will refrain from an exhaustive discussion o f the secondary literature. Instead, I will concentrate on scholars and works represented in the collection o f reprints o f volumes III and IV. A full overview o f the scholarship is to be found in the bibliographies to these volumes.

I.

T h e T im e o f the Analysts and the U nitarians

Analysm, the theory that holds that the Homeric poems consist o f older and younger layers, and are the work o f different poets, started its long life with F.A. W olf, who suggested that Homer composed the various parts, while later poets com bined these parts into a single body. Being aware o f the shock his theory would cause to all lovers o f the Homeric poems, W o lf tried to be as cheerful as possible about the new task now awaiting interpreters: I know how hard it is to forget Aristotle and the other literary theorists who drew their precepts from these parts long after they had firmly

2

L,iter¿try Interpretation

coalesced, but would it not be pleasant to obtain an example o f the most ancient poetry once in a while by contemplating the parts? ([1 7 9 5 ]1 9 8 5 : 1 2 2 -3 )

Soon a bitter battle was raging between Analysts and their opponents the Unitarians, later to be satirically described as follows: Sing, Goddess, o f Friedrich son o f W o lf W h o brought countless griefs upon the Homerists, And sent to Hades many valiant souls o f professors, W hen on a time there clashed together in strife The lynx-eyed Analysts and much-enduring Unitarians. First did one hero take up a huge, jagged hypothesis, W h ich no two scholars o f his age could believe (Though he alone believed it quite easily), A nd hurled it at foeman’s shield o f six indubitable strata; but, checked thereby, the shameless assumption glanced aside. Next did the other lift up a much larger hypothesis, And threw it, nor missed, at enemy's book: Through six editions did the missile penetrate, But the seventh stopped it, made o f the hide o f a calf (etc.)I2 W hat kind o f literary criticism do we find in this period? The Analysts, to start with them, used aesthetic criteria mainly as a means o f distinguish­ ing between different poets. The rule o f thumb employed was that what is good poetry derives from the original poet, and what is bad poetry from a second-rate ‘Bearbeiter . This desire to distinguish between good and bad poetry makes their literary criticism a rather subjective affair, which tells us more about the literary principles o f the nineteenth century — catch­ words here are unity, coherence and relevance - or the personal taste o f the scholar involved, than about the Homeric text. One o f the most famous Analysts, U. von W ilam owitz, is quite outspoken about the personal factor: I would like to conclude this introduction [to Die Ilias und Homer] with a point o f self-criticism concerning my own work on Homer. Only in later life have I learnt to see something which I now consider o f the highest importance: the difference in style, creative will and power, in short, between individual poets . . . H ow little o f this is to be found in my book on the Odyssey; the few places where I do make remarks o f this kind are the best parts o f the book. From this I conclude that only a long occupation with these objects allows one to discern individual styles. A beginner would not be able to make such observations. W h o does not see

Introduction

3

them [differences in style] will deny that they are there. (1916: 25, my translation) In his ensuing study W ilam ow itz gives free rein to his mature ability to distinguish the styles o f different poets, for example: W hoever reads [Iliad\ B in the expectation that it belongs to A is soon disappointed. The style is completely different. Here we find a large number o f similes, here the masses are taken into account, here a typescene, Agam em non’s meal, is described in leisurely fashion. The art o f another poet is unmistakable. ( 1916 : 260 - 1)

It is this kind o f subjectivism that the Unitarians, such as T. Allen, hold against their opponents: ‘no literary standard exists whereto to compare the poems, and distinctions between parts o f the poems are generally a sub­ jective illusion’ (1924: 177). Unfortunately, however, Unitarian responses to the Analytic attack often made use o f the same kind o f subjective aesthetic arguments: they simply proclaimed beautiful what their opponents had considered bad poetry. Or when they found instances o f ‘bad’ poetry (using the same nineteenthcentury literary principles as the Analysts), they explained them away, not by ascribing them to a ‘Bearbeiter’ but by forgiving Homer. Thus the same T. Allen who rejected Analytic criticism as a subjective illusion’ , gives the following assessment o f the first scenes o f Iliad 2: The action is spacious and deliberate ■ . . and the deliberation enhances the importance o f the moment, but the means taken to effect it [Aga­ memnon’s dream, the assembly] are cumbrous and unnatural . . . [The scenes] are unnatural and inorganic. They are at the same time H omeric; and therefore here excellence and the Homeric do not coincide . . . Apparently Homer is weaker at economy and construction than at ethos and character-painting. (1924: 1 8 0 -1 ) Here, too, we see the preoccupation with coherence (‘inorganic’) and rele­ vance (‘cumbrous’, ‘econom y’). A ll the same, many Unitarian studies contain not only running commentaries on the two poems aimed at contradicting Analyst criticism, but also instructive sections on ‘poetical techniques’ (anticipation, retardation, changes o f scene, similes, characterization and speeches). One example, deriving from G. Finsler, will suffice here: The Homeric epics know no suspense in the usual sense, viz. the anxious longing to know how the story will end. N ot only did the hearers already

4

h it erary Interpretation

know the whole story - although here we do not know exactly how much they did know; it is often difficult to decide between tradition and invention — but within the text the poet also takes away all tension by revealing beforehand the outcome o f the story or o f episodes in that story . . . In this way the attention o f the hearers is focused on the manner in which the end o f the story or episode is attained. A t this point the Homeric poet creates his own form o f suspense. Because we no longer wonder what will happen, but rather how, he keeps us breathless through the manner o f presentation. He creates artificial obstacles and retarda­ tions, only playfully to remove them again. (1914: 322, my translation)

Tw o scholars deserve special mention here: W . Schadewaldt (Iliasstudien) and S. Bassett (The Poetry o f Homer), The programmatic statements in their prefaces are worth quoting:

I cannot see how a principal tendency to understand, which declares everything handed down as possible’, 'significant’ or 'beautiful’, according to general or most general esthetic or psychological criteria, much honours the great poet. . . . Therefore this study tries to make observa­ tions, in a field where hypotheses have come and gone, on the basis o f the text itself. (1938: III-IV , my translation and italics) The basic principle o f Scott’s book, The Unity o f Homer, was ‘Homer must speak for him self ; its method was a minute and laborious study o f philological and other facts in the Homeric poems to test the hypotheses o f previous scholars. The next step is obviously to employ a similar method for the purpose o f letting Homer speak, not against the Higher Criticism, but for a clearer understanding o f the principles of great poetry, and o f poetry itself. (1938: 1, my italics)

The results o f these two studies are valuable to the present day. Our debt to them includes such useful literary concepts as preparation (‘Vorbereitung, stückweise Enthüllung), retroversion (Rückwendung), epic regression (such as found at the opening o f the Iliad, when the narrator first goes back in time to the arrival o f Chryses in the Greek camp, and then moves forwards again to tell the story in full detail) and continuity o f time and topic (e.g. the last to go to bed is the first to rise). The studies by Schadewaldt and Bassett both appeared in 1938. Ten years before, in 1928, a young American had written a dissertation that would revolutionize Homeric studies.

Introduction

5

II. T h e Parry E p o c h 3 M. Parry advanced an entirely new theory about the genesis o f the Homeric text, namely that it is the product o f a long tradition o f singers, who composed their songs orally, each performance anew, with the aid o f prefab elements such as the formulas (combinations o f words that are regularly used under the same metrical conditions), type-scenes and themes. As in the case o f the Analysts and most early Unitarians, the question o f the origin o f the text determined its literary assessment. Parry's main object o f investiga­ tion was the ornamental epithet: ‘swift-footed Achilles’ , ‘much-enduring Odysseus’ and the like. The choice o f these epithets, he argued, is deter­ mined by metrical factors. Thus Odysseus is ‘m uch-enduring’ in the nom i­ native, ‘divine’ in the genitive. For Parry this implied that critics have no right to attach a specific, contextually determined significance to the orna­ mental epithet. Some o f Parry’s followers, notably Notopoulos and Lord, generalized this claim and decreed that the Homeric poems as a whole (not only the epithets) could no longer be interpreted according to the usual literary standards, but required an ‘oral poetics’: ‘Homeric scholarship must realize that the time has come to lay the foundations o f a literary criticism, non-Aristotelian in character and emanating mainly from the physiognomy o f oral literature which differs in style and form from written literature’ (Notopoulos 1949: 1). Unfortunately, such an oral poetics was not available. The only thing scholars could come up with was a wealth o f negative prescriptions: there was a ban not only on contextually significant epithets, but also on longrange correspondences {Fernverbindungen), precise correlations between speeches and scenes and the concept o f à pre-conceived organic unity. As a result, literary studies o f H om er dwindled to a trickle, in comparison with the vast torrent o f formulaic studies. The literary studies that do appear in this period are almost all by German scholars, who for a long time remained unfamiliar with Parry’s work, and even after they were introduced to -it (by A. Lesky in 1954) showed little enthusiasm for his ideas —a cool reception that in fact persists even today. Most German scholars are inclined to believe that the Iliad and the Odyssey can only have come about with the help o f writing. Examples are the fine studies o f S. Beßlich on silences and passing over in Odyssean dialogues and D. Lohmann on the structure o f the speeches in the Iliad. Around the beginning o f the 1970s the sharp drop in literary studies became a matter o f concern to scholars, amongst them A. Amory Parry: Homeric studies today are flourishing, but admirers o f Homer as poetry are a rather baffled lot. Homerists may devote themselves to Linear B, Mycenaean warfare and weaponry, formulary modifications, linguistic features, Yugoslav parallels, and other such topics; but anyone who

6

L iterary Interpretation

prefers to concentrate on Homer himself and offers an interpretation o f some part o f the Iliad or Odyssey is liable to meet with the rejoinder that literary standards must not be applied to an oral poet. (1971: 1) Since that time the tide has turned, and literary studies have become fashionable again. Instead o f The Singer of Tales, scholars are again giving their books ‘provocative’ titles like Homer. Poet o f the Iliad. W hat methods have been devised to escape from the Parryan impasse? In the first place, scholars have decided to largely ignore the oral-formulaic background o f the epics. One advocate o f this approach is J. Griffin, who states in the Introduction to his Homer on Life and Death'. ‘W e shall, I think, have to go on with aesthetic methods not essentially or radically new, observing caution and avoiding arguments which are ruled out by an oral origin for the work, but approaching the epics in a manner not wholly different from the way in which the Greeks themselves approached them’ (1980: X IV ). In the remainder o f his book Griffin only occasionally asks him self whether his own arguments are ‘ruled out by an oral origin for the work’ . But his interpretations have an irresistible charm and persuasiveness, and his book has contributed in no small degree to this turning o f the tide in Homeric criticism. An example will illustrate his literary method: I begin with passages which appear to have no emotional content, and aim to show that it is impossible to separate them from others in which such content is undeniably present. It is heartening to find that the ancient commentators, whose work is so little regarded in most recent writing on Homer, very often found in these passages the same qualities o f emotion and pathos as we shall find there . . . In Book 11.262, Agamemnon has killed two sons o f Antenor. The episode has been a highly pathetic one (see especially 11.241—7). It is summarized: There the sons o f Antenor, at the hands o f king Agamemnon, fulfilled their doom and went down to the house o f Hades. Such a passage, free from emotive words, is easily underrated. W e find an ancient commentator saying ‘He describes this emotionally’ . Are we convinced that the emotion is really there? In the hope o f answering this question, let us go on to a not dissimilar but clearer passage. 5.5 39ff, twin sons o f Diodes: their parentage, growing up, they sailed to Troy; there Aeneas slew them, as men slay a pair o f trees: Even so were the two defeated at Aeneas’ hands and fell, like tall pine-trees. Again, no word o f explicit pathos; but the scholiast observes: expressed

Introduction

7

emotionally, through the tail pine-trees, because o f their youth and beauty’ . The simile has, implicitly, brought out the pathos a little more (once fallen, they lie low), as did the treatment o f their childhood and growing up . . . 4.536, a leader from each side is killed: So were the two captains stretched in the dust side by side, one o f the Thracians, the other o f the mail-clad Epeians; and around them were many others likewise slain. G. Strasburger suggests that here the heroic death o f the two leaders represents the general mêlée, which could not be well depicted in epic. There is, I think, truth in this; but the particular way in which their deaths are summed up seems also to be meant to bring out the tragic fact that both fought and died far from home. Enemies, they lie side by side in death, and the audience sees them in the perspective in which the gods see them, as equal in vulnerability, in mortality, in death. (1980: 1 0 5 -6 ) W e see how Griffin builds up his argument cumulatively, connecting related passages and explaining Homer out o f Homer. The second way to return to literary criticism in an ‘oral age’ is to demonstrate H om er’s artistry precisely in the use he makes o f the tradi­ tional, oral style. Homer is not subordinated to his tradition, but is master o f it, using the devices o f oral poetry, formulas, type-scenes and verbatim repetition to create such special effects as emphasis, contrast, symmetry, pathos and irony. An important impetus towards this revisionist movement was given by a special volume o f the Yale Classical Studies (1966), contain­ ing contributions by A. Parry, A. Amory Parry and J. Russo, who all argue for a high degree o f artistry and conscious literary planning in Homer. Since that time, a host o f revisionist studies have appeared, o f which the work o f B. Fenik and M. Edwards may be singled out. One example, taken from Fenik’s Iliad book, may suffice to show the way in which these scholars proceed: Λ 1 5 -4 6 . The arming o f Agamemnon. The Greek general dons his armor according to a pattern that basically never varies in the Iliad. The warrior puts on greaves, breastplate, sword, shield, and helmet in that order, and then picks up his spear(s). Cf. Γ 328, Π 130, T 364. Taken together these make up one o f Arend’s typical scenes. W hat is unusual in the present example is the elaborateness both o f Agamemnon’s armor and its description. But there can be scarcely any doubt that splendid armor was a popular theme in all epic war poetry. Beside the armor o f Achilles and Agamemnon, the Iliad itself mentions the marvelous armor o f Peleus (P 194), o f Areithoos (H 136), and o f Nestor and Diomedes (Θ 191)· The

8

L iterary Interpretation

descriptions o f Agamemnon’s breastplate (1.9-28) and shield (3 2 -4 0 ) are not repeated elsewhere, but the terrifying demons, snakes, etc. fashioned on them are directly related to those on the aegis o f Zeus (E 739) or on the belt o f Heracles (λ 609)· Here, as in Π and T , the arming takes place just before the battle in which the arming warrior will enjoy his aristeia. in T , too, Achilles’ armor receives considerable elaboration, though not to quite the same extent as Agam em non’s. It is interesting that Achilles’ shield, as described in Σ , not only has no demons or monsters on it, but even the similes that describe the armor in the T scene are not drawn from the realm o f war. (1968: 7 8 -9 ) The great advantage o f this form o f literary criticism is that it is transparent: Fenik puts all his cards on the table and those cards (parallels from within Homer) are visible to and verifiable by all. This research continues today and is still yielding many valuable insights. To take an example, S. Reece’s study on the hospitality scenes o f the Odyssey (1993), which starts from a formal basis, offers excellent literary interpretations. Another type o f literary research which is actually quite compatible with an oral background o f the Homeric poems is neoanalysis.4 Neoanalysis starts from the belief that the Iliad and the Odyssey are the works o f (a) single poet(s), yet tries to find echoes or variations within these poems o f preHomeric poetry. Even though we have no actual pre-Homeric poetry left, there is quite a bit o f material available to draw upon, in the form o f the fragments o f the Epic Cycle which, though later than Homer, obviously reflect earlier poetry, and later summaries, notably those o f Proclus. Oral poetry theory and neoanalysis alike start from the assumption that the poet Homer was part o f a long tradition, was not creating his poems e nihilo, but rather drawing on an arsenal o f pre-existing songs, to which he then gave his own twist. Important representatives o f neoanalysis are J. Kakridis and W . Kullmann. A favourite example is the mourning for Patroclus, in particular at the beginning o f Book 18, which seems to echo the mourning o f Achilles, such as described in the sixth-century Aithiopis. The obvious drawback o f this type o f literary criticism is its hypothetical nature: it compares the Iliad and the Odyssey with predecessors we do not actually have. On the other hand, its great appeal lies in the fact that it shows us Homer at work, m oulding traditional tales to suit his poetic intentions in much the same way as we will later see the lyric and dramatic poets doing.

III. T w o R ecen t D ev elop m en ts: N arratology and A n th ro p o lo g y Yet another way out o f the Parryan impasse is to turn to a higher plane, to look at the Iliad and the Odyssey not so much as texts but as stories. A t this

Introduction

9

level the distinction between an oral and a written genesis becomes less pertinent, as many scholars point out: 'all narrative poetry presents char­ acters, recounts actions, describes a world, implies values and so on. A t a certain level it makes no difference to a critical interpretation whether a poem is written or oral’ (Am ory Parry 1971: 14) and 'it is not unreasonable to suppose that any story-teller, oral or literate, improvising or premeditat­ ing, should desire and be able to connect his ending with his beginning, to develop themes in a recognisable and coherent sequence, and to draw attention to related scenes by direct repetition or allusive resemblances' (Rutherford 1985: 133). It was therefore a logical step to start interpreting the Homeric epics with the help o f narratology, a branch o f literary criti­ cism that aims at describing and analysing narrative texts. A narratological interpretation deals with such aspects as the role o f the narrator and his audience (the narratees), the temporal structure o f the story (anticipations and retroversions, rhythm, repetitions, etc.), characterization and point o f view (focalisation). Pioneers in Homeric narratology are I. de Jong and S. Richardson.5 The following example may serve to illustrate the hermeneutic potential o f narratology.6 A well-known feature of the Homeric poems is the repeated verses and verse clusters. These have always been the bites noires o f Homeric scholarship: ancient scholars tried to get rid o f them by athetesis, Analysts tried to distinguish between the original and the secondary - and often less successful — use, while oralists see them as jmere mnemonic devices, allow­ ing the singer to put on the 'automatic pilot' for a while, in order to premeditate the sequel o f his story. From a narratological perspective we can distinguish the following types o f repetition: (a) The same text is used more than once by the same narrator-focalizer to refer to the same event. (b) The same text is used by different narrator-focalizers to refer to the same event. (c) The same text is used more than once by the same narrator-focalizer to refer to different events. (d) The same text is used by different narrator-focalizers to refer to different events. The first type o f repetition in H om er mostly involves direct speech: one character uses the same words on different occasions. W e see an example o f this in Iliad 3. The rivals Paris and Menelaus have agreed to fight a duel in order to decide who w ill have Helen as his wife. The conditions o f the fight are stated by Agamemnon (3.285—7): then let the Trojans give back Helen and all her possessions, and pay also a price to the Argives which will be fitting, which among people yet to come shall be a standard.

10

L iterary Interpretation

W h e n the duel is over, A gam em n on repeats the same w ords (3 .4 5 8 -6 0 ): D o you [Trojans] therefore give back, w ith all her possessions, H elen o f A rgos, and pay a price that shall be fitting, w h ich am ong p eople yet to com e shall be a standard.

The verbatim repetition here is functional on the level o f the communica­ tion between characters: Paris has lost the duel, and Agamemnon, repeating the exact conditions o f the duel, thereby urges the Trojans to fulfill them. In the case o f the second type o f repetition, the Homeric epics present us with two subtypes: either (b l) the primary narrator-focalizer (‘H om er) repeats the words o f secondary narrat or-focalizers (speaking characters) or vice versa, or (b2) different characters use the same words. An example o f b l is found in Iliad 4. The goddess Athena advises the Trojan Pandarus to pray to A pollo before aiming an arrow at Menelaus (4.101—3): but make your prayer to A pollo the light-born, the glorious archer that you will accomplish a grand sacrifice o f lambs first born when you come home again to the city o f sacred Zeleia. Some verses later the primary narrator-focalizer repeats these words (4 .1 1 9 -

21 ): and he made a prayer to A pollo the light-born, the glorious archer that he would accomplish a grand sacrifice o f lambs first born when he came home again to the city o f sacred Zeleia. The function o f the verbatim repetition is clear: we are informed that Pandarus strictly obeyed the orders o f the goddess. An example o f b2 is the recurrence o f Iliad 4 .1 6 3 -5 in 6.443—9: For I know this thing well in my heart, and my mind knows it. There will come a day when sacred Ilion shall perish, and Priam and the people o f Priam o f the strong ash spear. The first time the speaker is Agamemnon, who exhorts his men. The second time it is Hector, speaking with his wife Andromache. This time the repetition is not functional on the level o f the communication between characters, as was the case in a — Agamemnon and H ector do not know that they are echoing one other - but can be interpreted by the narratees as expressing the contrast in perspective between future victor (Agamemnon) and future vanquished (Hector). For the former, the idea that Troy is doomed to fall is an incentive to fight as hard as he can. In the mouth o f the latter the same words acquire a tragic undertone; he knows he is

Introduction

11

fighting a lost cause, but the heroic code forbids him to cease fighting (as his wife had just urged him to do). The third type o f verbatim repetition is employed mainly by the primary narrator-focalizer: recurring events such as sacrifices, meals and arrivals are presented by him in the same words (the type-scenes). Type-scenes may display many variations, thus allowing the narrator to place the accents he wishes; but even their exact recurrence can have a literary significance. W e find an example o f this in the last book o f the Iliad^ the meeting between Priam and Achilles, the man who killed his son Hector. A m oving exchange o f speeches and the release o f H ector’s body by Achilles are followed by the type-scene o f preparing and eating a meal (6 2 1 -7 ). Its detailed and almost ritual nature has great force here. It signals that Achilles and Priam, both o f whom had abstained from eating for several days because they were in mourning for their respective losses, now return to normal human beha­ viour. The fourth type o f verbatim repetition is seldom found in the Homeric poems. One o f the few examples is Iliad 5.458—9 = 5 .8 8 3 -4 : Even now he stabbed the lady o f Cyprus in her hand by the wrist and again, like more than a man, charged even against me. The first time A pollo is telling Ares how Diomedes attacked Aphrodite and himself; the second time Ares tells Zeus how Diomedes attacked Aphrodite and himself. The repetition brings home to the narratees Diomedes’ theomacby, a central theme o f Book 5. But narratology can do more than contribute to the literary evaluation o f oral elements; it may equally open new avenues o f research. One example here is the investigation o f the 'figurai’ perspective or embedded focalization, that is, when we look at events through the eyes o f one o f the characters. Until recently this technique was deemed a m odem invention, but in fact 5 per cent o f both the Iliad and the Odyssey consist o f this mode o f presentation. It is a powerful means o f effecting pathos (when we look at Achilles’ maltreatment o f H ector’s body through Andromache’s eyes, in Iliad 22.464—5) or creating secrecy (when we alone hear o f Odysseus’ secret feelings o f revenge at moments when, disguised as a beggar, he cannot openly express them, for example, in Odyssey 18.90—4). Finally, narratology can help to refine, indeed correct, age-old ideas about the Homeric narrative style. For example, it is the communis opinio that the Homeric epics lack suspense (cf. the quotation from Finsler in section I). Recent investigations by Morrison (1992) and Schmitz (1994), however, have convincingly modified this view. The narrator may toy with the expectations o f his narratees, postponing the expected outcome o f the story or an episode,' or attaining that outcome by unexpected means. Take, for example, the course o f events during the mnesterophonia: Odysseus takes his

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opponents by surprise, aiming the bow o f the bow-contest at mortals. He keeps on hitting men with his arrows, and they die one after the other. For Odysseus the victory — predestined by tradition — seems within reach. A t this point the narrator starts unnerving his narratees: first Odysseus runs out o f arrows, then suddenly there is a little side-door, through which the Suitors m ight escape and go for help, and finally Telemachus has forgotten to close the door to the armoury, thus allowing the Suitors to arm them­ selves . . . Only after meeting with all these setbacks does Odysseus attain his final triumph. From narratology I now turn to anthropology. In modern - post-W olfian — times, the Homeric epics have always been compared to other texts: Volkspoesie, folktales, Near Eastern myths and above all, since Parry and Lord, Yugoslavian oral poetry. This kind o f research has recently received a new impetus from 'performance’ studies such as those carried out in the literary field by R . Martin, in his book on the speeches o f the Iliad (1 9 8 9 ), and in the linguistic field by E. Bakker (1 9 9 7 ; see also his Introduction to Volum e I). The centrality o f performance is described by Martin as follows: Tim e and again the observer o f performances can note that timing, gesture, voice inflection, tempo, proximity to the audience, the past relation o f a particular performer with his or her audience, the setting, the season, the time o f day — are factors that determine the meaning o f the actual words spoken by a performer as much if not more so than the literal meaning o f the words themselves. This is to say that it is the performance, not the text, which counts. (1 9 8 9 : 7)

In order to understand the Homeric performance, which strictly speaking has been irrevocably lost, scholars may turn — with due caution - to performances o f living oral genres, and approach the Homeric epics ‘anthropologically’ : If we start with the idea that Homer was an oral poet, it seems to me essential that we should delve more deeply and concentrate not on poets in the text but on orality itself, to look at the very notion o f speech within the poems to discover the parameters o f this very basic sort o f perfor­ mance. Then we can extend the notion o f performance, or rather, recap­ ture what Greeks considered to be a ‘performance’ , and compare it with our own notions. The task is ethnographic; the society to be observed happens to be extant only in the remnants o f its poetic production. Yet some reconstruction can be attempted. (1 9 8 9 : 10)

This line o f approach is also seen in the works o f S. Murnaghan on

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recognition in the Odyssey (1987), J. W inkler on sex and gender (1990) and S. Goldhill (1991), who shows himself influenced - amongst other things by the French structuralist school o f Vernant, Detienne and Vidal-Naquet, which in its turn derives much o f its inspiration from the anthropologist Lévi-Strauss.

IV . T h ree H allm arks o f H o m eric Literary Style: Similes, Inset, Tales and Epithets Similes The similes are, o f course, one o f the most distinctive and celebrated elements o f the Homeric poems, which numerous later poets strove to emulate. But, their length and elaboration have elicited criticism as well as admiration. Taking on a life o f their own, they seemed to lose contact with their context, the main story. The digressive nature o f the Homeric similes was long considered a blemish; the poet should have stuck to the tertium comparationis, the point o f contact between simile and context, and not given his similes a ‘tail’ . In a monograph from 1921 H. Frankel brilliantly demolished this narrow view o f one o f the pearls o f Homeric poetry, and led the way to a much more liberal’ interpretation. Often there is more than one point o f contact between simile and context: the obvious one, usually ‘advertised’ through verbatim répétition, and more subtle ones, related to m ood or atmosphere: Thus the question that has occupied us; so far, that o f the correspondence between simile and context, should not be answered apodictically; we must ask it for each instance anew. It is not right to deny the existence o f an obvious connection, simply because we have already established the point o f comparison ( Vergleichspunkt). Conversely, we should never inter­ ject similarities only in order to make the parallelism as complete as possible. Rather we should look at simile and context in the same spirit as the Homeric man. This investigation o f the nature o f the correspondences between simile and context will therefore never make the mistake o f claiming that only the outward correspondences or the emotional ones count. Rather, it is a pleasant task to investigate time and time again which part was played by the senses and which by the emotions when the simile was created. Both illustrative function {Anschauungsgehalt) and expressive function ÇStimmungsgehalt) should be taken into account. (1921: 15—16; my translation) Let us take a look at one o f Frankel’s examples. A t the beginning o f Book 22 o f the Iliad y ail the Trojans have fled inside Troy, except for Hector. He is alone awaiting Achilles, who is running towards him at full speed. H ector’s

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father Priam, standing on top o f the walls, is the first to see Achilles (2 5 32): The aged Priam was the first o f all whose eyes saw him [Achilles] as he swept across the flat land in full shining, like that star which comes on in the autumn and whose conspicuous brightness far outshines the stars that are numbered in the night's darkening, the star they give the name o f Orion’s D og, which is brightest among the stars, and yet is wrought as a sign of evil and brings on the great fever for unfortunate mortals. Such was the flare o f the bronze that girt his chest in his running. A t first glance, this is a simile with a tail, the tail being the italicized part. The reader may wonder why we are given such detail on the ominous nature o f the star, when what we need, an illustration o f the splendour o f Achilles’ armour, has long been provided? Here is Frankel’s interpretation: 'why ail o f a sudden this change o f m ood [ominous instead o f sparkling]? Because we are looking at Achilles through the eyes o f Priam’ (1921: 48). In other words, the simile describes the gleam o f Achilles’ armour and also subtly suggests Priam’s anxious feelings, as he sees the best o f the Achaeans approach his son. Following the lead o f Frankel, many sophisticated inter­ pretations o f Homeric similes have appeared. O f course, there is always the danger o f overinterpretation, but ideally the interpretation is anchored in the — immediate or remote - context. Thus, in the case o f Frankel’s example, one could point to Priam’s ensuing speech, in which he gives expression to his anxiety. Another major advance in the interpretation o f the similes is their use as leitmotivs, that is, when the same imagery recurs at different places in the poem and invites the reader to connect those places, in order to see the progression or contrast. This line o f research was successfully developed by C. M oulton (1977), and the following example, concerning the imagery o f the beleaguered city, derives from his book. The first instance o f the leitm otiv compares Achilles to the flare o f a beleaguered city at the moment he appears at the trench around the Greek camp, to shout terribly at the Trojans (1 8 .2 0 7 -1 4 ): As when a flare goes up into the high air from a city from an island far away, with enemies fighting about it w ho all day long are in the hateful division o f Ares fighting from their own city, but as the sun goes down signal fires blaze out one after another, so that the glare goes pulsing high for men o f the neighbouring islands to see it, in case they m ight come over in ships to beat off the enemy; so from the head o f Achilleus the blaze shot into the bright air.

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Shortly afterwards, a trumpet simile describes Achilles' voice (2 1 9 -2 1 ): As loud as comes the voice that is screamed out by a trumpet by murderous attackers who beleaguer a city, so then high and clear went up the voice o f the son o f Aeacus. The two comparisons are linked by the element o f the city under siege. The clarity o f both the signal fires and the trumpet ominously mark the begin­ ning o f the definitive phase o f the battle for Troy itself, already a city under siege. Next, there is a simile that associates Achilles with the smoke from a burning city (2 1 .5 2 2 -5 ): And as when smoke ascending goes up into the wide sky from a burning city, with the anger o f the gods let loose upon it which inflicted labour upon them all, and sorrow on many, so Achilles inflicted labour and sorrow upon the Trojans. Here the burning city o f the simile clearly anticipates Troy. Although Achilles is not destined to lead the Greeks in their final assault against Troy, and although that event is outside the scope o f the lliad^ Achilles w ill slay Hector, Troy’s main defender, and hence contribute significantly to that fall. The association between Hector’s death and the fall o f Troy is made explicit in the last simile o f this series (2 2 .4 0 8 -1 1 ) . . . and his [Hector’s] father beloved groaned pitifully, and all his people about him were taken with wailing and lamentation all through the city. It was most like what would have happened, i f all lowering Ilion had been burning top to bottom in fire. This is the fitting climax o f the beleaguered city leitmotiv: it is no an­ onymous city that is burning, but Troy i tsel f. . . Inset Tales The Iliad and, even more, the Odyssey are full o f inset tales (cf. Longinus: ‘the greater part o f the Odyssey is embedded narrative’). At first glance, these tales, much like the similes, seem mere distractions. Old Nestor, in parti­ cular, has been accused o f garrulity. O n closer inspection, however, all these tales can be shown to fulfil important functions within the main story. It may be instructive to distinguish here between ‘argument’ function, that is, the function that the story has on the level o f the communication between characters, and ‘key’ function, that is, its function on the level o f the communication between narrator and narratees (Andersen 1987). The for­ mer, the argument’ function, has been recognized from antiquity onwards.

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Characters may use narratives to strengthen the impact o f their message, employing them as adhortative or dissuasive paradigms. W ell-know n exam­ ples are Achilles’ use o f the N iobe story to incite Priam to eat (Uiad 2 4 .6 0 1 19), and Phoenix’ use o f the Meleager story to exhort Achilles to accept Agamemnon’s gifts (Iliad 9 -5 27 -6 01 ). Key functions, though always acknowledged, have only recently attracted more attention. Thus it has always been seen that the key function o f the same Meleager story is to prefigure the outcome o f the Uiad itself: Achilles w ill not accept the gifts and will re-enter the battle only when he is forced to do so by the death o f Patroclus. An Odyssean example is the story o f the W ooden Horse, told on three occasions (4.271—89, 8.499—520 and 11.523— 32). Certain details, which at first glance are difficult to explain or deviate from other versions o f the story, can, upon closer inspection, be shown to reflect —indeed foreshadow —the story o f the Odyssey itself (Andersen 1977): the unique view o f Odysseus (and the other Greeks) within the W ooden Horse, that is, as a hero amongst enemies, anticipates his conversing in disguise in his own palace amongst his enemies, the Suitors; Helen, m im icking the wives o f the Greeks, anticipates Penelope trying to probe the disguise o f ‘the beggar’/Odysseus; and Odysseus having forcibly to shut up young Anticius anticipates this hero shutting up Euryclea, after she has recognized h im .7 A special characteristic o f Homeric inset tales is that often they are told more than once. W e have just seen that the story o f the W ooden Horse is told on three occasions. Other examples are the Oresteia story, which is referred to all through the Odyssey and functions as a (negative) foil to the main story, and Odysseus’ numerous lying tales. In both cases scholars have drawn attention to the subtle way in which each instalment o f the story is carefully tailored to addressee and situation. W hen we look at the Oresteia story (discussed by Hölscher 1967), we see that when it is told to Telemachus, the role o f Clytemnestra (foil to Penelope) is minimized, and the role o f Orestes (foil to Telemachus himself) is maximized. Conversely, when Agamemnon reports to Odysseus his own death at the hands o f Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, the latter’s criminal behaviour is described in bloody detail. Despite the virtuousness o f Penelope, the story here serves as a warning; the seed o f doubt is sown and Odysseus will leave Penelope out o f his plans until the very end. Finally, there are so-called ‘mirror-stories’: stories that report events recounted also by the narrator. The longest example is Achilles’ report to his mother o f the quarrel with Agamemnon about Chryseis, Iliad 1 .3 6 5 -9 2 , analysed by de Jong (1985). The report consists o f three parts: Achilles starts by adding information not before provided by the narrator, viz. how he got Chryseis (3 6 5 -9 ). This addition is rhetorically effective in that it makes clear his claim on the girl right at the beginning o f the story o f her loss. Next, there follows a verbatim repetition o f the narrator’s version o f the

Introduction

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first phase o f the conflict, when Chryses asks for his daughter back (372—9 = 1 2 -1 6 , 2 2 -5 ). This exact mirroring is in itself significant, in that it shows how at this stage Achilles was not personally involved. But then comes his account o f the plague and the actual quarrel with Agamemnon, the climax of his story (3 8 0 -9 2 ). N ow his emotions emerge more and more clearly, for example, when he refers to the arrow o f A pollo which brings the plague to the Greek camp as a ‘bad missile'. In his version, the narrator spoke o f a ‘sharp missile' (51), stressing its effectiveness. Surprisingly enough, Achilles describes the quarrel in only two and a half verses (386-8a), whereas the narrator spent 250 verses on it. Upon reflection, this brevity on Achilles' part is highly effective: with a few well-chosen words he contrasts his own sane advice to placate the god (386) with Agamemnon's uncontrolled anger at the words o f Calchas (387). In order to underline the contrast between these two reactions, Achilles also places them in a chronological perspective (‘immediately . . . I was the first to propose to placate the god, but next Agamemnon became angry’), thereby suggesting that Agamemnon opposed his own sane proposal. In reality, the course o f events was slightly different: Achilles' proposal to placate the god took place before, not after Calchas' speech. Moreover, it was not Achilles but Agamemnon who first reacted to the words o f the seer; he declared himself prepared to fulfil the demands o f Calchas to give back Chryseis, thereby - indirectly - following Achilles’ advice. Achilles skips all that followed (Agamemnon asking for compensation, his own anger and Agam em non’s request to be given Briseis, his own gift) and immediately jumps to the execution o f A ga­ memnon's threat: Chryseis is on her way back home, but Briseis has just been taken away from him. Achilles ends his account by stressing that Briseis belongs to him (392), returning !t o the beginning o f his tale in a typical Homeric ring-composition. Epithets The epithets, like the similes, are among the ‘pearls' o f Homeric poetry. A t the same time, their frequency poses a problem. W hat is the significance o f a word like πολύ μητις which occurs 87 times? For translators throughout the ages the answer often has been clear: the significance is slight and hence it will do no harm to leave the epithet out. Here, for instance, is Matthew Arnold's prescription from his On Translating Homer (written in 1861— 2): So essentially characteristic o f Homer is his plainness and naturalness o f thought, that to the preservation o f this in his own version the translator must without scruple sacrifice, where it is necessary, verbal fidelity to his original, rather than run any risk o f producing, by literalness, an odd and unnatural effect. The double epithets so constantly occurring in Homer must be dealt with according to this rule: these epithets come quite naturally in Homer's poetry; in English poetry they, in nine cases out o f

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ten, come, when literally rendered, quite unnaturally. I will not now discuss why this is so, I assume it as an indisputable fact that it is so; that Homer's μερόπων ανθρώπων comes to the reader as something perfectly natural, while Mr. Newman's voice-dividing mortals' comes to him as something perfectly unnatural. W ell then, as it is Homer's general effect which we are to reproduce, it is to be false to Homer to be so verbally faithful to him as that we lose this effect: and by the English translator Homer's double epithets must be, in many places, renounced altogether . . . (my italics) Other translators have shown more affinity with the phenomenon, for example, Alexander Pope, who writes in the preface o f his translation o f the Iliad (published in 1 7 1 5 -2 0 ): W hen we read H omer, we ought to reflect that we are reading the most ancient author in the heathen world; and those who consider him in this light, will double their pleasure in the perusal o f him. Let them think they are growing acquainted with nations and people that are now no more; that they are stepping almost three thousand years back into the remotest antiquity, and entertaining themselves with a clear and surpris­ ing vision o f things nowhere else to be found, the only true mirror o f that world. By this means alone their greatest obstacles will vanish; and what usually creates their dislike, will become a satisfaction. This consideration may further serve to answer for the constant use o f the same epithets to his Gods and heroes, such as the far-darting Phoebus, the blue-ey'd Pallas, the swift-footed Achilles, etc. which some have censured as impertinent and tediously repeated . . . They [epithets] were a sort o f attributes with which it was a matter o f religion to salute them on all occasions, and which it was an irreverence to omit. They were in the nature o f Sir-names. These two opinions may serve as an introduction to a historical survey o f the literary handling o f the epithets. The discussion starts in antiquity, where we find scholiasts commenting on fitting or unfitting epithets. An example o f the first is Βρισηΐδα καλλίπάρηον, ‘fair-cheeked Briseis', in Iliad 1.346, and o f the second ερατεινά ρέεθρα, lovely streams', in Iliad 21.218. The scholiasts explain unfitting epithets by saying that they apply ‘not then, but in general'. The approach o f the Unitarians and Analysts is roughly the same; epithets are usually fitting, sometimes semantically void (e.g. the very frequent ones such as πολόμητίς), and occasionally unfitting. Thus, Cauer gives as an example o f a fitting epithet πελώριος in Iliad 21.527 (‘Priam had taken his place on the god-built bastion and looked out and saw gigantic Achilles’) or

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22.92 (‘but H ector awaited Achilles as he came on, gigantic5), because ‘at the one place Priam's fear, at the other H ector’s courage should be stressed5 (1909: 404, my translation). It should be noted that neither for the scho­ liasts nor for the modern scholars discussed so far do metrical factors play a role. This changes radically with the advent o f the Parry era. In his theory o f the oral formulaic creation o f the texts epithets play a central role. They are chosen because o f their metrical shape, not because o f their sense. W hen the poet needed to fill the metrical slot after the bucolic caesura, he used δίος Όδυσσεύς or (after a consonant) έσθλός Όδυσσεύς, after the hephtemimeres πολύμητις Όδυσσεύς, and after the feminine caesura πολύτλας

δΐος Όδυσσεύς. A t a single stroke, Parry’s theory solved the problem o f the unfitting epithets, which could now be seen to be chosen purely for metrical reasons. But how about the fitting epithets? Can we still attribute to certain epithets a contextual significance? A clear negative answer was given by Combellack, who took as his point o f departure an ironic or pathetic interpretation o f φυσίζοος αία, ‘life-giving earth’ in a context o f death (Iliad 3.243): [Such interpretations] have now after Parry’s publications lost any plau­ sibility they may once have had, because they require us to believe, not only that the formulary poet used his formulas every now and then in a nonformulary way, but also that his audience, thoroughly trained in the technique o f listening to formulary verse, could be expected to know when an epithet was formulary and when it was not. (1959: 198) In other words, Parry’s theory appeared to deal a death blow to the literary significance o f epithets. But gradually strategies have been developed to salvage as much as possible o f that significance. In the first place, not all epithets are the same. Thus Parry him self suggested that we distinguish between ‘ornamen­ tal’ - or as he called them ‘fixed’ — epithets and ‘particularized’ epithets. A n example o f a ‘particularized’ epithet is πελώριος, mentioned earlier by Cauer: (1) It is given to Achilles in Φ 527 where the poet is telling us how Priam watched him from the walls as he drove the Trojan army before him. (2) In X 92 H ector will not yield to the pleas o f his father and mother, άλλ ο γε μίμν* Άχιλήα πελώριον άσσον ιόντα. (3) In Λ 820 when the Achaeans are suffering great reverses, Patroclus asks Eurypylus in desperation if he has any hope o f stopping πελώριον ΊΕκτορα. -(4 ) Helen identifies the Achaean heroes for Priam as he observes them from the Scaean gate. W hen he asks (Γ 226) ‘W h o then

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L iterary Interpretation

is this other Achaian o f power and stature towering above the Argives by head and broad shoulder?’, she answers him (229): ούτος 5 'Αίας έστί πελώριος, ερκος ’Αχαιών. (5-6) Line Η 211, where Ajax again receives this epithet, occurs in a passage where this hero, who is arming himself for his duel with Hector, is compared with Ares, who four lines above, has himself received the same epithet, (etc.) (Parry 1971: 157) This all seems plausible enough, but according to what general criteria does Parry pronounce an epithet ‘particularized? This is his rule o f thumb: the relation between the meaning o f the epithet and that o f the sentence must be such as to pertain directly to the action o f the moment. It will be objected that opinions here will differ, and the objection has some force. But in practice, if we keep in mind the directness which is from every point o f view the mark o f Homeric style, and firmly exclude any interpreta­ tion which does not instantly and easily come to mind, we shall find that there is hardly a case where variety o f opinion is possible . . . (1971: 156, my italics) The dangers o f subjectivism are unmistakable here, despite Parry’s own incantations. In practice, however, he looks for particularized epithets amongst those that are indeed likely to have a special value, viz. metrically equivalent epithets (instead o f πελώριος the poet could have used διίφιλος), determinative epithets (e.g. άπερείσι’ άποινα: Iliad 1.13), epithets that are separated from their noun (e.g. νουσον . . . κακήν: Iliad 1.10), and epithets in runover position (e.g. μήνιν . . . |θί)λομένην: Iliad 1 . 1- 2 ). A second strategy is to claim that - pace Combellack (and Parry himself) the same ornamental epithet can occasionally have a contextual significance. By way o f example, I quote from Kirk’s recent commentary on the Iliad (ad 3.243 again): It is unlikely, in view o f the careful construction o f Helen’s whole speech and the pathetic tone o f these verses in themselves . . . that ‘lifegenerating earth’ is to be taken as just a standard formular phrase, used at this juncture without special significance . . . In general it is true that formular epithets are not specially selected for their appropri­ ateness to a particular occasion; but nevertheless the singer does from time to time choose language, including formular language, that takes on special significance or irony in an individual context. It will remain a matter o f personal taste whether one can live with the idea that the same epithet can be both significant and insignificant. I m yself can,

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provided that we always remain conscious o f the fact that such a contextual interpretation is our own interpretation and not necessarily the effect intended by the poet or the interpretation that was attributed by the original audience. A third strategy consists in enlarging the context. Thus W hallon (1969) has argued, for example, that the epithet o f Nestor Ιπ π ότα is not significant in every context in which it occurs, yet is relevant to the Iliad as a whole, where this character is clearly portrayed as a man who knows about horses (cf. his careful advice to his son in Book 23). Vivante, who has devoted a whole monograph to the defence o f the literary epithet, goes even further: Take, for instance, such a familiar kind o f sentence as: 'He went to the hollow sh ip / W hat strikes us for a moment is the ship itself, its nature, its shape. If the poet had said merely, ‘He went to the sh ip/ he would simply have given us a piece o f information leading to something else. If, on the other hand, he had used some pointed adjective and said, for example, ‘He went to the ship made ready for h im / he would have brought out a purely practical or utilitarian connection. As it is, the effect is altogether different. W hat we find is a quality intrinsic to the idea o f ship. The hollow ship is what it is. It is moored wherever it may be, true to itself and, as such, unsubjected to the particular requirement o f the action at a certain point. Here is something perceived for what it is. The ship’s hollowness is poetic precisely because it is irrelevant to the narrative occasion. (1982: 13, my italics) Here we reach a point where one m ight ask how helpful this kind o f defence is. For nobody, not even Parry, has ever denied that in a very general sense epithets have a poetical value: For him [Homer] and for his audience alike, the fixed epithet did not so much adorn a single line or even a single poem, as it did the entirety of heroic song. These epithets constituted for him one o f the familiar elements o f poetry, elements which we o f a later age find it so difficult to appreciate, but the importance o f which, for both poet and audience, is shown by everything in Homer: by the story, by the characters, by the style . . . The audience would have been infinitely surprised if a bard had left them out; his always putting them in hardly drew their attention. (Parry 1971: 137) A fourth strategy could be called the ‘W ortfeld’ strategy. It consists o f analysing all epithets o f one nomen to see whether the one is found in one context, the other in another. An example is Eide (1986), who argues that three epithets for ‘hand’ (ααπτος, θρασύς, βαρύς) have an emotional force,

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Literary Interpretation

describing the hand as a harmful instrument, while two (παχύς, στίβαρός) are descriptive, showing the hand in action. A final strategy is to look at the presentation o f epithets; are they used by the narrator or by the characters? Vivante (1982: 27—33) has drawn atten­ tion to the fact that on average epithets occur less frequently in speeches. Austin (1966) and Shive (1987) have shown in great detail how characters refer to Odysseus and Achilles far less by their name epithets than does the narrator. De Jong (forthcoming) argues that the more emotional - often particularized - epithets tend to occur in speeches or embedded focalization. Thus, to return once more to the example o f πελώριος, this epithet is found seventeen times in speech, three times in embedded focalization and only five times in simple narrator-text. W hether in the end these strategies designed to salvage the literary significance o f the epithets are successful, will depend in part on develop­ ments within the field o f Homeric versification research. Recent trends towards giving up Parry's idea o f the formula as a block, and thinking instead in terms o f 'nucleus' and periphery', may prove to be negative, if, like Visser (1988), we relegate the epithet to the periphery, or positive, if, like Bakker and Fabbricotti (1991), we believe that the poet tried as much as possible to use certain epithets in certain contexts, even though they are part o f the periphery. A ll in all, the relationship between, metrical and semantic factors may turn out to be less one-sided than Parry at first suggested.

N otes I wish to thank Mrs B. Fasting for correcting my English. 1. For an overview o f literary interpretation from antiquity onwards, see Clarke ( 1981 ).

2 . G.P. Goold in ICS 2 , 1977, 1, drawing on an earlier - prose - version by Lang and Murray, which appeared in 1911 in the Oxford Magazine. 3. For an overview o f Parryanism and literary criticism, see also Holoka (1991). 4. For an overview o f neoanalysis, see W illcock (1997). 5. For an overview o f Homeric narratology, see de Jong (1997). 6. The example is taken from de Jong (1991). 7. For a recent discussion o f Homeric inset tales, see Olson (1995).

R eferen ces Allen, T .W . (1924) Homer. The Origins and the Transmission, Oxford. Amory Parry, A. (1971) ‘Homer as Artist’ , CQ 21, 1-15. Andersen, Oe. (1977) Odysseus and the W ooden Horse', SO 52, 5-1 8 . ------- (1987) 'Myth, Paradigm, and “ Spatial Form” in the Iliad', in J.M. Bremer, I.J.F. de Jong and J. Kalff (eds) Homer: Beyond Oral Poetry, Amsterdam, 1—15-

Introduction

23

Austin, J.N.H. (1966) Archery at the Dark of the Moon. Poetic Problems in Homer’s Odyssey, Berkeley-Los Angeles-London. Bakker, EJ. (1997) Poetry in Speech: Orality in Homeric Discourse, Ithaca-London. Bakker, EJ. and Fabbricotti, F. (1991) 'Peripheral and Nuclear Semantics in Homeric Diction: The Case o f Dative Expressions for “ Spear” 1, Mnemosyne 44, 63-84. Bassett, S.A. (1938) The Poetry of Homer, Berkeley. Bowra, C M . (1930) Tradition and Design in the Iliad, Oxford. Cauer, P. (21909) Grundfragen der Homerkritik, Leipzig. Clarke, H .W . (1981) Homer’s Readers. A Historical Introduction to the Iliad and the Odyssey, Newark. Combellack, F. (1959) ‘Milman Parry and Homeric Artistry’, Comparative Literature

1, 193- 208 . Eide, T. (1986) ‘Poetical and Metrical Value o f Homeric Epithets’ , SO 111, 5—18. Fenik, B. (1968) Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliad, Wiesbaden. Finsler, G. (21914) Homer 1. Der Dichter und seine Welt, Leipzig-Berlin. Frankel, H. (1921) Die homerischen Gleichnisse, Göttingen. Goldhill, S. (1991) The Poet’s Voice. Essays on Poetics and Greek Literature, Cambridge. Griffin, J. (1980) Homer on Life and Death, Oxford. Holoka, J.P. ( I 99I) ‘Homer, Oral Poetry, and Comparative Literature: Major Trends and Controversies in Twentieth-Century Criticism’, in J. Latacz (ed.) Zweihundert Jahre Homer-Forschung. Rückblick und Ausblick, Stuttgart-Leipzig, 4 56-81. Hölscher, U. (1967) 'Die Atridensage in der Odyssee’, in H. Singer and B. von Weise (eds) Festschrift Alewyn, Cologne-Graz, 1—16. de Jong, I.J.F. (1985) ‘Iliad 1.366—392: A Mirror Story’ , Arethusa 18, 5 -22. ------- (1987) Narrators and Focalizers. The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad, Amsterdam. ------- ( I 99I) 'Narratology and Oral Poetry’, Poetics Today 12, 4 0 5 -2 3 . ------- ( 1997) 'Homer and Narratology’, in I. Morris and B. Powell (eds) The New Companion to Homer, Leiden, 305—25. ------- (forthcoming) ‘Epithet and Narrative Situation’, in P. Kakridis (ed.) Acta of the Seventh Conference on the Odyssey, Ithaca. Kakridis, J.T. (1949) Homeric Researches, Lund. Kirk, G.S. (1985) The Iliad: A Commentary, Volume 1, Books 1 -4 , Cambridge. Kullmann, W . (1984) 'Oral Poetry Theory and Neoanalysis in Homeric Research’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 25, 3 0 7-23. Martin, R.P. (1989) The Language of Heroes. Speech and Performance in the Iliad, Ithaca, NY-London. Morrison, J.V. (1992) Homeric Misdirection: False Predictions in the Iliad, Ann Arbor. Moulton, C. (1977) Similes in the Homeric Poems, Göttingen. Mumaghan, S. (1987) Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey, Princeton. Notopoulos, J.A. ( 1949) ‘Parataxis in Homer. A New Approach to Homeric Literary Criticism’ , TAPhA 80, 1—23. Olson, S.D. (1995) Blood and Iron. Stories and Storytelling in Homer’s Odyssey, Leiden. Reece, S. (1992) The Stranger’s Welcome. Oral Theory and the Aesthetics of the Homeric Hospitality Scene, Ann Arbor. Richardson, S. (1990) The Homeric Narrator, Nashville. Rutherford, R.B. (1985) 'At Home and Abroad. Aspects o f the Structure o f the Odyssey', PCPS 31, 1 33-50. Schadewaldt, W . (1938) Iliasstudien, Leipzig.

24

Literary Interpretation

Schmitz, T. (1994) 1st die Odyssee “ spannend” ? Anmerkungen zur Erzähltechnik des homerischen Epos’ , Philologus 138, 3-2 3 . Shive, D. (1987) N am in g A ch illes , Oxford. Visser, E. (1988) ‘Formulae or Single Words, towards a New Theory on Homeric Verse-Making', W ürzburger Jahrbücher f ü r die Altertumswissenschaft 14, 2 1 -3 7 . Vivante, P. (1982) T he Epithets in Homer , A Study in Poetic V alues, Yale. Whallon, W . (1969) Formula, Character, a n d Context: Studies in Homeric, O ld English, a n d O ld Testament P o etry , Cambridge, Mass. von W ilamowitz, U. (1916) D i e Ilias u n d H om er , Berlin. W illcock, M. (1997) ‘Neoanalysis', in I. Morris and B. Powell (eds) T he N e w Companion to H om er , Leiden, 174-89. Winkler, J. (1990) T he Constraints o f Desire , T he Anthropology o f Sex a n d G ender in A n cien t Greece , New York-London. W olf, F.A. ({1795]1985) Prolegomena to H om er , transi, with introduction and notes by A. Grafton, G .W . Most and J.E.G. Zetzel, Princeton.

A. The Poems and Individual Scenes

43__________________ Hektor und Androm ache*

W . Schadewaldt ^Source: Von Römers W elt und W erk, reprint from D ie Antike vol. Π , 1935, pp. 1 5 9 -7 0 , Koehler Verlag, Stuttgart, 1959> pp. 2 0 7 -3 3 , 4 5 7 -8 .

1 Ü b e r tra g u n g

Hektor ist auf den Rat des Sehers Helenos vom Kam pf in die Stadt gekom ­ m en.1 Die Mutter Hekabe und Trojas Frauen sollen einen Bittgang zu Athene tun, damit die Göttin den Ansturm des Diomedes hemme. D io ­ medes macht draußen den Troern hart zu schaffen. V on der Mutter ist H ektor zu Paris gegangen, um den Säumigen zum K am pf zurückzuholen. Er findet ihn über seinen Waffen, Helena bei ihren Frauen.2 Ernst spricht er ihn an: die : Männer verdürben draußen um Mauer und Stadt; um seinetwillen sei doch der Krieg entbrannt. Paris ist bereit: er werde ihn schon noch in der Stadt einholen. Helena ver­ wünscht sich und ihr Leben mit dem ehrlosen Mann, doch der Schwager m öge niedersitzen, er habe doch so viel Plage um ihret- und Paris willen, denen beiden Zeus ein so unseliges Schicksal gegeben, wovon noch künftig die Menschen sagen werden. Hektor lehnt ab, schon zieht es ihn zu den Troern hinaus, die draußen sehr nach ihm verlangen. Aber sie treibe ihren Mann, und er eile sich, damit er ihn noch in der Stadt erreiche. ‘Auch ich will noch nach Haus gehn, um nach dem Gesinde und der lieben Frau und meinem Söhnlein zu sehn. W eiß ich doch nicht, ob ich noch einmal zu ihnen wiederkehre oder die Götter mich diesmal unter den Händen der Danaer bezwingen.’ 3

28

Literary Interpretation B uch 6 , V e n 3 6 9 f f .

370

380

390

400

410

Als der helmfunkelnde Hektor so gesprochen hatte, ging er fort und gelangte alsbald zu seinem wohlbewohnten Haus, doch fand er die weißarmige Andromache nicht in der Halle. Sie war mit dem Kind und der schöngekleideten Wärterin zum Turm hinaufgestiegen, weinend und jammernd. W ie Hektor nun seine untadelige Gattin im Haus nicht traf, ging er hin und trat auf die Schwelle und rief unter die Mägde: 'Heda, ihr Mägde, sagt treulich an! W o ist die weiß­ armige Andromache aus der Halle hingegangen? Ist sie vielleicht zu den Schwagersfrauen oder den schöngekleideten Mannesschwestern, oder zur Athene hinaus, wo die anderen flechtenschönen Troer­ frauen die furchtbare Göttin gnädig stimmen?’ Da gab ihm die flinke Schaffnerin zur Antwort: ‘Hektor, weil du es redlich zu sagen befiehlst: sie ist nicht zu den Schwagersfrauen oder den schöngeklei­ deten Mannesschwestern, auch nicht zur Athene hinaus, wo die anderen flechtenschönen Troerfrauen die furchtbare Göttin gnädig stimmen, sondern zum großen Turm von Ilion ist sie gegangen, weil sie hörte, die Troer seien erschöpft und groß sei die Überlegenheit der Achaier. So ist sie eilends fort zur Mauer, einer Rasenden gleich, und mit ihr ist die Amme und trägt den Knaben.’ So die Schaffnerin, und Hektor eilte vom Hause wieder denselben W eg die gut gebauten Gassen hinunter. W ie er auf seinem Gang durch die große Stadt nun aber ans Skäische Tor gelangte, wo er hinaus zur Ebene mußte, da kam ihm die teuer umworbene Gattin entgegengelaufen, Andromache, die Tochter des hochgemuten Eëtion, jenes Eëtion, der unterm bewaldeten Plakos saß, in Theben unterm Plakos, und Herr war über kilikische Mannen; dessen Toch­ ter hatte der erzgepanzerte Hektor zum W eibe. Sie kam ihm da entgegen, und neben ihr lief die Wärterin her mit dem munteren Knaben auf dem Arm, der noch ganz klein war, Hektors Sohn, seinem Liebling, er glich einem schönen Sterne. Ihn nannte Hektor Skamandrios, doch die anderen Astyanax, denn Troias Rettung stand allein bei Hektor. Und er blickte nun auf den Knaben und lächelte schweigend. Aber Andromache trat dicht zu ihm heran in Tränen, nahm ihn bei der Hand, hub an und sagte. ‘Unglücklicher! Dir wird dein Trotz noch zum Verderben! Und du erbarmst dich deines schwachen Kindes nicht noch meiner, der Unseligen, die ich bald W itw e von dir bin! Bald dringen ja die Achaier alle auf dich ein und schlagen dich tot, dann wär mir besser, unter die Erde zu gehn, w o ich nicht dich mehr habe. Denn sieh, für mich ist kein Trost mehr, wenn auch du dem Schicksal verfielst, nein, Gram nur! Ich hab nicht Vater noch hohe Mutter. Den Vater erschlug mir der göttliche Achilleus und zerstörte die wohlbewohnte

The Poems and Individual Scenes

420

430

440

450

460

29

Stadt der Kiliker, die hochtorige Thebe, und hieb den Eëtion nieder, zog ihm die Waffen freilich nicht vom Leibe, das scheute er in seinem Herzen, sondern verbrannte ihn mitsamt dem schön verzierten Rüst­ zeug, und schüttete ein Mal über ihm auf, und rund herum pflanzten Ulmen die Nymphen vom Berge, die Töchter des ägisführenden Zeus. Auch die sieben Brüder, die mir daheim in der Halle waren, gingen alle am selben Tag zum Hades hinab, sie alle erschlug der fußstarke, göttliche Achilleus über den schwerschreitenden Rindern und weißen Schafen. Aber die Mutter, die unterm bewaldeten Plakos Königin war, brachte er mit all der anderen Beute hierher, gab sie dann wieder frei gegen unermeßliche Buße, und dann hat in der Halle ihres Vaters die pfeiischüttende Artemis sie getroffen. Hektor, aber du, du bist mir Vater und Mutter, bist mir Bruder: du bist mein blühender Gatte — so erbarm dich nun und bleibe hier auf dem Turme, und laß dein Kind doch nicht zur Waise und dein W eib zur W itw e werden! Stelle das V olk zum Feigenbaum, wo die Stadt am leichtesten ersteigbar ist und die Mauer berennbarl Dort kamen und versuchten es schon dreimal die besten Heiden unter den beiden Aianten und dem ruhmreichen Idomeneus und den Atriden und dem tapferen Sohn des Tydeus, ob es ihnen nun einer gesagt hat, der mit Göttersprüchen gut Bescheid weiß, oder ihr eigenes Herz sie dazu treibt und anweist. ’ Da gab der große, helmfunkelnde- Hektor ihr zur Antwort: Trau, an all das denk auch ich! Aber zu furchtbar schäm’ ich mich vor den Männern und schleppetragenden Frauen Troias, wollte ich mich wie ein gemeiner Mann aus dem Kampfe draußen halten. Auch drängt mich dazu nicht mein Hetz, denn man hat mich gelehrt, immer ein Edler zu sein und im vordersten Feld der Troer zu kämpfen, um den großen R u f meines Vaters zu wahren und meinen eigenen. Zwar, das weiß ich gut in Herz und Gemüt: es kom m t einmal der Tag, wo die heilige Ilios und Priamos und das V olk des speererprobten Priamos untergeht. Allein, nicht um das künftige Leid der Troer sorge ich m ich so furchtbar, selbst um Hekabe nicht und den Herrscher Priamos und meine Brüder, so viele und edle dann in den Staub sinken vor den ergrimmten Feinden, so wie um dich, wenn einer von den erzgepanzerten Achaiern dich dann weinend wegführt und raubt dir den Tag der Freiheit; und du in Argos dann webst am W ebstuhl einer anderen und Wasser trägst von der Quelle Messeïs oder Hypereia, viel widerstrebend, doch ein harter Zwang liegt auf dir, und manch einer dich dann weinen sieht und spricht: Seht, das ist Hektors W eib , der der Beste war in K am pf unter den reisigen Troern, als sie um Ilion kämpften - so spricht dann mancher, und dann erwacht in dir der Schmerz von neuem, daß du den Mann nicht hast, der den Tag der Knechtschaft ab wenden könnte — aber wäre

30

Literary Interpretation

470

480

490

500

ich doch dann tot und deckte mich die aufgeschüttete Erde, ehe ich noch hörte, wie du dann schreist und wie sie dich schleifen!' So sprach der strahlende Hektor und langte nach seinem Sohn. Aber das Kind bog sich schreiend zurück an die Brust der schönge­ gürteten Amme, erschreckt vor dem A nblick des lieben Vaters; es fürchtete sich vor dem Erz und dem Busch von Roßhaar, wie er oben vom Helm herab furchtbar auf es herniedernickte. Da lachte der Vater laut und auch die hohe Mutter. Schnell nahm der strahlende Hektor den Helm vom Haupt und setzte ihn zu Boden, den funkel­ hellen. D och wie er dann sein Söhnlein geküßt und in den Armen geschwungen, sprach er und betete zu Zeus und allen Göttern: ‘Zeus und all ihr Götter! Gebt, daß dieser mein Sohn hier so groß wie ich selbst im Troervolke werde, und so stark an Kraft, und laßt ihn machtvoll über Ilion gebieten! Dann sage man: Der ist viel besser als sein Vater! wenn er vom Kam pf kommt und die blutige Rüstung eines erschlagenen Feindes heimbringt! Dann freue sich die Mutter in ihrem Herzen!’ So sprach er und legte der lieben Frau seinen Sohn in die Arme. Sie nahm ihn in den Bausch ihres Gewands und lachte unter Tränen. Den Mann erbarmte es, als er es sah. Und er streichelte sie mit der Hand, hub an und sagte: ‘Unglückliche! Quäl dich.doch nicht so ohne Maß in deiner Seele! Sieh, wenn es mir nicht bestimmt ist, kann m ich kein Mensch hinab zum Hades stoßen. Freilich, seinem Schicksal ist unter Menschen, sag ich dir, keiner enthoben, nicht hoch noch gering, nachdem er einmal zur W elt kam. —Aber nun geh ins Haus und tu du deine W erke an W ebstuhl und Rocken, und treibe die Frauen, daß sie an ihr W erk gehn! Der Krieg ist Männersache, aller und zumeist die meine, die wir hier angestammt sind in Ilion !’ So sprach der strahlende Hektor und nahm den Helm mit dem Roßschweif. Die liebe Frau aber schritt dem Haus zu, wandte sich oft noch um, und ihre Tränen flössen. Und gelangte alsbald zum wohlbewohnten Haus des männermordenden Hektor und traf drin­ nen die vielen dienenden Eraun und erregte unter ihnen allen die Klage. Ja, da beklagten die W eiber Hektor noch bei Lebzeiten in seinem eigenen Haus. Sie meinten, er kehre aus dem Kriege nicht mehr wieder, entronnen der W u t und den Armen der Achaier.

2 W ir blicken zuerst auf den äußeren umgebenden Rahmen und verspüren sofort die Hand eines Dichters, der ordnet, gliedert, baut. Das Gespräch zwischen Hektor und Andromache ist die dritte, ausge­ dehnteste der drei ‘Szenen’, die den in die Kampfhandlung der Ilias

The Poems and Individual Scenes

31

eingelegten ‘A k t’ Rektor in Troja bilden: Hektor vor seiner Mutter Hekabe (6, 242—285), Hektor bei Paris und Helena (3 1 2 -3 6 8 ), Hektor und Andromache (3 6 9 -5 0 2 ). Vor dieser Szenen-Dreiheit steht ein kurzer Eingang (2 3 7 -2 4 1 ), am Ende ein Nachspiel (5 0 3 -5 2 9 ). Zwischendrein schiebt sich hinter die Hekabe-Szene die Erzählung vom Bittgang zu Athene, dem die Göttin die Gewährung verweigert (286—311). Das Ganze ist ein strenger Bau und doch absichtslos wie nur ein Stück Leben. Der ‘Eingang' zeigt Hektor am Skäischen Tor sofort umringt von Frauen und Mädchen, die ihn nach Söhnen, Brüdern, Männern befragen. Eine ‘Massenszene’ , wie oft in der Ilias dazu bestimmt, zu Beginn eines Gesche­ hens das allgemeine Bild der Lage zu umreißen, aus dem dann plastisch die großen ‘Einzelszenen' sich erheben. In der Gestaltung solcher ‘Expositionen’ ist später die Tragödie bei Homer in die Schule gegangen. Hier schlägt die Einleitung den Grundton an, der den ganzen Akt durchzieht: N ot draußen beim Heer - Sorge, Befürchtungen drinnen. Die Seelenlage der Andromache-Szene bereitet sich vor. Das Schlußstück des Ganzen (503 ff.) leitet äußerlich die Handlung weiter und wieder zum Kampfgeschehen zurück. Paris holt Hektor ein, nachdem dieser sich von Andromache löste, und beide Brüder ziehn ver­ söhnt aus der Stadt. Man muß auch hier die Töne hören. Paris ist mut- und kraftgeschwellt, wie ein R oß, das sich vom Halfter riß und fröhlich ins W eite zum Bade strebt. Hoffnungsvoll sind ganz am Ende Hektors W orte (526): \ . . daß wir den himmlischen Göttern in Freiheit den Mischkrug im Saale richten, wenn wir von Troja die gutgeschienten Achaier verjagten'. Der Dichter braucht nach so viel Trauerstimmung diese H offnung, um dem Akt den fühlbaren Abschluß zu geben und überzuleiten zu den dem Hektor vorläufig noch gewährten großen Taten. Aus diesem Rahmen wachsen die drei Begegnungen Hektors hervor. In ihnen steigert und vertieft sich die Bewegung bis zu Hektors Begegnung mit seinem W eibe, sichtlich dem Ziel des Ganzen. Zur Begegnung mit Hekabe kom m t es, weil Hektor den Bittgang veranlassen soll, der ihn in die Stadt bringt. Doch die Szene gibt mehr. Die sorgenschwere Stimmung klingt neu auf in der mütterlichen Fürsorge (254): ‘Mein Sohn, was ließest du den Kam pf und bist hergekommen? Ja, die Achaier zermürben unsere Leute, da wolltest du von der Höhe der Burg die Hände zu Zeus erheben. So will ich dir W ein bringen, zur Spende für den G ott und dir zur Stärkung’. — Und weiter: Die erste Begegnung zeigt Hektor als Sohn, die zweite als Bruder und Schwager, die dritte als Gatten und Vater - drei Verwandtschaftsgrade, drei Stufen seelischer Bindung. Und in allen drei Beziehungen ist Hektor der gleiche: der nicht verwei­ lende, den es wieder zum K am pf hinaustreibt. Für diese männliche Haltung Hektors hat der Dichter ein wunderbar einfaches Symbol geschaffen. H ek­ tor weist den W ein zurück, den ihm die Mutter bietet, ‘auf daß er ihm den Drang nicht hemme und er seiner Kraft vergäße’ . So wird er in der nächsten

32

Literary Interpretation

Begegnung es ablehnen niederzusitzen, wozu Helena ihn freundlich nötigt. Und diese Abwehr weiblicher Sorge um ihn wird schließlich in der Andromache-Szene sich vertiefen. N och unmittelbarer bereitet die zweite Stufe, der Aufenthalt Rektors bei Paris und Helena, die Begegnung m it Andromache vor. Hart vor dem Hauptbilde legt der Dichter ein Gegenbild ein, damit das Hauptbild desto kräftiger dastehe. V or das Paar H ektor-Andromache tritt das andere Paar Paris-Helena in umgekehrtem Verhältnis: der willensschwache (523), wan­ kelmütige (352) Mann neben der starken, ehrbewußten, ihres unwürdigen Daseins überdrüssigen Frau —der Held neben der nur liebenden Gattin, der Mutter seines Sohnes. Der Kontrapost ist eines der festesten Stilmittel in der baumeisterlichen Hand des Iliasdichters. Er zwingt den Blick des Lesers in bestimmte Richtung und erspart dem Dichter das Reden. Und der Dichter meistert dies Mittel mit so unauffälliger Sicherheit, daß niemand die künstlerische Absicht merkt, der er doch unterliegt.

3 Uber der Begegnung Hektors mit Andromache selbst liegt die gleiche schwermütige Sorge, die seit Beginn des Aktes herrscht. Diese sammelt sich nun in Gedanken an Hektors künftigen Tod. Zu Anfang Hektors eigene W orte an Helena: er wüßte ja nicht, ob er die Seinen noch wiedersehe. A m Schluß der Szene die Klage der W eiber in Hektors Hause wie schon über den Toten. So viel plastischer ist der Todesgedanke im Lauf der Szene geworden. Er ist in der Szene selbst der Beweger der Handlungen und der W orte, Im Gedanken an sein mögliches Ende sucht H ektor sein W eib. Die Sorge um ihn, da sie von der Niederlage draußen hörte, trieb sie zur Mauer. Aus der Todessorge dringt Andromaches Rede, mit dem Todesgedanken endet die Hektors, vom Tod in der Schlacht handeln seine allerletzten W orte (487 ff.). Genug, die ganze Begegnung ist umgeben und durchdrungen von dieser Sorge. Hektor steht schon hier im Tode. W ir werden später fragen, welche Aufgabe so die Begegnung Hektors mit Andromache im Zusammenhang der ganzen Ilias erfüllt. Das Geschehen der Szene selbst strömt wie im Fluß an uns vorüber, aber es verfließt nichts. Kristallklar formen und gliedern sich auch hier die einzelnen Teile. Man kann sie m it Stichwörtern überschreiben: Suchen und Zusammentreffen (369—406), die Reden (4 0 7 -4 4 0 ^ 1 6 5 ), Vereinigung (4 6 6 493), Trennung (4 9 4 -5 0 2 ). A u f die Vereinigung als Ziel strebt alles hin. — Gestaltung und Wesen dieser W endungen der Handlung seien mit wenigen Fingerzeigen soweit erläutert, daß viele gewiß noch sichtbare Einzelzüge sich jedem bei eigener Betrachtung von selbst ergeben.

The Poems an d Individual Scenes

33

Suchen und Zusammentreffen Das Besondere, Bedeutende dieses Vorspiels liegt in der Art, wie der Dichter die beiden Gestalten fuhrt, ehe er sie zueinander bringt. Er verschmäht die nächstliegende Lösung. Denn er konnte es auch so machen, daß Hektor die Andromache dort fand, wo er sie suchte, im Hause, am W ebstuhl oder, wie Helena, unter ihren Mägden. Aber er macht es anders. Andromache hat das Haus verlassen, als H ektor dort anlangt. Sie ist fast toll vor Angst zum Turm am Skäischen Tor gelaufen. Hektor, als er es vernimmt, eilt ebenfalls zum Skäischen Tor. W ir hören nichts von einer Absicht Hektors, die Frau dort zu suchen, und der Zusatz (393): wo er zur Ebene hindurchgehen m ußte’ gibt uns eher das Gefühl, als wollte er grades W egs wieder zum Kampf, wenn er sie nicht noch träfe. A ber Hektor trifft sie. Denn auch sie ist schon wieder auf dem Rückweg nach Hause. W arum dies Hin und Her der Gestalten? W arum diese Verzögerung ihres Beieinander? Verzögern schafft Spannung, und mit der Spannung wächst die Bedeu­ tung dessen, worauf wir spannten. Hektor darf nicht so nach Hause kom ­ men, wie wohl der Mann im Alltag von seinem Tagwerk her einmal auf einen Sprung nach seiner Frau sieht. Die Begegnung Hektors m it Andro­ mache ist die einzige und letzte sichtbare Begegnung der beiden im ganzen Ilias-Geschehen. Sie mußte aus dem gewöhnlichen Alltag erhoben werden zur Höhe des Bleibenden, Wesentlichen. Der Dichter erreicht dies durch die bloße Führung der Gestalten. Ehe sie zueinanderfinden, müssen sie sich verfehlen. Und wie wunderbar dieses Sichverfehlen! Während der Mann die Frau in ihrem Bereich, dem Hause sucht, ist die Frau von Sorge um ihn getrieben schon seinem Bereich, dem Turm, genaht, um auf dem Schlacht­ feld nach ihm auszuschauen. Die gleiche !Sehnsucht treibt sie übers Kreuz aneinander vorbei und auseinander, und wenn der Zufall — man kann auch sagen: die Fügung - sie endlich doch zueinander fuhrt, so hat diese zuerst gefährdete, dann doch noch erreichte Vereinigung, ohne daß ein W ort darüber fiele, den Charakter des Innigen und des Notwendigen. Viel noch wäre zur Einzelgestaltung dieses Vorspiels zu sagen. Ein inneres Getriebensein beherrscht die Bewegung beider Gestalten. Aber der Mann bleibt gefaßt und handelt beherrscht, wie in Erfüllung einer Pflicht, die Frau V ie von Sinnen, einer Rasenden gleich’ in der an den Schmerz sich hingebenden, verzückten Art, wie Frauen leiden. U nd wie sie heftig ist in Eilen, Drängen, Laufen! Das wieder hebt sie ab gegen die breite Ruhe der Auskunft gebenden Schaffnerin. Auch dies ‘wahnsinnige’ Angst der Andromache ist unalltäglich, ist Vorklang des Furchtbaren, das herannaht. Oder man sehe, wie der Dichter eben im Augenblick, als endlich Andromache naht, die Bewegung stillhält und Belehrung erteilt über Andromaches Herkunft, Vater und Heimat, über die beiden Namen des Kindes — der zweite erinnert im Vorübergehen an Hektors Beruf als Verteidiger Trojas.

34

Literary Interpretation

Nach allem erkennen wir Homer, den Dramatiker, und sehen, es ist nichts damit, daß das Epos Homers einem nur immer fortgleitenden Strom ohne Anfang, ohne Ende gleicht. N ur ganz an der Oberfläche mag das so erscheinen; der eigentliche Körper des Homerischen Epos ist so gebaut, so gespannt, so ausgerichtet wie nur m öglich. Im besonderen schafft H omer Bewegung, Handlung, führt seine Menschen und fuhrt sie so, daß der Hörer aus der bloßen Anschauung innewird, wie es um diese Menschen steht, wie sie zueinander stehen. Der Dichter spart W orte, zumal da wo W orte leicht etwas Zudringliches haben. Statt dessen bildet er in zurückhaltenden Gebärden. So ganz am Schluß. Ein schweigendes Lächeln des Vaters im Blick auf den Sohn, ein Nahetreten der weinenden Frau, ein Händedruck. Diese Kunst des Spürenlassens — kaum ‘Kunst’ - erwächst aus dem Grunde einer großen Keuschheit im Betrachten der menschlichen Dinge. Aus solcher ‘innerer’ Vorbereitung erheben sich nun die Reden. Und eben vereinigt, treten beide Gestalten in den Reden auseinander. Die Reden Die beiden Reden sind das Urbild eines ‘Redekampfes’ . Die Erau, in der Führung und leidenschaftlich andrängend, sucht den Mann zu sich her­ überzuziehen, damit er sich für sie und für ihr Kind erhalte. Der Mann erwehrt sich ihrer, fest in seiner Aufgabe beharrend, doch verstehend. Was gegeneinander ficht, sind nicht Personen, Charaktere, die im Spiegel ihrer W orte ihr sogenanntes Eigenleben spielen ließen und sich in Denken, Fühlen ihrer Einzigkeit rühmten. Es reden auch nicht Doktrinen, verkör­ pert in Ideal-Gestalten mit wehenden Spruchbändern vorm Munde. Es geht nicht um ein Rechthaben, wie so oft im Rede-W ettstreit der späten Tragödie. Die liebende Frau und der kämpfende Mann stehen gegeneinander, und in ihnen behaupten sich zwei W elten. Zw ei Urbereiche des Daseins, die doch wie Hemisphären aneinanderhaften, werden ihrer Unverträglichkeit inne. Andromache spricht aus dem Urberuf des W eibes: als Nährerin und Hüterin des Lebendigen. Ihr Bereich ist das Haus, die Sippe, mit Vater, Mutter, Brüdern, Kind und Gatte. Sie will halten, erhalten. Und ihr Anspruch ist der Anspruch des natürlichen Glücks, das 2u dem andern sagt: ‘Sei d a !’ Aus Hektor spricht das männliche Heldenwesen. Er allein ist Trojas Schutz. Sein Bereich ist draußen der Kampfplatz. Sein ‘G lück’ ist die Tat. Das bloße Dasein, das Leben mag vergehen. Sein Streben richtet sich auf Pflicht und Ruhm, in denen sein Manneswert an den Tag kom m t und weiter dauert. So reden Frau und Mann aus der vollen, ganzen N otwendigkeit ihres Daseins, welche vorgezeichnet ist in dem Gesetz nach dem sie wuchsen, geformt und gehärtet durch die Zucht ihres Standes und durch ihr Schicksal,

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bestätigt vom Zielbilde ihres Wesens her. Daß beide so aus der Ganzheit ihres Daseins reden, macht, daß sie so wesentlich, so ‘menschlich’ reden. Die Rede der Andromache hat etwas hinreißend Subjektives. Andro­ mache spürt in Hektor etwas ihr Unbegreifliches, das ihn von ihr entfernt - den ‘Trotz’ , ‘Drang’ (menos), das Heldenungestüm in ihm, das ihn in die Gefahr und wohl gar in den Tod treibt.4 Hieran entzündet sich in ihren ersten W orten das Hadern ihrer Liebe, in dem doch auch sie so drängend ist. Die verhaltene Erregung spricht aus den ‘Synkopen’ der ersten von Vers zu Vers übergreifenden Sätze (407 bis 412). Sein Heldendrang ist, für sie, Gefühllosigkeit, mangelndes Erbarmen. Und die ganze Rede wird zu einer einzigen weitausschwingenden Bitte um Erbarmen, nämlich daß er sich für sie und den Knaben bewahre.5 Vater und Brüder sind erschlagen, die Mutter im Gram gestorben. N un hat sie nur ihn, und, mehr noch, in ihm gesammelt hat sie alles, was ihr die andern waren. Sie spricht sehr naturhaft, sinnlich, von ihrem ‘Erwärmen’ (wie der unübersetzbare Ausdruck lautet, für den wir in der Übertragung ‘Trost’ einsetzten, 411). W eil im Herzählen der erlittenen Verluste der W ert des Mannes für sie wächst, verweilt sie lange am Vergangenen. Und im Verweilen beim bisherigen Schicksal rührt sie ahnungsvoll an das kommende. Hier wird im Hintergründe die drohende und doch wieder milde Gestalt des Einen sichtbar, der ihr bald auch den Gatten verderben wird, Achilleus. M it der Bitte, Hektor möge auf der Mauer bleiben, ist der Kreis der Rede geschlossen. A ber die Sorge treibt sie weiter vorwärts. Die Frau wagt sich mit dem Anspruch ihrer Liebe hinüber in sein, des Mannes Bereich, wenn sie sich anmaßt, ihm eine Strategie der Verteidigung vorzuschreiben. W er; wie zuerst Aristarch, diesen Redeschluß (4 3 3 -4 3 9 ) strich, mutete dem W eibe Hektors zu, den Mann zur Ehrlosigkeit aufzurufen. Ihre Bitte, daß er auf der Mauer bleiben solle, wird erst durch die Einzelheiten des Plans und die Erinnerung an frühere Angriffe dort annehmbar und verständig. Dies Verständigsein im Unverstand der Liebe hat etwas Ergreifendes. Der zwecklose Versuch, den Mann auch im Krieg, der doch ‘Männersache’ ist, nach dem Eigensinn ihrer Liebe zu leiten, ist der letzte folgerichtige Schritt ihres angstgetriebenen Herzens. Andromache ist kein Heldenweib wie manche Frau der germanischen Sage, wie manche spartanische Gattin und Mutter. Sie reicht nicht an die innere Stärke der Helena heran, die den Mann in den Kam pf treibt. Neben Hektor durfte der Dichter ein solches W eib nicht stellen. Auch die Größe der göttlichen Mutter Thetis geht ihr ab, die zwar mit leisem W ort den Sohn vor dem Tode warnt,6 aber seinem Entschluß still beipflichtet7 und sogar für ihn handelt. Aber man irre sich nicht, und lasse das Bild der Homerischen Andromache nicht unbewußt m it den empfindsamen Frauen­ gestalten aus dem bürgerlich idyllischen Klein-Epos des 18. Jahrhunderts

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Literary Interpretation

verfließen. Die Liebe Andromaches hat etwas Unbedingtes, Elementares; nicht umsonst ist sie dem Dichter in ihrer Angst ‘einer Rasenden gleich'. Die Gegenrede Hektors ist die Selbstbehauptung des Mannes und seiner W elt gegen das dumpfe Drängen der Erau. Ihrer Erregtheit tritt in dem Mann eine Große Ruhe entgegen, dem Unverstand ihrer Liebe ein Verste­ hen, das der Festigkeit seiner Sprache eine große Milde gibt. Hektor beruft sich auf eine äußere und eine innere Bindung. Er scheut die Nachrede des Volks. In ihr, die im Kreise dieser Menschen unnachsich­ tig Ehre zollt und in Schande wirft, tritt dem Helden, fühlbar durch die ‘Scham', von außen' das, was wir ‘Pflicht’ nennen würden, entgegen. Aber diese Pflicht: immer Bester zu sein, im vordersten Feld zu kämpfen, dem R u f des Vaters nicht Schande zu machen, den eigenen R u f zu wahren, ist eben das, was er als Edler gelernt' hat. Was einst Vorschrift und Beispiel war, ist ihm durch Zucht langst zur zweiten Natur geworden. Keine Fiber seines Inneren regt sich dagegen. Das ist Hektors Erwiderung an die Frau — keine W iderlegung, denn hier stoßen sich zwei W elten, doch die erleuchtende Rechtfertigung der nat­ ürlich-sittlichen N otwendigkeit seines, wie sie meinte, nur selbstzerstö­ renden, erbarmungslosen ‘Trotzes'. Aber dies Beharren Hektors in dem, was Herkunft und Wesen ihm vorschreibt, befestigt sich noch im Vorblick auf die Zukunft. Auch vor Hektor steht das Schicksal seines Todes. Aber anders als fiir die Frau weitet es sich für ihn, den Verteidiger Trojas, sofort zum allgemeinen Schicksal seines Volks, zum einstigen Fall der heiligen Ilios. Die W orte, die den berühmten Vers einleiten: ‘Freilich, das weiß ich gut . . .' bringen in Hektors Rede eine plötzliche W endung. Doch der Hinweis auf ihre. ‘Entlehnung’ von anderer Stelle h er8 gibt keine ausreichende Erklärung. Hinter diesem W issen um den einmal kommenden Untergang steht unaus­ gesprochen ein ‘Und d och !’ . Hektor bedarf um zu kämpfen nicht einmal der Hoffnung. Unmerklich gleitet es weiter. Die Sicht in die Zukunft verengt sich und alles andre tritt zurück hinter dem einen Schicksal der Frau. W ie Andro­ mache rückschauend auf den T od von Vater, Mutter, Brüdern blickte, für die alle zusammen sie nun nur Hektor hat: so sicht Hektor voraus auf das nahende Unheil von Eltern und Brüdern, und ihrer aller Schmerz beküm­ mert ihn doch geringer als der Schmerz der Erau, wenn man sie davon­ schleppt, wenn sie dienen muß zu Argos, Sparta oder in Thessalien, und wenn das neugierige fingerzeigende V olk Hektors W eib in der Erniedrigten erkennt. Man muß spüren, wie im Ausmalen dieser gehäuften Züge in einem einzigen, nicht abreißenden Satz9 das Mitgefühl des Mannes schwillt, wie sich der qualvolle Gedanke an seinen in der Erniedrigung der Erau geschändeten Namen mit einmischt, bis das Gefühl endlich sich Bahn bricht im W unsch: ‘Lieber zuvor gestorben!'. Man sieht von selber, wie beide Reden in Gedanke wie Form durch

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Entsprechung und Gegensatz bis ins einzelne hinein aneinander gebunden sind. Jede der beiden Gestalten hängt in schmerzlicher Sorge am Schicksal des andern. Aber verbunden in ihrem Schmerz und ihrer Liebe, ,sind sie in ihrem Sein doch tief voneinander geschieden — wie eben G lück und Größe sich nicht aufeinander reimen. Vereinigung Hier nimmt der Vorgang eine unvermittelte, unerwartete W endung. Ein Dritter greift überzeugungskräftig in das Geschehen ein und führt das Auseinandergeschiedene wirklich zusammen. Dieser Dritte ist das Kind, der Knabe Astyanax. W ieder gilt es die Gebärdensprache im Hinlangen, Hemehmen und W eitergeben aufzufassen und richtig auszulegen. Zwar, das deutende W ort gerät hier wohl gar in den Verdacht, als wage es, dem gestalteten Bilde Homers einen zwiefachen Schriftsinn, eine Symbolik unterzulegen — es widerführe dem Dichter nicht zum ersten Mal. Nein, keine ‘Sym bolik’ ! W oh l aber der genial richtige G riff einer unwillkürlichen W eisheit, die da, wo dürftigere Zeiten den K o p f anstrengen, das Lebendige faßt und gar nicht anders erfassen kann, als in ihm des einfachen Lebens-Sinnes innezu­ werden. Der Vater langt nach dem Kind. N och trägt es die Amme. Das Kind erschrickt, schreit, sträubt sich gegen den Vater im blanken Helm m it wippendem Kamm. Die Eltern lachen, der H elm muß herab. N un kommt das Kind zum Vater. Er küßt es und betet. Und als er gebetet hat, gibt er es nun zur Mutter. Und sie, die vorher weinte und nun doch lachen muß, lacht so unter Tränen. Und Hektor streichelt sie. Es ist die einzige Zärtlichkeit des Mannes in der ganzen Szene. ' Der W eg des Kindes zum Vater und vom Vater zur Mutter zwingt sichtbar die Gestalten zueinander. A m Ende bilden die drei - man möchte sagen: eine geschlossene plastische Gruppe. Diesen Augenblick hat Car­ stens, kurz vor seinem Tod, gezeichnet, wobei er schwermütig das Unter dem Schicksal Stehen der Gestalten auszudrücken su chte.10 Thematisch nicht weniger klar ist der Stimmungsweg der Frau. Ihr Lachen, durch das Kind hervorgelockt, siegt nicht über ihre Tränen, aber mischt sich zwischen sie ein, gleichen Rechts. Und was schuf von innen her diese Vereinigung? Ein heiterer Zwischenfall und ein feierlicher A ufblick dicht beieinander. Die Einfalt des kindlichen Wesens - das Homer gut kennt11 - zwingt, trotz allem, zu einem Lachen, das erleichtert und befreit. Doch nicht genug damit: dem Helden ersteht in seinem Kinde ein unvorhergesehener W id er­ sacher. Und wenn dieser kleine Parteigänger der Frau nun auf seine W eise gegen die kriegsmäßige Ausstattung des Vaters protestiert, so ist auch diesmal die vollkommene Einfalt stärker als aller eifernder Nachdruck in der W elt. W as die Frau im Großen weder durch leidenschaftliche Mahnung noch vernünftigen Rat vermochte, es gelingt dem Kind für einen Augenblick

38

Literary Interpretation

im Kleinen. Der erzene roßmähnige Helm gehr zu Boden. Und das Kind auf den Armen, ist der Vater nun eingekehrt in die W elt der Seinen. Dann betet er. Jetzt sieht er im Kinde den Sohn. W ieder öffnet sich vor ihm die Sicht auf die Zukunft, doch sein Blick hat nun alles Schwere abgeworfen. Die Hoffnung, die er für sich selber nicht suchte, verklärt sein geistiges Ver­ mächtnis an den Sohn. In dem Erhalter seines Bluts und seiner Art bewahre und steigere sich sein Selbst, als Schirmer Ilions, Verteidiger des Vaterlands. Und das Mannestum des Sohnes sei der Mutter zur Freude. Im Hoffen, Sehnen, W ünschen erfährt der Mensch auf die einfachste, ursprünglichste W eise den Hang zum Idealen; derart ist zumal das, was Eltern sich in ihren Kindern erhoffen. Auch die W ünsche Hektors für die Zukunft des Sohns haben diese Kraft der Erhebung über die Gegenwart, ihre Drangsal und ihre Gegensätzlichkeit, und im Aufblick zu dem im Kind noch schlummernden Bild des Sohns, in dem das gesteigerte Selbst des Vaters die Freude der Mutter sein wird, sind beide einig. Hektor und Andromaches Begegnung ist hier am Ziel. Als Hektor die Frau sieht, haltlos zwischen Lachen und Tränen, tut sich ihm das Herz auf. Um 'Erbarmen' hatte sie gefleht. Nun 'erbarmt5 er sich ihrer. Jetzt erst antwortet er eigenlich auf ihre Rede, indem er tröstet. 'Unglückliche! Ungestüme! — von unbegreiflicher Macht, einem Dämon Getriebene!5: mit dem gleichen unübersetzbaren W ort (daimonios) hatte sie hadernd gegen ihn begon n en.12 Nun spürt er in der Leidenschaft ihres Schmerzes, dem sie sich maßlos hingibt, die gleiche rätselhafte Macht eines unlenkbaren, unberechenbaren Dranges, wie sie in seinen Kämpfen. Und er spricht weiter und jetzt erst offen von dem, worum es ihr ging, von seinem m öglichen Tod. Keines Mannes W affe kann ihn ritzen wider Gebühr und Schicksal. Das ist sein Trost an sie, gewiß ein Trost, der Zuversicht spendet oder jedenfalls Kraft zur Duldung. Der Heldenauftrag Hektors wird durch ihn nicht beeinträchtigt, eher in neuer Hinsicht begründet. W oh in den Edlen auch das Ehrgefühl treibe, der Ruhm locke: seinem Lose, dem ihm zugemeßnen Teil kann er nicht entfliehn. Der Gedanke hat sich ins Religiöse geweitet, so wie Homer das Religiöse kennt: als Bejahung des U nabänderlichen. Trennung Augenblicke innerer Erhebung stärken den Menschen für das Leben, aber gehen im Leben vorüber, und die W irklichkeit stellt ihre nüchternen Forderungen. Es ist kaum zu sagen, wie sachlich herb Homer das Beiein­ ander der beiden Gatten wieder trennt, unbekümmert um die zärteren Ansprüche mancher seiner späteren Leser. Die beiden Bereiche, die unsere Auslegung von Anfang an zu erkennen und zu scheiden suchte, treten nun schroff nebeneinander: Haus und Krieg. Und Hektor mahnt zur Rückkehr eines jeden der beiden in sein Bereich. Es ist eine der Stellen im alten Epos,

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wo wir Platon vorklingen hören. Was ihnen bleibt, das ist die karge Alltagsregel: daß jeder der beiden, die Frau bei der Spindel, der Mann im Felde, 'seine Sache tu e'.13 W enige Striche führen die Szene zu Ende. Hektor nimmt seinen Helm, der Frau fällt es schwer, sich zu lösen, und ihre Tränen fließen wieder. Und wenn im Hause die W eiber von W einen ergriffen die Totenklage über den noch lebenden Hektor erheben, so bleibt Hektor für den Hörer der Ilias von nun an, so große Dinge er auch noch verrichten wird, ein dem Tod Verfallener. Das so tief Überzeugende, das vollkommen Natürliche und unwillkürlich Wahre in der Begegnung von Hektor und Andromache beruht darauf, daß Homer sich in Mann und Frau hier wirklich Mann und Frau begegnen ließ und die Begegnung so auf eine der großen Grundpolaritäten gestellt hat, die das Leben tragen. Dies polare Gestalten ist eine Hauptkraft Homers, dem sich überall in seinem Gedicht im W iderspiel der großen Polaritäten das Sein der W elt erschließt.

4 Der Schluß der Szene weist über ihren Rahmen hinaus. W ie steht die Begegnung Hektors mit Andromache im Ganzen der Ilias? W ir beschrän­ ken uns auf Tatsachen. Dies empfiehlt sich schon deshalb, weil man wirklich geglaubt hat, der Akt Hektor in Troja habe einmal als selbständiges (mit einer verlorenen Anfangsszene: Hektor vor Priamos und den troischen Ratsherrn) bestanden.14 Indessen, die Fülle der Möglichkeiten im W erdegang eines großen Dichtwerks läßt sich nicht durch einige Stilurteile und ein paar ‘W idersprüche’ nebst daran geknüpften Folgerungen so einengen, daß nur die eine oder andere Lösung übrigbleibt. Ein Dichter zum Beispiel, der ‘auf Szenen’ arbeitet, wird leicht in den Verdacht kommen, er habe nicht nur aus vorhandenen Quellen, modelnd und erfindend, gestaltet, sondern ganz ‘Einzelgedichte’ starr übernommen. Ein solcher Dichter, zumal wenn er fürs Hören über mehrere Tage hin dichtet, wird auch Übergänge, Rückgriffe und Vorbereitungen schaffen müssen, bei denen sich ohne weiteres gar nicht bestimmen läßt, bis zu welchem Genauigkeitsgrade hier alles ‘m oti­ viert’ sein müsse. Der ‘A k t’ Hektor in Troja ist vom Kampfgeschehen der Ilias aus betrachtet eine Episode. A ber diese ‘Episode’ leistet Entscheidendes im H inblick auf die große Gegnerschaft Achilleus-Hektor, die vom dritten, großen Schlachttag an (Buch 11) immer stärker in den Vordergrund rückt und nach Erlegung des Patroklos durch H ektor (Buch 16/17) fast den ganzen Raum des Gedichtes füllt. Der große Gegenspieler des Achilleus durfte nicht Figur bleiben. Er mußte zur Gestalt werden, dem Hörer nah und

40

Literary Interpretation

vertraut als Held und als Mensch, in seinem Wesen, seinem Schicksal. Dies eben leistet der Akt Rektor in Troja mit seinen drei Begegnungen HektorHekabe, Hektor-Paris/Helena, Hektor-Andromache. Die Ilias ist ohne die­ sen A kt nicht denkbar. Er gehört in den Kreis derjenigen Akte, die uns im ersten Drittel der Ilias (Buch 1—7) mit Menschen, Dingen, Verhältnissen bekannt machen, neben die Mauerschau, das Abschreiten der aufgestellten Kampfstaffeln durch Agamemnon, das Gegeneinander von Achilleus und Agamemnon im Anfangsbuch. Man kann beobachten, wie die wichtigsten Helden des großen Dramas, Achilleus, Agamemnon, Odysseus, Paris, Menelaos, Diomedes usw., hier vorgestellt werden. D ie Herausarbeitung der Hektorgestalt hat der Dichter sich nicht ohne Grund für den Schluß dieses ersten Iliasteils aufgespart. Hektors Aufenthalt in Troja offenbart ihn als den Verteidiger der Stadt, der er angehört, sein dann folgender Zw ei­ kam pf mit Aias (im Buch 7) als großen Streiter. Den ‘inneren’ Höhepunkt dieser ganzen zweiseitigen Vorstellung Hektors bildet seine Begegnung mit Andromache. Hier offenbart der Widerstreit m it dem Nächsten und Lieb­ sten ihn am deutlichsten als den, der er ist. Über Hektors Begegnung mit Andromache liegt der Druck der N ot draußen beim Heer. Der Dichter hätte ohne diese sorgenschwere Stimmung die Gestalt Hektors nicht so tief entwickeln können. Er mußte es um dieser Erfindung willen in K auf nehmen, daß ein Hektor sich in großer N ot von seinem Heer entfernt. Ich dächte, es war kein schlechter Griff, die ‘Unwahrscheinlichkeit’ durch einen sakralen Auftrag Hektors zu rechtferti­ gen. — Die Notlage der Troer ergab sich mit leichtem und glattem Anschluß aus dem Vordringen des Diomedes. Diomedes wird noch in Andromaches letzten W orten (437) mit Nachdruck genannt.15 Das schließt den A kt Rektor in Troja im sechsten Buch eng an die Aristie des Diomedes im fünften. — Eine Klammer zurück zum dritten Buch schlägt die Begeg­ nung mit Paris und Helena. Helena spricht von ihrem Mann mit der gleichen traurigen Verachtung (6, 344) wie bei seiner unrühmlichen R ück­ kunft vom Zweikam pf mit Menelaos (3, 399. 4 2 8 ).16 Daß Hektor zunächst eine Verärgerung bei Paris voraussetzt, die ihn vom K am pf abhalte (326), ist noch lange kein Grund, auf einen älteren und anderen Zustand des Gedichts zu schließen. Das Sichverzürnen war die edle Untugend dieser Herren, die beherrscht von großen Trieben lebten; es war ein häufiges Thema der frühen griechischen wie auch der Epik verwandter Völker und lag also nahe genug, um im Vorbeigehn aufgegriffen zu werden. Die Hektor-Andromache-Szene, wie der ganze Akt Rektor in Troja, ist eng mit ihrer U m gebung, dem ersten Ilias-Drittel verwachsen, das breit und vielfältig die Verhältnisse entwickelt und die Grundlagen schafft. Durch die Begegnung Hektors mit Andromache zieht sich der Gedanke an Hektors späteren Tod, am Schluß wird dieser Gedanke für den Hörer zur Gewißheit. Damit weist das sechste Buch, lange bevor Hektor seinen Siegeslauf antritt (Buch 11—18), auf seinen Fall im Zw eikam pf mit A chill

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voraus (Buch 22). Die Begegnung m it Andromache ist das ‘letzte’ Zusam­ mensein der Gatten. Ein aufmerksamer Leser kann herausrechnen, daß Hektor noch einmal nach Troja kommt (7, 310) und vermutlich auch Andromache wiedergesehen haben wird. Aber das bleibt für den Dichter belanglos, denn er zeigt die Gatten nicht mehr beieinander. W oh l aber zeigt er uns Andromache am Schluß des 22. Buchs nach Hektors T od noch einmal so, daß wir gar nicht anders können als an die Andromache des sechsten Buchs zu denken. Die Beziehungen des sechsten Buchs zum Schluß der Ilias gehen noch weiter. Deutlich hörbare Anklänge verbinden die Reden der Briseis und des Achilleus im 19* B u ch ,17 des Priamos im 2 4 .18 mit der Andromache-Rede des sechsten. A m Ende des letzten Buchs aber erheben drei Frauen wirklich die Totenklage um den aufgebahrten Leichnam: Andromache, Hekabe, Helena die gleichen drei, denen Hektor im sechsten Buche begegnet. Hier klingen in der Rede der Andromache Gedanken aus der Begegnung wieder auf. Endlich die Beziehungen zu Achilleus. Achilleus war in der Begegnung Hektors mit Andromache im Hintergründe zugegen. Andromache sprach von dem Mörder von Vater und Brüdern und nannte unbewußt damit den künftigen Verderber des Gatten. Daß Andromache auch von der ehrfürchti­ gen Scheu, der Milde des Achilleus weiß, stimmt zu der Achill-Auffassung der ganzen Ilias. N och auf eine andere W eise hat der Dichter auf die Achill-Gestalt Rücksicht genommen, als er im sechsten Buch die Hektor-Gestalt anlegte. W ir sahen, Hektors baldiger Tod wird für den Hörer zumal am Schluß der Szene zur Gewißheit. Aber der Dichter hat es vermieden, Hektorn selbst das sichere Bewußtsein des nahenden Todes 'zu geben, wie dem Achilleus seit seiner ersten Begegnung mit seiner Mutter (Buch 1). Hektor denkt an den Tod, er rechnet m it ihm. Er glaubt an Trojas Untergang dereinst. Aber er hofft auch wieder für den Sohn. Er will sein Zerwürfnis mit Paris dann begleichen, wenn sie das Fest der Befreiung feiern und die Achaier aus dem Lande schlugen (6, 526). Es scheint, der Dichter hat gewußt, was er tat, wenn er in der Hektor-Andromache-Szene den Hektor zwar in den voraus­ fallenden Todesschatten stellte, ihm aber das klare und freie Handeln aus der Gewißheit des Todes vorenthielt, das allein dem größten Helden der Ilias zukam und keinem andern. Dies kann erst später, von Achilleus aus, völlig deutlich werden.

5 Hier wenden wir uns noch einmal um und blicken mehr aus der Ferne auf Homers H ektor und Andromache zurück. Den Standort gibt uns Sopho­ kles, der in der Tekmessa-Szene seines ‘Aias’ den Abschied Hektors von Andromache -aufgenommen und weitergebildet hat. Die Neufassung aus anderem Geiste hat Züge zum Vorschein gebracht, die in dem alten Motiv

42

Literary Interpretation

ruhten, die Homer jedoch unbeachtet und ungestaltet ließ, weil sie nicht nach seinem Sinne waren. Andrang der liebenden Frau, die um das Leben des Mannes ringt, Abwehr von Mannes seiten, Vermächtnis des Vaters an den Sohn: diese Grundzüge kehren bei Sophokles wieder (Aias 485 ff.). Aber über Aias ist das Schicksal hereingebrochen. Der K am pf der Frau geht nicht gegen den Tatendrang des Mannes, er richtet sich gegen seinen unverrückbaren Entschluß zu sterben. Durch den Abgrund seines Schicksals ist Aias von ihr abgeschieden. Ihre W orte dringen kaum zu ihm hinüber. Hier wird das Kind nicht zum Mittler. Der Vater ist allein mit dem Sohn, allein m it sich, während er zu dem Kleinen (nicht zu den Göttern) redet. N icht auf ein Zueinander strebt die Handlung hin. Die Kluft scheint sich in dieser Szene eher noch zu weiten. ‘Erbarm dich’, war die Bitte der Andromache. ‘Laß dich erweichen!' ruft Tekmessa (594). Denn was bei Hektor fester W ille war, ist in Aias unmenschliche Härte des Wesens. Eine furchtbare End­ gültigkeit, von der Homer nichts weiß, liegt über der Szene. Viele ver­ änderte Einzelzüge waren damit gegeben. So denkt die Frau selbst, nicht der Mann, an ihr künftiges Sklavenschicksal (497 ff.).19 W ie aus einer anderen W elt klingt das Reden dieser tragischen Menschen, und um so mehr empfinden wir die Frische und Einfalt Homers. Die W orte des Mannes und der Frau schienen bei Homer von sich selbst noch nichts zu wissen. Es quoll und strömte und fügte sich doch in klare Bahnen. Das einfache W ort war von einem Schwarm mit schwingender Töne umgeben, und es hatte unausgesprochene Gedanken in seinem Gefolge. In den Reden der beiden Sophokleischen Menschen wird, von Homer aus gesehen, so viel ausgesprochen und gewußt, gedacht und vertreten. W o bei Homer ein Getriebensein waltete, wirkt nun zielbewußter W ille. Dort unwillkürlicher Drang, hier gespannte und geschliffene Dynamik. Daß Hektor es als quälende Schande empfindet, wenn die Menschen später auf sein W eib mit Fingern zeigen, drang herauf aus dem Unterton seiner W orte (6, 460). Tekmessa sagt es (505): Doch Schim pf ist solche Rede dir und deinem Stamm. Andromache wie Tekmessa suchen den Gatten zu erflehn. Andromache: Doch du, Hektor, bist mir Vater und Mutter und Bruder . . . Tekmessa (518): W o wäre eine Heimat mir wenn nicht in dir? W o Segens Fülle? Ja, in dir ist all mein Heil! Es ist, als dränge der W ille zu überzeugen bei der Homerischen Frau gradwegs aus ihrem Herzen zum Herzen des andern. Tekmessas ‘rhetorische' Fragen aber sind eine Art zu folgern, eine Art Appell an das nachdenkende

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Verstehen. Überhaupt weiß das W ort im Munde dieser tragischen Menschen sich herbedingt von Grundsätzen und Wahrheiten, ausgeformt in runden Sprüchen, Richtungspunkten des Redens (485. 520 ff.). Es weist ständig über sich selbst hinaus. Der Redende spricht aus der Haltung dessen, der selber nur etwas höheres Gültiges vertritt, sich auf Unvergäng­ liches beruft. Im tiefen Unterschied zu Homer droht die W elt nun ihrer Hüllen bar zu werden. Man spürt, die griechische Poesie ist inzwischen weiter vorgeschritten auf ihrem Schicksalsweg zur Philosophie. Aus dem unwillkürlichen Dasein im W irklichen, das seines Sinnes froh ist, will sich ein höheres, eigentliches Sein ausscheiden, das es zu suchen gilt in der Irre des Handelns und im Herzens-Zwiespalt. Auch bei Homer war das Leiden schwer und tötend, nun ist es grell und schroff geworden. N och einen Blick auf die W orte, die auch Aias, seinen Sohn im Arm, an das Kind richtet. Auch Aias wünscht den Sohn ganz von seiner Art, doch leidenschaftlicher, persönlicher, ganz wie sich selbst: gleichgültig gegen Mord und Blut, und zumal als Hasser. Auch verweilt Aias nicht bei einem Bilde künftigen Heldentums. Er verweilt bei der ‘süßen’ Unbewußtheit des Kindes, das noch nichts weiß von Freude und Schmerz — wir würden von des Kindes ‘U nschuld’ sprechen. Diese ‘neidet’ er ihm. Und das spielende junge Leben, das den schwer gehenden Atem noch nicht kennt, dies sei ‘Freude der Mutter’. Bei Homer lachen wohl die Eltern über die liebens­ würdige Einfalt ihres Kindes, doch kennt Homer nicht solchen schwermü­ tig sehnsuchtsvollen Blick auf das Kind im Kinde, das dem Manne fur immer verlorenging. Homer kennt auch nicht die mit W unden bedeckte, gebrochene Seele, der das Schicksal alles bestritt, nur nicht ihre Größe. Daß der Sohn besser werde als der Vater, wünscht Hektor. Aias dagegen: Mein Sohn, sei glücklicher nur als dein Vater, Sonst gleich wie er. So würdest du nicht schlecht! Glück, Gedeihen, Dasein — Pflicht, Größe, Tat: es waren die gegnerischen Mächte, die bei Homer in Andromache und Hektor gegeneinander standen, von beiden gelebt, nicht vertreten, von jedem der beiden mehr befolgt als gewußt und jedenfalls nicht in ihrer Gegensätzlichkeit verstanden. In der Tragödie ist die einzelne Menschenseele zum Kampfplatz dieser Gewalten geworden. Der Homerische Hektor steht nicht im Zwiespalt wie der Sophokleische Aias. An der Seelen-Tiefe des tragischen Menschen werden wir der Lebens-Stärke des Homerischen Helden inne.

6 U m den Unterschied von naiver und sentimentaler Dichtung zu erläutern, hat Schiller in seiner berühmten Schrift die Glaukos-Diomedes-Episode des

44

Literary Interpretation

sechsten Iliasbuches vorgenommen und eine Szene des Ariost danebenge­ stellt. Schiller hätte auch Hektors und Andromaches Begegnung wählen und sich daran erinnern können, wie er selbst das Homerische Vorbild in das Lied der Amalia im zweiten Akt der ‘Räuber umgegossen hatte. Von seinem tiefen Verständnis der Homerischen Szene zeugt mittelbar ja seine Beurteilung der bildlichen Darstellungen von ‘Hektors Abschied’ in seinem Schreiben ‘A n den Herausgeber der Propyläen’ (1800). Man kann Schillers Gedicht nicht genug bewundern. Der W ille anders zu sein als das Vorbild wirkt so entschieden, daß man das Gedicht nicht herabsetzt, wenn man an ihm der unvergleichlichen Größe Homers inne wird. Auch Schillers Gedicht ist auf den Gegensatz der beiden gestellt. Aber es ist nicht der Gegensatz des Mannes und Helden zur Gattin und Mutter seines Sohnes. Zwei Stimmen rufen und tönen gegeneinander, ein Ich - ein Du, beide treibend auf dem Meer unendlicher Gefühle. Und in diesem Gegensatz, Strophe für Strophe, ist alles ins Heftige, Hinreißende gespannt und gesteigert. W illst dich, Hektor, ewig mir entreißen, W o des Aeaciden mordend Eisen Dem Patroklus schröcklich Opfer bringt? . . . Teures W eib , geh, hol die Todeslanze, Laß mich fort zum wilden Kriegestanze! . . . Uber Astyanax unsre Götter! H ektor fällt, ein Vaterlands Erretter, Und wir sehn uns wieder im Elysium. Ein Abschied auf ewig, ein wildes, wissendes Stürmen in den Tod, ein Wiedersehn im Jenseits. Die schöne Entschiedenheit des Gefühls ist ein Grundzug Schillers. Aber was bei Homer große und unverrückbar ruhende W irklichkeiten waren, Ilion, der Krieg, die Götter: das alles lebt nun auf in stürmenden Gewalten des Innern. Auch Schillers Andromache blickt nein, horcht hinein in ihre Zukunft, wo Ich und Du sich in den Gegensatz von Leben und Tod verwandeln. Aber Leben und Tod sind am Unendlichen gemessen nicht endgültig. Uber beide erhebt sich siegend die geheime Seelenmacht, die der Mensch des Abendlandes Liebe nennt. A ll mein Sehnen, all mein Denken Soll der schwarze Lethefluß ertränken. Aber meine Liebe nicht! Hektors Liebe stirbt im Lethe nicht! Schiller selbst hat von dem alten und dem modernen Dichter gesagt: ‘Jener

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ist mächtig durch die Kunst der Begrenzung, dieser ist es durch die Kunst des U nendlichen/ Und zumal am Gegenbilde moderner Dichtart nehmen wir es wahr: Homer ist so groß, so einfach, so gegenwärtig, so natürlich, menschlich oder wie immer man es nenne, weil keines seiner W orte, Handlungen, Gestalten anders als aus dem großen, vielfach gestuften lebendigen Zusammenhang des Seienden geschaffen ist.

A n m erk u n gen 1. Ilias 6, 237. 2. Ilias 6, 321. 3. Ilias 6, 360-368. 4. Diese selbstzerstörerische Gewalt des Heldenungestüms stellt der Dichter zweimal im Löwengleichnis dar: 12, 4 l ff., bes. 46; 16, 751 ff., bes. 753. Andromache spricht wieder davon 22, 457 ff. 5. Eine sogenannte ‘Ringkomposition’ : 407^131, 411 ff.-4 2 9 . 6. Ilias 18, 95. 7. Ilias 18, 128. 8. Ilias 4, 164/5. 9. Von den Herausgebern und Übersetzern meist verkannt, die am Ende von Vers 461 schwer interpungieren. Sogar hinter Vers 463 steht besser ein Kolon als ein Punkt, da 464/5 alles Vorhergehende auffängt. 10. Abgebildet bei Alfred Kamphausen, Asmus Jacob Carstens, Neumünster 1941, Tafel 38. 11. Ilias 15, 362. 16, 7. 12. Es sei dem trefflichen ‘Konrekter un'Kanter Äpinus tau Nigen-Bramborg’ nicht vergessen, daß er für die im Hochdeutschen unmögliche Wiedergabe von δαιμόνιε in seiner Mundart mit gutem Humor eine schlagende Lösung fand. Fritz Reuter, Dörchläuchting, Kapitel 8: \ . . W i sünd kamen bet an de schöne Städ’, wo Hektor tau sine leiwe Fru Andromache Adjüs seggt un sei em vermahnt: δαιμόνιε, seggt sei, φθίσει σε τό σόν μένος, ούδ" έλεαίρεις seggt sei - aewer Ji sid gornich wirth, so wat Schön’s tau lesen! - παΐδά τε νηπίαχον — seggt sei, καί έμ αμορρον, ή τάχα χήρη . . . σεϋ εσομαι, seggt sei, τάχα γάρ σε κατακτανέουσιν"Αχαιοί πάντες έφορμηέντες, seggt sei, έμοί δέ κε κέρδιον εϊη σευ άφαμαρτούση un so wider, seggt sei - Langnickel, fang’ Hei mal an! δαιμόνιε, wat heit dat? ’ - O h , du Ungethüm! ’ säd Lang nickel un kek den Herrn Konrekter si hr ungewiß an, wat de woll dortau seggen würd. - ‘Ick glow ’, Hei is sülwst en Ungethüm. - Folgende wider!’ säd de Konrekter und wis’te up Korl Siemssen. ‘Na, Korl!! - Ja, licht is dat W urt nich; aewer wo nennen wi woll en Kirl, de mihr utrichten kann as en gewöhnlichen Minsch? Einen D . . ., einen D . . . D . . - ‘Einen Dausendssassa’, säd Korl. - ‘Na, ick hadd bald wat seggt. Dat seggen wie woll in’n Spaß; aewer meint hei, dat Hektorn sine Fru hir spaßig tau Maud’ is? — Ne, sei schellt em: Du Diiwelskirl! seggt sei, torn Dinen Maud! seggt sei. Hest du kein Erbarmen mit Dinen lütten Jungen — dor meint sei ehren lütten Astyanax mit, den sei up den Arm hett - un mit mi Unglücksworm, seggt sei, de bald Wittfru von Di sin ward? Denn wo lang’ ward dat wohren! seggt sei, denn störmen de Achaier all up Di los un maken D i kolt, un wat heww ick dorvon anners as idel Weihdag, wenn ick ahn Di dor sitt? seggt sei. — Na, ick glöw ’ , ick

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Literary Interpretation

aewersett Jug noch den ganzen Homer vor . . - Hinter Äpinus steht bekanntlich Bodinus, der 1766 in Neubrandenburg Lehrer von J oh. H. Voß war. 13. Platon z. B. Staat 433 a. b. 14. Wilamowitz, D i e Ilias u n d H om er2, Berlin 1920, S. 310 f. - Die ‘Hom ilie’ als Einzellied neuerdings G. Jachmann, ‘Homerische Binzellieder, Symbola Colonensia losepbo K ro ll sexagenario oblata , Köln 1949, 1 ff. 15. Wilamowitz IuH. 307. 16. Vgl. auch 3, 139 ff. 17. 28 f f , 321 ff. 18. 486 ff. 19- Über das Verhältnis der Tekmessaszene des Aias zu Homer K. Reinhardt, Sophokles , Frankfurt 1933, S. 31.

44 Das Parisurteil*

K. Reinhardt * Source: Tradition und Geist, reprinted from Wissenschaft und Gegenwart, vol. 11, 1938, Vittorio Klostermann, Frankfurt a. Main, I 9 6 0 , pp. 1 6 -3 6 .

Ein Unikum in der griechischen M ythologie —man ist sich kaum genügend klar darüber, was für eins — ist die Geschichte vom Parisurteil. Man bedenke: da kommen die drei Göttinnen m m Hirten Paris auf den Ida, jede verspricht ihm etwas, Hera die Herrschaft über Länder und Reiche, Athene Heldentum und Sieg, und Aphrodite - Helena. Da Aphrodite jedenfalls etwas verspricht, so sind auch die Versprechungen der anderen beiden aus der Geschichte nicht hinwegzudenken. Welches ist die Schönste? Das heißt: welches sind die höchsten Erfüllungen der höchsten W ünsche eines Sterblichen, die ihm die Götter gewähren können? Paris, der Hirten-Prinz, steht vor der Entscheidung: größter K önig? Oder größter Held? Oder glücklichster Liebhaber - Entführer und Besitzer der allerschönsten Frau? W ie Christus in der W ü ste,1 oder wie Herakles am Scheidewege, steht er vor einer Versuchung — nur daß er, anders als jene, das erwählt, was ihm selbst, seinem Haus und seiner ganzen Stadt den Untergang bereitet. So ergeht es einem Herrscherhaus, und sei es noch so fest gefügt und noch so söhnereich, wenn erst ein junger Prinz anfängt, vor Hera oder Athene den Vorzug der Liebesgöttin zu geben.2 Die Geschichte scheint zu lehrhaft, um heroisch zu sein. Homer erwähnt sie nicht, mit einer einzigen Ausnahme, um die sich die Gelehrten streiten. Die Tragödie weist gern auf sie hin, doch meidet sie als Handlung. Der Alexandros des Euripides, der im übrigen die Jugendgeschichte des Paris auf die Bühne brachte, ließ das Parisurteil aus. Dagegen war es dargestellt in einem Satyrspiel des Sophokles unter dem Titel ,Krisis'. Da trat Aphro­ dite auf als Sinnenlust, Hedoné, sich parfümierend und im Handspiegel beschauend; Athene als ,Z ucht', ,Vernunft' und ,Tugend' (Phronesis, Nus und Arete), trieb Sport und salbte sich mit gymnischem O l. Das Vorbild für die Allegorie— oder Parabel, wie man’s nennen mag— des Prodikos von Herakles am Scheideweg ist darin unverkennbar. Aber wenn die Göttinnen hier ins Lustig-Erbauliche travestiert, ins attische Milieu gestellt und fast

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Literary Interpretation

zur Personifikation ,abstrakter Begriffe' geworden sind: daß Sophokles mit diesem Spiele sie so ganz und gar dem ursprünglichen Geiste der Geschichte zuwider behandelt hätte, läßt sich doch wieder nicht sagen. Nirgend sonst in alter Sage kommen Götter allegorischen Bedeutungen so nahe, nirgend sonst sieht alter Mythos so parabelähnlich aus. Die späteren Stoiker und nach ihnen Barock und Renaissance hatten in diesem Falle so unrecht nicht, in ihrem Geiste an der Geschichte fortzudichten: ,,Der Hirt auf dem Ida, der zwischen den drei Göttinnen zu wählen hat, zeigt, wie der sich selbst überlassene Mensch statt des tätigen und beschaulichen Lebens (Juno und Minerva) von Natur auf das des bloßen sinnlichen Genusses verfällt.“ So z.B. die ,Auslegung der Fabeln' von Natalie Conti, 1 5 6 1 .3 Die Geschichte war dem Altertum bekannt aus einem nach der kyprischen Göttin benannten Epos ,Kyprien‘, einer in nachhomerischer Zeit verfaßten Vorgeschichte zur homerischen Ilias. Da man mit Recht diesen ganzen Kranz ergänzender Epen zur Ilias und Odyssee, den man den ,epischen Kyklos' hieß, als ein nachzüglerisches W erk ansah, beendet kaum vor der Mitte des sechsten Jahrhunderts, so schien eine solche Geschichte in einer solchen U m gebung nicht verwunderlich.4 Dergleichen schien zur Einführung handelnder Personifikationen mit moralisierender Tendenz, wie zur Beratung der Themis mit Zeus, um durch den troischen Krieg die Erde zu erleichtern, zum Apfel der Eris, zur Geburt der Helena von Nemesis, der Göttin der ,Vergeltung', sich zu fügen, wie verwandter Geist sich in verwandten Formen ausprägt. Ein Fund warf die gelehrte Chronologie über den Haufen. Ein unzwei­ felhaftes Parisurteil, die drei Göttinnen hintereinander, Aphrodite als die letzte, kleinste, Paris an den anderen beiden, vornehmeren vorbei mit überlangem Arm den Apfel ihr entgegenstreckend, fand sich dargestellt als sinnreiches Dekor auf einem Elfenbeinkamm aus der ersten Hälfte des siebten Jahrhunderts (?), ausgegraben von den Engländern im Heiligtume der Artemis Orthia bei Sparta.5 W as blieb übrig? Teils datierte man die Kyprien um ein Jahrhundert oder noch mehr hinauf, und den Homer erst recht, teils ließ man die Geschichte vor den Kyprien in alter Zeit kursieren; so erkläre sich die Anspielung auf sie auch in dem letzten, übrigens ja auch dem Inhalt nach späten Gesang der Ilias. Das W ichtigste wurde dabei nicht bedacht. Das W ichtigste ist nicht die Frage, ob eine Geschichte älter oder jünger sein mag, sondern: wo, wann, in welchem Verhältnis zu Homer die Art ihrer Erzählung, die Stufe des Mythischen, mit einem W ort, der Geist zu suchen ist, von dem sie zeugt. Der Geist der Geschichte aber läuft schnurstracks so ziemlich allem, was man sich als altertümlich vorstellte, zuwider. Denn was wäre— um hier von den Einzelunterschieden der gelehrten Hypothesen abzusehen— die älteste, zu tiefst liegende Schicht der Ilias? W ie man auch immer sich dies rätsel­ hafte Ganze zustande gekommen dachte: je heldischer, größer, tragischer, härter, blutiger, unerbittlicher, so folgerte man, desto älter. Nach Jebb

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stände das Älteste in den Gesängen 1 . 1 1 . 16—2 2 .6 Nach W ilam owitz wäre eins der ältesten Stücke die alte Patroklie, so wie er sie von späteren Überarbeitungen gereinigt glaubte wiederhersteilen zu können.7 Nach Bethe bestände griechische Heldendichtung ,im Kern aus Zweikämpfen nie wech­ selnder H elden';8 zum Ältesten in der Ilias wäre zu rechnen das Gedicht vom Groll Achills, und was dergleichen mehr. Aber zur Zeit dieser Hypothesen hätte man noch mit der M öglichkeit, daß bereits um die W ende des achten zum siebten Jahrhundert das Parisurteil hätte in aller Munde sein können, niemals gerechnet. Was soll von nun an noch als archaisch gelten? Müssen wir nicht unsere Vorstellungen überprüfen? Ursache dazu wäre genug gewesen, auch ohne den neuen Fund. In Ilias wie Odyssee finden sich beiläufig Geschichten angedeutet oder in Gesprächen wiedererzählt, die ihrer Art nach in die Form des großen Epos nicht hineingehen, die nur wie an seinem Rande einmal auftauchen dürfen, die der Dichter ,H om er, selbst wenn er gewollt hätte, nicht hätte in die Reihe der epischen Handlungen einfügen können, schon aus dem einfachen Grunde nicht, weil ihr Geschehen jenseits des Gesetzes der Zeit verläuft, wonach im Epos Homers die Sonne auf- und untergeht und die Ereignisse zwischen Sonnenauf- und -Untergang zur Fülle und Ordnung eines epischen Tages sich runden. In der Odyssee gehört zu diesen Geschichten die von dem Gewebe der Penelope.9 Dreimal wird sie erzählt, zweimal im gleichen W ortlaut wiederholt, erscheint also nicht mehr als einmal. Gleichwohl ist die Odyssee kaum ohne sie zu denken. W oher führte sonst Penelope das ständige, ererbte Beiwort ,die Besonnene', ,die K luge', wenn sie nicht, wie diese Geschichte erzählt, die Freier überlistet hätte? Denn gelungen wäre ihre List, hätte die ungetreue Magd sie nicht verraten. Also auch die Untreue der Mägde, die im Epos epische Situationen schafft oder verschärft, fand sich dort als Geschichte. Doch auch darum darf jene Geschichte selbst in den Verlauf der epischen Handlung keinen Einlaß finden, auch darum muß sie unter den Vorgeschichten bleiben, weil die Freier in der Odyssee nun zwar auch Toren sind, betrogene Blinde, aber doch nicht solche Tölpel, um drei Jahre lang sich einreden zu lassen, ein Gewandstück wäre nicht in kürzerer Zeit zu weben. In der Odyssee ist ihre Torheit Taubheit vor den warnenden Stimmen, Blindheit vor dem nahen Verhängnis, Hybris— ihre Torheit wird geadelt, aus dem beinahe Schwankhaften wird Ethos. Ebenso ist aber auch Penelope die ,Kluge' und, Verständige' jetzt in einem ganz anderen, höheren, adligeren Sinne; jetzt redet sie nicht mehr den Freiern solche Dinge vor, wie daß sie eben nur noch schnell dem alten Laertes sein Totengewand erst fertig weben wolle . . . Aber indem das große Epos die ihm vorausliegenden Geschichten umformt, hebt, verfeinert, schafft es ihm gemäße epische Situationen, die in seinem Stil, in seiner Tonart die alten M otive neu zum Klingen bringen. So geschieht es in der Odyssee im 18. Gesang z.B. dort, wo plötzlich Penelope— kaum traut man seinen Ohren— in rührseliger Klage den entzückten Freiern weismacht, ihr hätte Odysseus

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Literary interpretation

scheidend__ ihre Wiederverheiratung ans Herz gelegt! N un sei die ihr verhaßte Nacht nicht mehr fern: so möchten sie ihr doch bitte nach der guten alten Sitte lieber Geschenke bringen, als immer nur fremdes Gut zu verzehren. Der maskierte Bettler, der dabei sitzt, hört's, durchschaut^ und freut sich im Geheimen. Als die Listige zeigt sich Penelope auch hier. Aber wo der Geschichtenerzähler W ebstuhl, Nachtarbeit, Verrat braucht, braucht der Epiker homerischen Stils Nähe und Gegensatz der Seelen und verdeckende Vieldeutigkeit gesprochenen und vernommenen Worts. Man sieht: es ist nicht immer vonnöten, Dichtung zu zerschneiden, um dahinter etwas Älteres zu entdecken. Es kann Fälle geben, da man eher zum Ziele kommt, indem man sie im Gegenteil so ganz sein läßt wie m öglich. Da jede durchgreifende Veränderung der Komposition, nach Heuslers Untersuchungen zum N ibelungenlied,10 stets auch eine Veränderung der inneren Struktur bedeutet, und eine Veränderung der inneren Form nicht nur einzelne Teile, sondern stets das Ganze ergreift: so dürften die Versuche, Älteres und Jüngeres in einer und derselben Dichtung einzig und allein durch Analyse ihrer Komposition zu gewinnen, sich zuletzt in ihrem eigenen Kreise drehen. M it der Geschichte vom Parisurteil in der Ilias ist es nicht anders als mit der Geschichte von Penelopes List in der Odyssee. Auch die Parisgeschichte wird nur ein einziges Mal erwähnt, auch sie ist Vorgeschichte in einem doppelten Sinn: nicht nur, weil ihr Geschehen dem ,Zorne Achills* vor­ ausliegt, sondern auch weil sie von einem Geist zeugt, der dem epischen Stil, wenn nicht der späteren Stoffsammler, der ,Kykliker*, doch um so mehr der Ilias widersprach. Und wie die Geschichte von der webenden Penelope im ,Großepos* der Odyssee nachwirkt, indem ihr Sinn in epische Situationen umgesetzt wird, so ist es das Gleiche auch wieder m it der Parisgeschichte in der Ilias. W ie das Parisurteil Götter und Menschen zueinanderführt, so wirkt es in der Ilias nach teils in olympischen, teils in menschlichen Szenen. Die Parteinahme der Götter in der Ilias für und gegen Troer und Achäer erklärt man nach W ilam ow itz11 aus nachwirkenden historischen Ereignis­ sen, politischen Verhältnissen der Zeit der griechischen Völkerwanderung; in ihr spiegle sich die Lage der Achäer wider, die, aus dem griechischen Mutterlande verdrängt, im Kam pf mit eingeborenen Stämmen die Küsten Kleinasiens kolonisierten. A pollon stehe auf seiten der Troer, weil er für die Griechen ehedem ein fremder, kleinasiatischer Gott gewesen. Als Asiatin sei ihnen auch Aphrodite, die Göttin von Kypros, als ein feindseliges Wesen erschienen, erst recht Ares als der Thraker. M it den Griechen hielten es dagegen Hera, Athene und Poseidon; Hera und Athene als die nationalen Burg- und Siegesgöttinnen, Poseidon als der alte mutterländische ,Herr der Erde*. Zeus als der oberste Himmelsherr stehe neutral über dem Ganzen. Die Verteilung leuchtet ein und erscheint mit Konsequenz nicht nur gedacht, sondern auch durchgeführt— verändert aber leider ihr Gesicht,

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sobald man anfängt, einzeln Gott für Gott nach seinen Gründen zu befra­ gen. Ob man das auch dürfe? Man wird sich doch wohl dazu entschließen müssen: Homer selbst lädt dazu ein. Da stellt sich denn heraus: A pollon z.B. befeindet zwar die Achäer, aber keineswegs um jeden Preis. Er sendet ihnen zuerst die Pest, aber doch nur des Unrechts wegen, das sie an seinem Priester verübt; dann läßt er sich wieder versöhnen, und so viel auf ihn ankäme, wäre alles wieder gut. Gewiß, von Troias Burg herabblickend, ermutigt er ihre Verteidiger, wäh­ rend Athene die Angreifer befeuert (4, 507); Troia ist die ihm befohlene Stadt (21, 516), hier hat er seinen Tempel (5, 446), die Burg ist sein Sitz (5, 460); wie er dem Chryses, seinem Priester, hilft, als ihm Unrecht geschieht, so schirm t er seine Stadt (21, 576). A u f ihrer Mauer wachend, wehrt er den Patroklos ab (16, 701). Er haßt nicht die Achäer, sondern schützt die Troer. Doch auch sein Schutz findet seine Grenzen. Anders als den anderen scheinen ihm, dem Vornehmen, Fernwirkenden, im Götterkampf die Menschen plötzlich zu gering, zu nichtig, als daß um ihretwillen Götter miteinander kämpfen sollten.— N och weniger ist Poseidon unbedingt Par­ tei. Im siebten Gesang beschwert er sich bei Zeus über die Lagerbefestigung der Achäer (7, 442); was für ihn bezeichnend ist. Er ist leicht um sein göttliches Prestige besorgt, laßt sich dann aber— nicht weniger für ihn bezeichnend— von Zeus, der ihm für die Zukunft das Achäerlager preisgibt, um so bälder wieder beruhigen. Seine Beschwerde ist ein Poseidonisch harmloseres Gegenstück zu dem furchtbaren Pakt, den Zeus und Hera miteinander eingehen zu Troias Verderben im vierten Gesang. Ein ander­ mal (2Ö, 293) wird er in der Göttergesellschaft sogar zum Fürsprecher des Aineias, den Achill bedroht. Hera entgegnet ihm nicht ohne leichte Schärfe, das sei seine Sache; sie beide jedenfalls, Athene und Hera, hätten vor allen Göttern Eide genug geschworen, nicht eher zu ruhen, als bis Troia ver­ brannt wäre— verbrannt von den Söhnen der Achäer. Aber wozu schwört man so viel Eide und vor so viel Zeugen, nach antiker Anschauung, wofür sich Beispiele die Fülle bringen ließen, wenn nicht um sich selbst zu einer Rache, koste es, was es wolle, zu verpflichten? Doch was wäre das für eine Rache? Für welche erlittene Kränkung? So viel ist sicher: deutlicher ließe sich nicht sagen, daß die Hilfe, die Poseidon den Achäern leistet, nicht zu verwechseln sei mit dem gemeinsamen Haß der beiden Göttinnen auf Troia. Hasserinnen um jeden Preis sind einzig Hera und Athene; sie wollen nicht nur den Ihren helfen, sie wollen vernichten. Allerdings verschiebt sich die olympische Konstellation mit dem achten Gesang. Es ist zumal diese Verschiebung, woraus die realpolitische Inter­ pretation der Götter Homers sich ihre Bestätigung geholt hat. M it dem achten Gesang werden auf einmal Hera und Athene die Besorgten, die Bekümmerten um der Achäer willen. Aber mit dem achten Gesang befindet sich der ganze Olymp in einer veränderten Verfassung. Jetzt läßt Zeus die Achäer einzig um der Thetis und Achills willen dem Hektor unterliegen.

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Literary Interpretation

Die W illkür des Göttervaters läßt eine Empörung der Götter befürchten, die nur durch gewaltigste Drohungen niederzuhalten ist. Denn jetzt han­ delt es sich nicht mehr um die einfache Entscheidung, ob für oder gegen Troia oder die Achäer, sondern um die Frage: soll um des einen Achill und seiner gekränkten ,Ehre' willen das ganze Achäerheer so furchtbar leiden? Aber selbst hier, in der verschobenen Situation, schwindet das eigentliche Ziel der beiden Göttinnen nicht aus den Augen. Zwar reden die Göttinnen vor Zeus, als fühlten sie nur Mitleid mit den armen Achäern (8, 465), doch was sie sich dabei d en k en , in heimlichem Groll dicht beieinandersitzend, steht da in Vers 458: Verderben den Troern! Indes bringt Zeus’ W illkür mehr oder weniger auch ,alle anderen Götter’ gegen ihn auf (11, 78): ,sie alle’ machen ihm Vorwürfe— er aber achtet es nicht . . . Insbesondere wird jetzt erst Poseidon in das Bündnis zwischen Hera und Athene mit hinein­ gezogen— ist Poseidon doch ein Gott, der ohnehin leicht zu dem Verdachte neigt, sein Rang werde unterschätzt— Schicksal des Zweitgeborenen. Das Dreick Hera, Athene und Poseidon ist die Antwort auf die Kombination Zeus— Thetis. Zwar lehnt Poseidon die ihm angetragene Beteiligung an einer offenen Revolte ab— umsonst, daß Hera ihn an seine alten Sympathien und an die lieblichen Opfer erinnert, die die Achäer in Helike und Aigai ihm darbrachten (8, 200 ff.); aber wie die Dinge sich entwickeln, spielen tatsächlich die beiden im Verlauf einander in die Hände; was offener Empörung nicht gelang, gelingt der List12— dem Schlaf und Aphrodites Gürtel. Zeus’ Umarmungen haben nur Sinn für Hera, wenn sie auf ihren Poseidon rechnen kann, trotz seiner Absage. So kann sie den Troern scha­ den, den Achäern helfen und kann doch wieder, als Zeus erwacht, ihm mit dem besten Gewissen schwören, mit Poseidon sei sie in keinem K om plott gewesen. Was sofort wieder erstaunlich zur Verbesserung ihrer heiklen Lage beiträgt . . . Auch durch die homerischen Götterszenen blickt ein älteres, gröberes Genus hindurch, das durch das Epos gleichfalls sich geadelt hat: der Götterschwank. Bei dem homerischen Gelächter der Olympier (1, 599), bei dem heilig unheiligen Schlaf des Zeus in Heras Armen ist nicht zu vergessen, daß Geschichten von List, Fesselung, Aufruhr, Heimlichkeiten der Götter voreinander, die gelegentlich in dunklen Andeutungen auftau­ chen, auf ein schon vorhomerisches ,Genus' deuten.13 Auch hier wieder wurden aus Geschichten Situationen; durch Homers und seiner Zeit Erha­ benheit erhoben sie sich auf die Höhe jenes leichten und durch seine ,Leichtigkeit' furchtbaren Spiels, an dem sich spätere Zeiten so gestoßen haben. Auch an ernsten Liedern auf die Kämpfe der Götter kann es nicht gefehlt haben. N och um 500 nennt Xenophanes von Kolophon Giganten- und Titanenkämpfe unter den althergebrachten rhapsodischen Vortragsthemen beim Gelage oder, um uns nordisch auszudrücken, in der Männerhalle. Denn die späteren Symposien sind als Schauplätze und Antriebe so vieler

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Gattungen der Dichtung ja nichts anderes als die degagierteren A bk öm m ­ linge der heroischen Geselligkeit der ,Könige' mit ihren Mannen bei Heldengesang und Götterlied der ,Sänger' und Kunststücken der fahrenden Gaukler. An A lkinoos’ Hofe geht es zwar um einiges musischer und heiterer, sonst aber kaum anders her als in der Halle des Norwegerkönigs Harald Schönhaar, inmitten der Skalden, Berserker und fahrenden Zauber­ künstler (Genzmer, Edda 2, 191)· Götterlieder also hat’s gegeben, wie bei den Germanen, so auch bei den Griechen, nicht nur für den Kult, sondern auch für die Unterhaltung. Doch die Götterkämpfe der Ilias sind, m it ähnlichen Erscheinungen verglichen, darüber hinaus etwas so Eigentüm­ liches, daß daran allein schon ein bestimmter Dichter zu erkennen wäre. In der Ilias haben und machen die Olympier alles, was auch die Menschen haben und machen, etwa wie das V olk der Zwerge oder der Elfen im Märchen alles hat und macht, was auch die Menschen, nur auf andere Weise. Indem die Olympier alles auf Olympierweise haben und machen, werden sie zu einer ,Gattung', einem ,Phylon‘. D och wenn dies auch weit davon entfernt ist, etwas Selbstverständliches zu sein, wie es dem Dichter der Odyssee schon wieder fremd ist, könnte doch Homers Olympiertum so weit noch etwas Allgemeineres, Traditionelles sein. Aber die Götter Homers haben und machen alles nicht nur wunderbar und göttlich, sondern haben und machen zugleich auch alles, unbeschadet ihrer Herrlichkeit, auf eine eigene W eise unernst. Sie bedrohen einander, als ob es auf Tod und Leben ginge, schreien, als ob sie am letzten wären, betrügen einander, als ob sie einander stürzen könnten— aber immer, w o es sich auf Erden um Sein oder Nichtsein handelt, löst ihr Ringen sich in ein ,als ob' auf, wodurch es zum Spiele wird: nicht weil die Götter' selbst bewußtermaßen spielten, sondern weil ihnen der Einsatz fehlt, durch den jedwedes Handeln erst zum Ernst wird, Tod, Vernichtung, Leiden, das darniederwirft, und jed­ wede Einbuße an Existenz. Die Götterschlacht der Ilias spiegelt die mensch­ lichen Heldenkämpfe wider, aber ohne deren Vorbedingung: die Gefahr. Das unterscheidet diese Streite grundsätzlich zumal auch von allen Gigantomachien und Titanomachien, auch von der Théogonie Hesiods. Dort sind die Götter in der Tat bedroht— von ihrer noch ganz anderen Bedrohung in der nordischen M ythologie zu schweigen. Fragen wir, was ist das Altere? Ohne Zweifel doch die wirkliche Bedrohung. N ur ein blinder Dogm atis­ mus konnte die Erwähnung der Titanen und aller der Dinge, die auf vorzeitliche Götterkämpfe weisen, als etwas vermeintlich Jüngeres aus der älteren Dichtung auszuscheiden trachten. Einzig bei Homer tritt an die Stelle einer wirklichen Bedrohung eine Scheinbedrohung und gewinnt dadurch die Existenz der Götter etwas Scheinhaftes, das heißt vom Menschen in seiner wahren Bedrohtheit aus betrachtet, wie wieder der Mensch, in seiner menschlichen Vergänglichkeit, wie Blätterspiel im W in de, von den Göttern aus betrachtet, etwas Nichtiges, Vergebliches, am wahren Sein Gemindertes, jedoch in einem umgekehrten Sinne, darstellt

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(6, 146; 21, 464). Das ,als ob' des menschlichen Daseins ist die Dauer, das ,als ob' des göttlichen die Vernichtung (nebenbei der Ursprung des Parmenideischen Gedankens). Beide spiegeln nicht hoir, sondern sie bedingen auch einander. W ie die Ewigkeit und Herrlichkeit der Götter sich erhält auf Kosten der Vergänglichkeit und tragischen Gebrechlichkeit der Menschen, so erhält sich diese wiederum, als M öglichkeit menschlicher Größe, auf Kosten eines gewissen göttlichen Versagens (nach menschli­ chen Maßen), das in mannigfacher Form erscheinen kann, als Rätsel, als Mysterium, als Verhängnis, als Jenseits von Gut und Böse' . . . in der Ilias einzig und allein darüber hinaus als ein erhabener Unernst. A chill stürzt sich in den Tod, um den gefallenen Freund zu rächen; aber der Göttervater kann in aller seiner Herrlichkeit um seinen dem Tode verfal­ lenen Liebling, seinen Sohn Sarpedon, nur blutige Tränen weinen; Hera läßt ihm keinen Zweifel: wollte er wie einer der sterblichen Helden sein, die Ordnung des Olymps ginge in Trümmer (16, 440 ff.). Um dies klar zu machen, werden von Homer die Götter immer wieder bis an die Grenze geführt, w o fast ihr ,Spiel' zum ,Ernst' würde. Versuchte Zeus in allem Ernste, Troia, seine geliebte Stadt, zu retten, so verstieße er wider den Götterpakt, durchbräche er die Spielregeln, durch die allein sich der Olym p erhält (4, 25 ff.). Kaum daß der Pakt auf Erden den geplagten Völkern zum Heile zu werden verspricht, macht ihn auch schon der Pakt der Götter wieder zunichte. So haben die Menschen es mit ihrem Sein zu büßen, wo die Olympier nur einander, wie das wunderbare W ort heißt, ,reizen' . . . Daraus folgt: die Götterszenen in der Konzeption Homers sind m öglich nur in einer Dichtung von menschlicher N ichtigkeit, Größe und Tragik. Keine andere Gattung, weder Schwank noch Hymnus noch Théogonie noch Götterkampf noch sonst etwas, ja nicht einmal das Epos, ausgenommen einzig und allein die Ilias, wären je imstande, dieses reziproke Schein- und Seinwesen und Spiegeln und Ergänzen darzustellen. Schon die Odyssee zeigt diese Konzeption wieder verlassen, ihr Dichter sieht in den Göttern fast nur noch die Helfer oder Widersacher seiner Helden, steht also, wenn nicht als Ethiker, so doch als Epiker, in dieser Hinsicht auf derselben Stufe wie die Kykliker, das heißt auf jener Stufe, die, wie in so vielen Fällen sich ergibt, auch schon die vorhomerische war. Das V or- wie Nach-Homerische als Stilstufe ist jenes episch Allgemeine, das der Ilias-Dichter, indem er sich innerhalb der Konvention zu halten scheint, durchbricht, gleichsam die Fläche, gegen welche sein Profil sich abzeichnet, die Gattung, ohne welche er nicht als das, was er ist, zum Vorschein käme. Jedoch die verschobene Situation auf dem Olym p— um damit zum Thema des Götterzwists zurückzukehren— ist nicht die Grundsituation. Die Grundsituation ist die der Bücher 1—7 und 20—24. Durch die Berufung der Götterversammlung und durch die Verkündigung des Götterkampfes wird im 20. Gesang von Zeus das alte Verhältnis auf das feierlichste

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wiederhergestellt. Bei der Ableitung göttlicher Freund- und Feindschaften aus den politischen Verhältnissen einer historischen Epoche verwechselt man nicht nur die dichterischen Situationen, sondern setzt sich kühnen Sprunges über alle Hinweise, alle Bezüge des Homertextes hinweg. Die Treibenden, Unruhe Stiftenden auf dem Olym p, durch deren Leidenschaft erst die olympischen Auftritte ihre dramatischen Verläufe nehmen, sind die beiden mit Eiden verschworenen, Hera und Athene. Sie allein verfolgen, ungehemmt von allen anderen Rücksichten, das eine Ziel: Troias Zerstö­ rung. Dabei ist Athene an der Seite Heras, in der Rolle einer Intrigantin gegen Zeus, ein um so größeres Rätsel, als homerische Theologie ihr beider eigentliches W esen nur als innigst miteinander verbunden kennt. Daraus ergibt sich wieder eine weitere Reihe widersprüchlicher und darum reiz­ voller, darum auch wieder mißverstandener Situationen, die an diesem W iderspruch sich weiden. Ähnlich reizvoll ist der W iderspruch, wenn Hera sich den Zaubergürtel von ihrer Rivalin ausleiht (14, 190 ff.), ,lächelnd1, daß es ihr gelungen . . . W elcher Geist sondert, nach diesem Überblick, die Götter in die beiden Lager? Der Olym p kennt keine Ursache, sich zu verhüllen. Der fünfte Gesang zeigt folgende Gruppierung (418): Aphrodite, von D io ­ medes an der Hand verwundet, ist auf den Olym p in den Schoß ihrer Mutter Dione geflüchtet, die sie tröstet und das Götterblut ihr heilend von der Hand wischt. Hera und Athene bilden eine Spötterecke, mit der Absicht, Zeus zu ,reizen1. Während sonst gérn Hera zugleich für Athene redet, redet hier Athene: ,,Da hat wohl Kypris eine der Achäerinnen. getrieben, mit den Troern zu gehen, die sie jetzt (!) so über die Maßen in ihr Herz schloß! Solch schöner Achäerinnen eine streichend ritzte sie sich an deren goldener Spange die zarte H and!11 J e tz t1, d.h. seit sie die Achäerin Helena dem Troer Paris zugeführt hat. Aber womit hat Paris, womit haben die Troer ihre Liebe sich verdient? Liebt sie die Troer, weil sie die Asiatin ist? Während die beiden Spötterinnen Schutzpatroninnen der Achäer wären? Das folgern hieße nach des alten Goethe-Düntzer Muster feststellen: ,,Hier irrt H om er!11 Was dasteht, ist nichts anderes als die Situation des Parisurteils, umgesetzt in eine olympische Szene homerischen Stils. Der Schauplatz jetzt nicht mehr der Ida, sondern der homerische Olym p, der Kreis der Götter . . . Aber wie auf dem Ida stehen die beiden großen Göttinnen, die heldische und die königliche, noch einmal gegen die Kupplerin. Was Aphrodite einst dem Paris auf dem Ida gelobt hatte, wird von der Spötterin verallgemeinert; bei solchem Geschäft hat sie sich wohl ein wenig geritzt? Was ehedem Geschichte war, kehrt wieder als Situation. Dieselbe Gruppierung wiederholt sich im Götterkampf (21, 423). Athene eilt auf Heras Geheiß hinter Aphrodite her, die dem niederge­ streckten Ares- aufhilft, und schlägt ihr mit der Hand gegen die Brust, so daß sie mitsamt Ares auf der Erde liegt— ,die Hundsfliege1, wie Hera schilt,

56

Literary Interpretation

die ihnen da ,schon wieder' in die Quere kam. ,Schon wieder' deutet auf Buch 5. „ So m öge es“ , wünscht Athene, „allen ergehen, die den Troern helfen! Dann wären wir bald fertig mit dem Krieg, und Ilios wäre zerstört,“ Und Hera lächelte. Dabei hat Aphrodite sich am Götterkampf gar nicht beteiligt. W enn sie die Asiatin wäre, müßte sie nicht für die Troer kämp­ fen? In W ahrheit kämpft sie deswegen nicht mit, weil sie die Liebesgöttin ist. Die beiden furchten sie nicht so sehr, als sie sie hassen. Und sie hassen sie um ihres Wesens willen. Doch wieso? Weshalb nur sie? W eshalb nicht auch die anderen? Der einzige Schlüssel, der in alle diese Rätsel paßt, ist wiederum das Parisurteil. Von dem göttlichen Gekeife der Rivalinnen hebt sich männlich die W ürde in der Gegnerschaft zwischen Poseidon und A pollon ab. Aber Rivalinnen— woher? Seit wann? W enn nach allem nun auch noch im letzten Gesang— der zum poe­ tischen Entwurf der Ilias so notwendig mit gehört wie irgend sonst etwas— der Haß der Hera und Athene (Poseidon wird schuldigerweise wie eine Parenthese mitgenannt)— ihr Haß auf Troia auch noch über Hektors Tod hinaus begründet wird mit der ,Verblendung' des Alexandros, der die Göttinnen ,tadelte', da sie zu seinem Gehöft kamen, und die ,lobte', die ihm zum Verderb Erfüllung seiner ,Brunst' verlieh: so steht das m it der ganzen Ilias nur im Einklang. Umsonst, daß man selbst hier hat das Parisurteil nicht wahrhaben w ollen .14 Einer Erklärung aber bedarf, als scheinbar widersprechend, der Anfang des vierten Gesangs. Da sind es nicht, wie in den späteren Szenen, die beiden Verschwörerinnen, sondern ist es Zeus, der seinerseits die beiden beieinander sitzenden zu ,reizen' anfängt: Siehe da! Zwei Helferinnen des Menelaos! Abseits sitzend und am Zuschauen sich erbauend! Aber ihm, dem Paris, geht Aphrodite schützend selbst zur Seite . . . Und da er, ,um sie zu reizen', auch noch vorschlägt, durch Herausgabe der Helena dem Krieg ein schnelles Ende zu bereiten, da fährt Hera auf (Athene, neben ihr, bleibt stumm grollende Tochter): wie darf er es wagen, ihren Schweiß und ihre Mühen zu vereiteln,— all ihr Trachten nach dem Einen, Priamos und seine Söhne zu verderben? Da ist die Situation die gleiche: Hera und Athene gegen Aphrodite. A ber die Szene ist zu gewaltig, als daß hier, wie im letzten Gesang, noch ein begründender Hinweis auf das Parisurteil m öglich wäre. Heras Haß ist rätselhaft, unheimlich, ungeheuerlich. Unglaubliche! Was haben dir denn Priamos und Priamos’ Söhne so Schlimmes getan? fragt Zeus. Der gewaltige Haß der gewaltigen Göttin lodert, lebt und rechtfer­ tigt sich aus sich selbst. Das Parisurteil als Begründung würde hier nur schwächen, oder würde doch, als Ursache, die W irkung nimmermehr erklären. V on so furchtbarem Rätselcharakter ist die Gottheit— nicht nur Hera; Zeus selbst, wenn erst er einmal beschlossen haben wird, eine Stadt zu vernichten, wird nicht anders sein! Daher ihr beider Pakt: laß du mir dies, laß ich dir das! Daß hier das Parisurteil nicht erwähnt wird, liegt nicht daran, daß der Dichter es noch nicht gekannt hätte, sondern liegt daran,

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daß die Größe der olympischen Begebenheit über den Geist der alten Geschichte hinaus wuchs- Das alte M otiv wird wesenlos, die ihm entsprun­ gene epische Situation wird zum Gefäß neuen Gehalts. Das Parisurteil als Erzählung hat Sinn und Bezug nur als Einleitung zur Geschichte von Troias Untergang. So hub die Geschichte an: Es war einmal ein K önig, der hatte einen Sohn . . . Doch Troias Untergang im Stile des Parisurteils erzählt— man mag sich das im einzelnen ausdenken wie auch immer (wie das in der Spätantike der Nonnosschüler Kolluthos und vor ihm die Alexandrine! und Römer getan haben; sie haben dabei das Hirtenidyll und die Entblößungen der Göttinnen hinzuerfunden): jedenfalls muß die Geschichte in ganz anderem Stil erzählt gewesen sein als die Ilias Homers. Auch schon im Ton ganz anders, faberlartiger, novellenartiger, parabelartiger, unheldischer und dafür lehrhafter, um nicht zu sagen ,ainos‘artiger . . . Nun ist aber der gute Sohn neben dem schlechten, das M otiv der zwei ungleichen Brüder, von den Söhnen Evas, Kain und Abel, angefangen, viel zu weit über die W elt verbreitet, als daß nicht von Anfang an auch in dieser Geschichte sollte der gute Sohn, der tapfere Hektor, neben dem ,UnglücksParis', dem Dysparis, wie Hektor selbst ihn schilt, gestanden haben. In der alten Thebais richtete ein feindliches Brüderpaar sich gegenseitig und ein großes Heer zugrunde; in der vorhomerischen ,Ur-IIias' richtete ein untaug­ licher Bruder den unübertrefflichen mitsamt der ganzen Stadt zugrunde. Die Homererklärer haben in Hektor immer nur den Gegner des A chill gesehen; aber als Bruder des Paris muß er mindestens ebenso alt sein. In das Spiel des Gegensatzes zwischen den zwei Brüdern wird sogar der T o d . Achills mit hineingezogen. W ie der Tod des Hektor durch Achill (22, 330 ff.)— nach einem epischen Kompositionsgesetz, von dem in einem weiteren Zusammenhang zu reden wärb— eine umkehrende Variation zum Tode des Patroklos durch Hektor (16, 830 ff.) ist, wie Hektor sterbend dem A chill den T od voraussagt, wie zuvor Patroklos sterbend dem Hektor: so wird Achills Tod, nach Hektors Voraussage, die zweimal umgekehrte Variation zu Hektors Tod, also die variierende W iederholung sein zum Tode des Patroklos. N icht anders als wie Patroklos stirbt, erst von A pollon, dann— von Menschenhand getroffen, wird Achill sterben, erst von A pollon, dann— von Paris’ Hand getroffen (denn die umgekehrte Reihenfolge wäre unausdenkbar). Paris triumphiert, wo Hektor unterliegt. Z u Hektors ganzer Tragik ist auch dies hinzuzurechnen. Die Geschichte vom ungleichen Brüderpaar wirkt in der Ilias nach und setzt sich fort in menschlichen Situationen wie der Streit der Göttinnen vor Paris in den Szenen des Olymps. Die troische Episode inmitten des dritten Buches, Paris dem Zw eikam pf mit Menelaos, dem rechtmäßigen Gatten, entrafft, in seinen Thalamos versetzt, aufs neue Helena, die widerstrebende, ihm zugefuhrt, und all'das durch die Macht der Aphrodite, der ,unheim­ lichen', die dieses Paar Jetzt' ebenso abgöttisch liebt, wie sie es hassen würde, wenn es ihr nicht mehr zu willen wäre: ist nichts anderes als die in

58

Literary Interpretation

homerische Form, als in den Stil der epischen Episode umgesetzte Geschichte vom ,Raub der Helena1. Ebenso ist aber auch im sechsten Gesang die Episode gleichen Stils, die überraschende Begegnung beider Brüder auf der Burg von Troia, nichts anderes als eine Umformung, als die in eine epische Situation verwandelte Geschichte vom ungleichen Brüder­ paar. W ie da der Tapfere, schweißtriefend vom Kampfe, den Feigen her­ vorholt (6, 280 ff.), wie er ihn verflucht, ihn, das Verhängnis für Troer und Priamus, in seinem Gemach antrifft, die Waffen prüfend, doch nur prüfend, den ,Zürnenden', das zweifelhafte Gegenbild Achills, und bei ihm Helena, die sich verwünscht um eines solchen Gatten willen und Hektor beklagt um ihrer- und dieses ,Verblendeten' willen: das zeigt die Beteiligten vereinigt in einer Verklammerung und Verstrickung, die hindeutend ist: darin sich die erzählbare Geschichte umgewandelt hat in eine offenbarende Situation, die ebenso zurückweist auf Vergangenes wie vorausweist auf Zukünftiges. Ergänzt wird die Fülle der Beziehungen durch Hektors Abschied. Hektors Abschied von Andromache wird neben Paris’ zweifelhafte W ürde, als des Gatten der betrogenen Helena, gestellt, nicht nur um Ehe neben Ehe, sondern auch um das Opfer des Untergangs neben die Ursache des Unter­ gangs zu stellen. Hektors Fluch: ,,Daß ich ihn (Paris) in den Hades kom ­ men sähe!' (6, 285) ist die vorbereitende Ergänzung seiner Ahnung: „K om m en wird der Tag, da die heilige Ilios hinsinkt . .. (6, 448). Hektor, Paris, Helena vereinigt, stehen hindeutend auf Anfang und Ende. Was geschichtlicher Verlauf war, drängt sich in die einzige, aus ihren offenbarenden Kontrasten sich aufbauende Episode: vor den Mauern der tobende Kampf, und in der Burg das innere Verhängnis, und Hektor, helfend und wehrend, vom einen zum anderen eilend . . . Z u der Sorge um den untüchtigen Bruder kommt die Sorge um die unversöhnten Götter— kommt der Auftrag an die Mutter, die Matronen zu versammeln, der Athene Polias ein Gewand über die Knie zu legen und zu ihr zu flehen: m öge sie dem Diomedes— der als Unbesieglicher jetzt mit Athenes Hilfe den Achill vertritt (6, 98)— die Lanze brechen, ihn selbst niederwerfen . . . Doch Athene weigert die Erhörung . . . Die Gesamtsituation, in die sich eine Fülle gleichzeitiger Dinge drängt— Handlungen, deren jede, nur nach ihrem äußeren Zw eck befragt, fast nebensächlich, ja fragwürdig schiene, ein hastiges Hin und Her und sich Verfehlen und Begegnen— umgreift im Moment des Gleichzeitigen, in der wechselnden Begegnung dreier Gene­ rationen das Geschehen im ganzen, das vergangene wie zukünftige, und bindet hindeutend, wie durch ein Ecce, eins ans andere. Diomedes, der jetzt siegreich rasende— noch ist er nicht Achill; der Abschied Hektors, der der letzte scheint— noch ist er nicht der letzte. Drohendes Gewölk ballt sich zusammen, doch noch einmal wird es wieder Tag. Allein der Schatten, der auf Held und Stadt gefallen ist, bleibt unsichtbar an beiden haften. Eine solche Episode ist Vorwegnahme und Nachholen in einem: die homerische Gestalt der vorhomerischen Geschichten von den beiden Brüdern, vom

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Raube der Helena, von Troias Ende. Früheres, indem es nachgeholt wird, erscheint unter der Gestalt der Reue; Späteres, indem es vorweggenommen wird, erscheint unter der Gestalt der Sorge; durch beides wird das Gesche­ hen in eins gedrängt, verinnerlicht, sein Schauplatz wird verlegt in die bedrängte, ahnende Seele.15 Aber wie nur Negatives in der Ilias nicht geduldet wird, mit Ausnahme des einzigen Thersites, der die Negation der W elt der Ilias darstellt— anders ist darin die Odyssee mit ihren durchgängigen Gegenüberstellungen von Gut und Böse— : so kann auch kein Paris länger in ihr geduldet werden, der trotz allem nicht auf seine W eise doch wieder ein H eld wäre. N icht anders als wie die periodische Form der epischen Verläufe, einem Gesetze des Geschehens vergleichbar, in der Ilias immer wieder einem ,Fast’ sich nähert— einem aller Ordnung, allem Maß, aller Voraus­ sicht, aller Natur der Dinge drohenden Beinahe— , so wird auch an Paris das Bedenkliche, Unheldische, Gemeine fast gestreift, doch auch nur fast gestreift, um dann wieder dem Hochgemuten, Ritterlichen Raum zu geben— mag es auch ein klein wenig zu sehr sich fühlen. Hektor selbst, da sie gemeinsam in den K am pf ziehen, muß gestehen: Unglaublicher! Kein billig Denkender könnte dich verachten (6, 521) . . . Auch Paris, indem er in die Ilias eintritt, wird geadelt, wird gehoben, wie die Freier in der Odyssee trotz ihrer Torheit, ihrer Niedertracht doch wieder nicht nur Schurken oder Tölpel sind und einen zwar entarteten, doch immer noch nach seinen Vorbildern heroischen Gesellschäftszustand spiegeln. Ohne Parisurteil keine Ilias. N icht nur dieser oder jener Einzelheit in ihr. liegt es zugrunde, sondern ihrer ganzen .göttlich-menschlichen Verwick­ lung. Und doch ist die Ilias nach Anfang· Mitte und Ende eine Achilleis? Das Gedicht vom Zorn Achills, von seinem Streit mit Agamemnon und seiner Versöhnung, von Patroklos’ Tod und seiner Sühne ist, auf die K om ­ position gesehen, sowohl die Haupt- wie Rahmenhandlung. Alles andere zieht dieser Verlauf in sich hinein, als ob ein W irbel immer weitere Massen in Bewegung brächte. Doch was heißt hier Rahmen und was Füllung? Ist nicht doch wieder der weitere ,Rahmen* um die Ilias Troias Untergang? Und also doch auch Helenas Entführung? Also doch auch das Parisurteil? Aber in der Ilias wird der Rahmen zum Umrahmten, wird Troias Zerstö­ rung zur vorwegnehmenden Episode, wird die Ursache des Untergangs, der ,Unglücks-Paris*, zur Nebenfigur und wird, um die Zeit des Grolls, in dem Achill so lange schwelgt, zu füllen, eingereiht unter die Vorspiele des eigentlichen, tragischen Geschehens. W urde dies zur Hauptsache, so mußte jenes zur Episode werden. Was gehen den Achill und seine Tragik Helena und Paris an? hat man längst und nicht ohne Grund gefragt. N ur wenn man daraus schloß, die Paris-Abenteuer seien späteren Ursprungs, jüngere W ucherungen um den alten Sagenkern, so schoß man damit übers Ziel. Denn in der Ilias wurde zwei zu eins. Die Frage ist nicht, ob alt oder jung, sondern welchen Ursprungs, welchen Geistes.

60

Literary Interpretation

Das Ganze der Ilias ist etwas Zusammengewachsenes, sagen wir, um es grob auszudrücken, aus zwei Wurzeln. So gewiß die eine ihrer W urzeln jene Art des Heldengesanges ist, von der Achill, in seinem Zelt den ,Ruhm der Helden' singend, selbst ein Beispiel ist (9, 189); und so gewiß die Mehrzahl ihrer Helden, wie Achill, wie Aineias, wie die beiden Aias und so weiter, Helden alter Stämme oder Geschlechter sind; und so gewiß der ,,Zorn Achills" ein Vorwurf ist, der nur ,gesungen', nur gedichtet über­ haupt vorstellbar ist; und so gewiß der Anfang: ,,Singe mir, Göttin, den Zorn . . . " den Grundakkord und Ton der ganzen Symphonie der Ilias angibt: so unmöglich schiene es, als Anfang einer Dichtung gleichen Stils sich vorzustellen: „Singe mir, Göttin, des Paris Verblendung . . ." Den Raub der Helena erzählt schon Herodot, wenn auch im Stile des fünften Jahrhunderts, als N ovelle.17 Zur Novelle wird er aber auch schon, wenn man nach den Angaben der Ilias ihn sich als Geschichte zurechtlegt. Und Novelle bleibt er von Homer an bis Ovid, bis in die Renaissance . . . Aber zum Raub der Helena gehört das Parisurteil wie die Ursache zur Folge. Wäre Paris nicht der Liebling Aphrodites, nicht der Held des Parisurteils, würde er den Gastfreund nicht, kaum daß er ihn besucht, um seine Frau betrügen. Götter pflegen nur dem zu begegnen, der schon in sich hat, was die Begegnung ausdrückt. W enn man aus dem Raub der Helena die Göttin ausläßt, degradiert man ihn zu einer Ehegeschichte, einem D ing, das unserer Zeit ebenso wichtig scheinen mag, wie es dem Altertum nichtig erschienen wäre. Daß der Stoff der Odyssee der Stoff einer Novelle ist, daß sich in ihr eine der alten Heimkehrergeschichten wiederholt, wie sie über die W elt ver­ breitet und durch Enoch Arden uns vertraut sind, hat man mit wachsender Sicherheit erkannt.18 Der Stoff der Ilias ist zwar undurchsichtiger, doch daß ein Element des Novellistischen auch ihm nicht fehlt, wird kaum mehr zu bezweifeln sein. W enn ich es wagen dürfte, mich symbolisch auszudrücken, würde ich die Achilleis in ihrem Verhältnis zur Geschichte von Paris und Helena bestimmen als ein Element des ,Nordens', das mit einer ,südlichen' Materie sich verbunden hätte, wie sich Nordisches und Südliches vereinigt in den Grundrissen der Burgen von Mykene und Tiryns. A chill, der um sein Schicksal Wissende, aus eigener Macht und eingeborener Tragik über sich den Tod Beschließende, der ihm ebenso innere Gewißheit ist wie äußeres Verhängnis, doch durch keinen Götter-Ratschluß, sondern wie durch N ornenspruch, und mit ihm, was die Achilleis m it sich bringt, Heerkönigtum, Gefolgschaft, Waffenfreundschaft, Ehrenkränkung, Bindung zwischen Fürsten und Gefährten bis über den Tod hinaus, Vergeltung bis zur Lei­ chenschändung, bis zur Schlachtung, der Gefangenen bei der Leichenfeier19 . . . alles das fährt wie ein Sturm des Nordens über eine südlich hellere, besinnlichere W elt, in der man resignierend sich zur Klarheit durchringt, statt sich tragisch zu verzehren. Der Zwei-W elten-Gegensatz besteht, auch wenn wir absehen von dem Auge, das die W elt versteht, indem die W elt

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sich in ihm spiegelt— dem Auge des Dichters. Zur Zeit, als die Ilias mitsamt allem, was an Sagen ihr vorausliegt, im Entstehen begriffen war, in der Epoche der mykenischen und geometrischen Stile, zwischen 1200 und 700, lag die Stadt Troia in Trümmern, zerstört und verbrannt, oder kaum küm­ merlich wieder besiedelt, aber weder von Achäern noch Argeiern, sondern von thrakischen Stämmen, die sich nacheinander wandernd nach Kleinasien schoben.20 Die hellenische Besiedelung der Gegend beginnt nicht vor dem Ende des achten Jahrhunderts. Halten wir uns klar: um die Zeit, als in Sparta jener Elfenbeinschnitzer das Parisurteil seinem Kamm einschnitzte, hatten Griechen kaum erst angefangen, Troia als griechische Stadt zu gründen. W ie viel älter muß das Parisurteil sein! Troias gestürzte Herrlichkeit ragte gleich einem Mahnzeichen in das erinnernde Bewußtsein einer Zeit, die alte Herrlichkeiten allerorten hatte stürzen sehen. Man fing an, sich zu besinnen, zu erklären, wie das kam, und die Geschichte zu erzählen: von dem Prinzen, der zum W eiberhelden wurde, von den Göttinnen, die zu ihm auf den Ida kamen, von der Gunst der Aphrodite, von der Rache der beiden Gekränkten und vom Untergang des Priamos und seiner Söhne . . . 21 W ie es freilich in der geraubten Frau aussah (vermutlich zwiespältig), und wie es Priamos zumute war, wenn er sie sah (vermutlich gleichfalls zwiespältig22), und wie sich Hektor und die anderen zu ihr stellten usw., danach wird die alte Geschichte nicht oder nicht viel gefragt haben. M it dieser Frage treten wir in den Bereich der großen Dichtung, oder, wenn wir auch hier wieder der historischen Ansicht der D inge vor der ästhetischen den Vorzug geben sollten, in den Bereich des großen Epos und seiner, mutmaßlichen heroischen Hintergründe 'und Vorläufer. Die Frage, w ie’s in eines Menschen Innern aussieht, richtete sich ursprünglich und vor allem anderen doch wohl an den Helden, und die Antwort, gleichviel ob durch Andeutungen oder durch wechselnde Reden, erfolgte im Heldenlied oder im Epos kleineren Umfangs. Der Mensch, der zuerst den Schritt vom leidenschaftlich Unbedingten zum seelischen Zwiespalt tat (der doch so wenig selbstverständlich ist, daß er der Odyssee z.B. fremd ist), das heißt den Schritt vom Heldisch-Ubermenschlichen zum Problematisch-Mensch­ lichen, wie wir’s verstehen, ohne dem Heldischen etwas zu nehmen, vielmehr um es erst damit auf seine höchste Hohe auch im Unbedingten zu erheben, war kein anderer, wie es scheint, als der auch die Parisgeschichten zu epischen Situationen formte, der Aöde, der auf den Einfall geriet, mit der ererbten Vortragsart ein Weltganzes zu bilden,23 der Dichter der Ilias, der Erwecker des abendländischen Geistes.

A n m e rk u n g e n 1. Zu den indischen Parallelen zu Matth. 4 vgl. Joh. W eiß, Die Schriften des N T, 1907, I, 250; F. Dornseiff, Zeitschr. f. d. neutest. Wiss. u. d. Kunde der ält.

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Literary Interpretation

Kirche 35, 1936, 134. Sinnverwandt ist allerdings damit das Parisurteil ebenso­ wenig wie mit dem Aschenbrödelmärchen (H, Usener, Kl. Sehr. 4, 73). 2. Zu den weiblichen Schönheitskämpfen, \Kallisteia, im Kult der Hera auf Lesbos und der Demeter im arkadischen Basilis vgl. die Stellen bei Martin P. Nilsson, Griechische Feste, 1906, S.57 und 336; dazu die Literatur über Alkmans Parthenien. Der Kultbrauch gehört gewiß auch, unter anderen Dingen, zu den Voraussetzungen für die Geschichte vom Parisurteil, aber das Parisurteil läßt sich nicht etwa zurückführen auf irgendein Aition eines Kultbrauchs, ebensowenig wie die Geschichte erfunden sein kann um zu erklären, wie der Apfel der Aphrodite heilig geworden, wenn auch diese Dinge mit hineinspielen. Dagegen bleibt es jedem unbenommen, sich nach Lust die Geschichte in einen alten „M ythos“ umzudenken und sich vorzustellen, Paris sei einmal ein kleinasiatischer Dämon gewesen, daher einer der Räuber der vorgriechischen Göttin Helena usw. 3. Zitiert nach Karl Borinski, Die Antike in Poetik und Kunsttheorie, Bd.2, S.30 (Erbe der Alten, 10, 1924). Die antiken Geschichten und Deutungen findet man zusammengestellt von Türk in Roschers Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie unter Paris. 4. Die Fragmente des epischen Kyklos sind gesammelt und kommentiert von Erich Bethe, Homer, Dichtung und Sage, 2.Bd., 2.Aufl. 1929. Über das Parisurteil daselbst S.2315. R.M. Dawkins, The Sanctuary o f Artemis Orthia at Sparta, 1929, S.223 u. Taf. 127. Die Kämme dieser Gattung wurden gefunden zusammen mit Töpferware des protokorinthischen und „ersten lakonischen“ Stils. Protokorinthische Ware tritt zuerst noch gleichzeitig mit geometrischer auf. Als mutmaßliches Datum unseres Kammes ergibt sich nach Dawkins die Spanne zwischen 700 und 660 (S.222) oder rund 700 (S.209 u. 221). Zu berücksichtigen bleibt, daß die Datie­ rung nach gleichzeitiger Tonware bei diesen wertvolleren und länger im Gebrauch befindlichen Objekten mit Sicherheit immer nur einen Terminus ante ergibt (Dawkins S.221). W enn z.B. der auf Taf. 130 abgebildete Kamm (sterbender Aias) zusammen mit lakonischer Ware dritten Stils gefunden wurde und danach in die erste Hälfte des 6. Jahrhunderts gesetzt wird (Dawkins S.222), so ist diese Datierung praktisch zwar die einzig mögliche, aber damit allein noch nicht zwingend bewiesen. Zur Datierung des Elfenbeins im allgemeinen s. Dawkins, S.231, zur Datierung des Tongeschirrs S.112. Dawkins' Datierung auf das 7. Jahrhundert übernimmt A. Rumpf, Festschrift für Poland (Philol. Wochenschrift 1932, N r.35/38, Sp.282), während E. Kunze, Gnomon 9, 1933, S.14, den Kamm für nicht älter als 600 halten möchte, wegen der behelmten Athene und wegen des Stiles. Zur literarhistorischen und sagengeschichtlichen Auswertung des Fundes vgl. Wilamowitz, Hermes 65, 1930, 2 4 l ff. und E. Bethe, Hermes 66, 1931, 239. Wilamowitz wollte in dem sitzenden Mann einen Zeus erkennen und hielt die Kyprien für die Vorlage des Schnitzers. Dagegen zwingende Gründe bei Bethe. Bethe glaubt, das Parisurteil hätte um diese Zeit in Sparta aus einem „Kleinepos“ bekannt sein können.— Den Vogel auf der Hand der ersten Göttin, der Hera, erklärt Wilamowitz für einen Kuckuck. Athene ist kenntlich an ihrem Helm. Zu den älteren Darstellungen des Parisurteils überhaupt, auch zum bärtigen Paristyp, vgl. Roland Hampe, Corolla Ludwig Curtius, 1937, S.145. Hampe hält es ange­ sichts des Originals für unmöglich, daß Paris den Apfel hielt, wie es die Umzeich­ nung nach Dawkins zeigt. Dann würde die lebhafte Geste des linken Armes an den beiden anderen Göttinnen vorbei nach Aphrodite hin dasselbe besagen, was im letzten Gesang der Ilias steht: „er lobte sie.“ 6 . R.C. Jebb, An Introduction to the Iliad and the Odyssey, 1887.

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7. U. V. Wilamowitz, Die Ilias und Homer, 1916. 8 . Erich Bethe, Die Sage vom troischen Kriege (Homer, Bd. 3, 1927), S.8. 9. Moderne Deutungen: L. Radermacher, SB. d. Wiener Akademie 1915, S.32 f. 10. Andreas Heusler, Nibelungensage und Nibelungenlied, 3. Aüfl. 1929. 11. U. V. Wilamowitz, Die Ilias und Homer, S.285 ff.; Der Glaube der Hellenen, 1931, 1, 321 ff. 12 . Daß beides sich aufeinander bezieht— wer möchte das bezweifeln? Aber nach Wilamowitz, Die Ilias und Homer, ist der Dichter des 8 .Buchs— über ihn Wilamowitz S.42; 57— ein ,,Spätling4*, jedenfalls verschieden von dem Dichter des 14. (Betrug an Zeus). Über ihn W ilamowitz S.209 u. 232. Der Dichter des 14. ist eins mit dem Dichter des ersten Gesanges, er ist im großen und ganzen der Dichter unserer Ilias; s. S.317. Aber das 8.Buch ist ein „minderwertiges Füllstück“ , tief unter der Kunst sogar des 18. und 19-, sein Dichter jünger als Hesiod, ein Zeitgenosse, wohl gar ein jüngerer Zeitgenosse des Archilochos und Terpander (Wilamowitz S.58). W ie es kommt, daß in dem „minderwertigen Fiillstück“ das hervorragende 14.Buch, das Beilager des Zeus mit Hera, vorbereitet wird, darf man nicht fragen. 13. Erkennbare Reste sind z.B. 15, 18 (Hera in der Streckfolter; Zeus mag sie dadurch zu irgendwelchem Nachgeben gezwungen haben, oder es kam zu einem Pakt oder dergleichen; vgl. dazu auch 1, 590); 5, 385 (Ares in einem ehernen Vorratsgefäß gefangen gesetzt und durch die Verwendung einer schönen „Stief­ mutter“ des Riesen-Brüderpaares, das ihn festgesetzt hatte, mit Hermes’ Hilfe wieder befreit; ein offenbar galantes Abenteuer des Kriegsgottes, ähnlich seiner Eroberung im Hause des Hephaistos); 18, 394 (Hephaistos nach seiner Geburt von Hera als Krüppel ins Meer geschleudert und von den Meermädchen heimlich gerettet). Ein mit dem Aufwand aller epischen Kunst ausgeführtes Beispiel der­ selben Gattung ist die Fesselung der Aphrodite und des Ares in der Odyssee 8, 266. Schwankartig ist auch der homerische Herrneshymnos und vor allem der. Hephaistoshymnos, wie ihn Wilamowitz rekonstruiert hat (Nacht. Ges. Wiss. Gött. 1895); auch in ihm die gleichen Motive: Fesselung, List, Zerwürfnis und Versöhnung. Ich rede hier ausdrücklich nicht: vom Alter der einzelnen Geschich­ ten, sondern vom Alter des Genus; erkennt man z.B. in der Geschichte von Ares und Aphrodite etwas Gattungsmäßiges, so wird es unmöglich, dieses aus den Götterszenen der Ilias abzuleiten, die, wie gesagt, bereits gar keine Geschichten mehr sind, sondern den irdischen Verlauf unterbrechende olympicshe „Situati­ onen“ . Den Götterschwank hat es auch im Altnordischen gegeben, ein Beispiel das Thrymlied der Edda. Siehe H. Schneider, SB. d. bayr. Ak. d. Wiss. 1936, Nr.7. 14. II. 24, 29 -3 0 . Man hat die Verse teils athetiert, teils anders gedeutet. Die Athetese ist unmöglich, weil damit der Hinweis, der ja doch erklären soll, erst recht zum Rätsel würde. W ilamowitz, Hermes 65, 1930, S.242, erklärt erstens den 24. Gesang für „jünger als die Ilias“ , nach seiner bekannten, heute wohl von keinem mehr geteilten These; zweitens leugnet er den Hinweis auf-das Parisurteil: „D ie Verse genügen nicht dazu, die Handlung zu erkennen, welche der Dichter als bekannt voraussetzt, aber die der Kyprien ist es nicht gewesen. Es sieht so aus, als hätte er (Paris) von den drei Frauen, in denen er die Göttinnen nicht erkannte, zwei schnöde abgewiesen, die dritte aufgenommen. Das konnte sehr wohl ein Mär­ chenmotiv sein, das der Dichter aufnahm. Die Kyprien haben es effektvoll umge­ staltet.“ Dann läge hier also eine Form des Märchens von der Bewirtung unerkannter Götter vor. Dann hatte also Paris die beiden erzürnten Göttinnen gar nicht als Göttinnen beleidigt, er hielt sie für beliebige Sterbliche, die— man mag sich den K opf darüber zerbrechen, was die beiden auf dem Ida in seinem Gehöfte von ihm wollten. Denn was Aphrodite, in eine Sterbliche verwandelt, von

64

Literary Interpretation

ihm hätte wollen sollen, weigere ich mich zu vermuten. Kurz, der arme Paris wäre einem Trug der Göttinnen zum Opfer gefallen. Welche Mittel und W ege, die Abgewiesenen gewählt hätten, um ihm seinen M ißgriff klarzumachen— denn das mußten sie doch wohl, wenn sich ihr Zorn auf Troia auf diese Begebenheit zurückführte?— mochte zu weiteren Komplikationen führen, unserer Einbildungs­ kraft werden keine Schranken gezogen. Die unmißverständlichen Worte: ,,die ihm die schlimme Brunst verschaffte“ , werden, ich ahne nicht wie, jedenfalls werden sie nicht als ,,Gewähr“ verstanden und nicht auf Helena bezogen, als ob keine Ilias je von Helena und Paris uns etwas erzählt hätte, als ob nicht dies auf jenes sich zurückbezöge— denn erstes Erfordernis eines geprüften Ilias-Lesers ist die Scheuk­ lappe. Das „schalt“ und „lobte“ wird als „abweisen“ und, „aufnehmen” verstan­ den, was es gar nicht heißt (s. II. 10, 249), und der Gedanke, daß „L ob“ oder „Tadel“ einem Schönheitsrichter anstehen könnte, wird— jede Begründung scheint sich zu erübrigen— uns kurzerhand verboten. Gar erst sich zu denken, das „Gewäh­ ren“ könnte mit dem „Loben“ ursächlich Zusammenhängen, würde uns sofort ins Bodenlose stürzen: wir wären dem Parisurteil ausgeliefert. Also auf, hinaus ins freie Reich der Hypothesen! 15. Über die Episode des 6.Gesanges s. W . Schadewaldt, Antike 11, 1935, S.149 ff16. Vgl. E. Bethe, Homer, 3. Bd. Die Sage vom troischeh Kriege, 1927, S.54 f. Doch siehe zu allen diesen Fragen auch C.M. Bowra, Tradition and Design in the Iliad, Oxford 1930, S.22 f. 17. W enn ich hier von Novelle rede, muß ich bitten, den Terminus ohne genauere Begründung anwenden zu dürfen. Der voneinander abweichenden Defi­ nitionen, meist im Unterschied zur Sage oder zum Märchen, gibt es genug. Literatur bei J. Boite u. G. Polivka, Anm. zu den Kinder- und Hausmärchen der Brüder Grimm 5, 1931, S.261 £, und Artikel „Märchen“ und „N ovelle“ bei Pauly-Wissowa (Aly). Ich verstehe also unter Novelle nicht entzaubertes Märchen oder entgötterte Sage, vielmehr gilt mir als Novelle das, worin anstatt des Wunderbaren und Phantastischen des Märchens das Besinnliche— sie dies nun etwas Weltweises oder Erbauliches oder den Menschen Offenbarendes oder Gewitzigtes— überwiegt. Novelle deutet, indem sie erzählt, zugleich sich selbst; Märchen deutet sich nicht. 18. L. Radermacher, Die Erzählungen der Odyssee, SB. der Wiener Akademie 178, 1, 1915; W . Büchner, Hermes 72, 1937, 121; E. Dornseiff, Hermes 72, 352. Wilamowitz, SB. der Berliner Akademie 1925, 59: „Lange haben wir verkannt, daß in weitem Umfange als Heroensage erscheint, was gar keinen geschichtlichen Inhalt hat, sondern als Märchen oder Novelle zu fassen ist.“ Unter geschichtlichem Inhalt wird hier heroisch verkappte pragmatische Geschichte verstanden. 19· Erwin Rohdes vieibewunderte „Psyche“ , 1894, S.14 ff., hat das schaurige Bestattungszeremoniell als Überrest einer älteren, zu Homers Zeit beinahe schon verschollenen Gesinnung, als ein „Rudiment des lebhafteren Seelenkultes einer vergangenen Zeit“ erklärt. Der Dichter scheine sich selbst nicht in seinem Element zu fühlen, mit einer „gewissen Zaghaftigkeit“ und einer „sonstiger homerischer Art gar nicht entsprechenden Kürze“ gehe er über das Gräßlichste hinweg; „es ist, als ob uralte, längst gebändigte Roheit ein letztes Mal hervorbräche“ . Hier beruht erstens die „Zaghaftigkeit“ des Dichters auf einem rein subjektiven Empfinden des Interpreten, zweitens wird übersehen, daß dies abweichend Grausige bereits auf das Versöhnende des letzten Gesanges hinzielt; drittens wird hier zwischen „alt“ und „ju n g“ auf eben jene Art geschieden, die sich weder des Perspektivischen dieser Kategorien bewußt wird noch der Möglichkeit, daß es auch andere Kategorien geben könnte.

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20. Vgl. E. Bethe, Homer, 3. Bd., S.14 ffi Berichtigung durch neuere Ausgra­ bungsergebnisse (Cincinnati Excavations) bei Caskey, American Journal o f Archae­ ology 1948, S. 121 f : “ The latest excavations have not proved Settlement VII a was destroyed by Achaeans, but they have produced no evidence to the contrary.” 21. Um Troias Untergang zu erklären, gab es noch eine andere Geschichte, die beiläufig bei Homer erwähnt wird, II. 21, 442. Zeus sandte den Apollon und Poseidon unerkannt in die Dienste des Laomedon. Poseidon erbaute die Burg, Apollon sorgte für Herdenreichtum. Aber der hartherzige König verweigerte ihnen nach der abgelaufenen Frist den ausbedungenen Lohn, drohte, sie in die Sklaverei zu verkaufen utid ihnen die Ohren abzuschneiden. Erzürnt kehrten die Götter heim, worauf Zeus beschlossen haben wird (was nicht mehr ausgefiihrt wird), das Geschlecht des Laomedon zu vertilgen. Die Geschichte ist ein frommeres Gegen­ stück zum Parisurteil und bezeugt die Anschauung, daß Troia nach dem W illen des Zeus zugrunde ging, weil schon sein erster König sich bei seiner Gründung einen Vertragsbruch und eine Verletzung menschlichen und göttlichen Rechtes zuschulden kommen ließ. So lautet neben der novellistischen die legendarische Version, die jenem Genus zugehört, auf das die Odyssee 17, 485 verweist. Auch in der allzu glatten Rechnung, die sich zusammenaddiert: erst waren die Götter unmoralisch— siehe die Ilias— , dann wurden sie moralisch— siehe die Odyssee— , fehlt es nicht an Unstimmigkeiten. Unerkannter Götterbesuch bei Königen, um sie auf die Probe zu stellen, z.B. auch in der Einleitung des Grimnirlieds der Edda (2, 79 Genzmer) usw. 22 . D.h. sofern wir unter Zwiespalt das dynamische Prinzip seelischen Wandels und Umschwungs verstehen. Im Epos begegnet als Verlauf, was in der Tragödie simultan wird. Form und Bedingung des Simultanen ist die Reflexion. Aber wenn z.B. Priamos zu Helena sagt (3, 164): „N icht du bist mir schuld, die Götter sind mir schuld“ , so bedeutet das, daß ihm Gefühle anderer Art nicht fremd geblieben sind, dieselben Gefühle, mit denen die anderen Greise sie betrachten, und gegen die er sie in Schutz nimmt. 23. Uber das Weltganze der Ilias und seineh nicht nur extensiven, sondern zumal auch intensiven Ganzheitscharakter s. Kurt Riezler, Parmenides, 1934, S.18 f. A u f die während des Druckes erscheinenden „Gedanken zur Homerfrage“ von R udolf Alexander Schröder, in der Europäischen Revue 1937, freue ich mich gerade noch hin weisen zu können. Jüngst erschienene Literatur: W . Schadewaldt, Iliasstudien, Abh. Sächs. Ak. d. Wiss. 43, Leipzig 1938; Homer und sein Jahrhundert, in: Das Neue Bild der Antike, 1942, I, S.51; dazu desselben gesammelte Homeraufsätze, Von Homers W elt und W erk, 1944 [Stuttgart 19593); R.A. Schröder, Die Aufsätze und Reden, Berlin 1939, I, S.9 ff· [Gesammelte Werke Bd. 2, Frankfurt 1952, S.12 ff.]; Rhys Carpenter, Folk Tale, Fiction and Saga in the Homeric Epics (Sather Classical Lectures 20), Berkeley-Los Angeles 1956.

45_______________________ T he Ilia d or T he Poem o f Force*

S. W eil * Source: The Iliad or the Poem o f Porce, translated from the French (where it appeared in the December 1940 and January 1941 issues of Cahiers du Sud) by M. McCarthy, reprinted from the November 1945 issue of Politics, A Pendle H ill Pamphlet, no. 91, Wallingford, 1945.

The true hero, the true subject, the center o f the Iliad is force. Force employed by man, force that enslaves man, force before which man's flesh shrinks away. In this work, at all times, the human spirit is shown as modified by its relations with force, as swept away, blinded, by the very force it imagined it could handle, as deformed by the weight o f the force it submits to. For those dreamers who considered that force, thanks to progress, would soon be a thing o f the past, the Iliad could appear as an historical document; for others, whose powers o f recognition are more acute and who perceive force, today as yesterday, at the very center o f human history, the Iliad is the purest and the loveliest o f mirrors. To define force— it is that x that turns anybody who is subjected to it into a thing. Exercised to the limit, it turns man into a thing in the most literal sense: it makes a corpse out o f him. Somebody was here, and the next minute there is nobody here at all; this is a spectacle the Iliad never wearies o f showing us: . . . the horses Rattled the empty chariots through the files o f battle, Longing for their noble drivers. But they on the ground Lay, dearer to the vultures than to their wives. The hero becomes a thing dragged behind a chariot in the dust: A ll around, his black hair Was spread; in the dust his whole head lay, That once-charming head; now Zeus had let his enemies Defile it on his native soil. The bitterness o f such a spectacle is offered us absolutely undiluted. N o

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comforting fiction intervenes; no consoling prospect o f immortality; and on the hero’s head no washed-out halo o f patriotism descends. His soul, fleeing his limbs, passed to Hades, M ourning its fate, forsaking its youth and its vigor.

Still more poignant— so painful is the contrast— is the sudden evocation, as quickly rubbed out, o f another world: the far-away, precarious, touching world o f peace, o f the family, the world in which each man counts more than anything else to those about him. She ordered her bright-haired maids in the palace To place on the fire a large tripod, preparing A hot bath for Hector, returning from battle. Foolish woman! Already he lay, far from hot baths, Slain by grey-eyed Athena, who guided Achilles’ arm. Far from hot baths he was indeed, poor man. And not he alone. Nearly all the Iliad takes place far from hot baths. Nearly all o f human life, then and now, takes place far from hot baths. Here we see force in its grossest and most summary form— the force that kills. H ow much more varied in its processes, how much more surprising in its effects is the other force, the force that does not kill, i.e., that does not kill just yet. It will surely kill, it will possibly kill, or perhaps it merely hangs, poised and ready, over the head o f the creature it can kill, at any moment, which is to say at every moment. In whatever aspect, its effect is the same: it turns a man into a stone. From its first property (the ability to turn a human being into a thing by the simple method o f killing him) flows another, quite prodigious too in its own way, the ability to turn a human being into a thing while he is still alive. He is alive; he has a soul; and yet— he is a thing. An extraordinary entity this— a thing that has a soul. A nd as for the soul, what an extraordinary house it finds itself in! W h o can say what it costs it, moment by moment, to accommodate itself to this residence, how much writhing and bending, folding and pleating are required o f it? It was not made to live inside a thing; if it does so, under pressure o f necessity, there is not a single element o f its nature to which violence is not done. A man stands disarmed and naked with a weapon pointing at him; this person becomes a corpse before anybody or anything touches him. Just a minute ago, he was thinking, acting, hoping: Motionless, he pondered. A nd the other drew near, Terrified, anxious to touch his knees, hoping in his heart To escape evil death and black destiny . . . W ith one hand he clasped, suppliant, his knees,

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W hile the other clung to the sharp spear, not letting go . . . Soon, however, he grasps the fact that the weapon which is pointing at him will not be diverted; and now, still breathing, he is simply matter; still thinking, he can think no longer: Thus spoke the brilliant son o f Priam In begging words. But he heard a harsh reply: He spoke. A nd the other’s knees and heart failed him. Dropping his spear, he knelt down, holding out his arms. Achilles, drawing his sharp sword, struck Through the neck and breastbone. The two-edged sword Sunk home its full length. The other, face down, Lay still, and the black blood ran out, wetting the ground. If a stranger, completely disabled, disarmed, strengthless, throws himself on the mercy o f a warrior, he is not, by this very act, condemned to death; but a moment o f impatience on the warrior’s part will suffice to relieve him o f his life. In any case, his flesh has lost that very important property which in the laboratory distinguishes living flesh from dead— the galvanic response. If you give a frog’s leg an electric shock, it twitches. If you confront a human being with the touch or sight o f something horrible or terrifying, this bundle o f muscles, nerves, and flesh likewise twitches. Alone o f all living things, the suppliant we have just described neither quivers nor trembles. He has lost the right to do so. As his lips advance to touch the object that is for him o f all things most charged with horror, they do not draw back on his teeth— they cannot: N o one saw great Priam enter. He stopped, Clasped the knees o f Achilles, kissed his hands, Those terrible man-killing hands that had slaughtered so many o f his sons. The sight o f a human being pushed to such an extreme o f suffering chills us like the sight o f a dead body: As when harsh misfortune strikes a man if in his own country He has killed a man, and arrives at last at someone else’s door, The door o f a rich man; a shudder seizes those who see him. So Achilles shuddered to see divine Priam; The others shuddered too, looking one at the other. But this feeling lasts only a moment. Soon the very presence o f the suffering creature is forgotten:

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He spoke. The other, remembering his own father, longed to weep; Taking the old man’s arm, he pushed him away. Both were remembering. Thinking o f Hector, killer o f men, Priam wept, abased at the feet o f Achilles. But Achilles wept, now for his father, N ow for Patroclus. A nd their sobs resounded through the house. It was not insensibility that made Achilles with a single movement o f his hand push away the old man who had been clinging to his knees; Priam’s words, recalling his own old father, had moved him to tears. It was merely a question o f his being as free in his attitudes and movements as if, clasping his knees, there were not a suppliant but an inert object. Anybody who is in our vicinity exercises a certain power over us by his very presence, and a power that belongs to him alone, that is, the power o f halting, repressing, modifying each movement that our body sketches out. If we step aside for a passer-by on the road, it is not the same thing as stepping aside to avoid a billboard; alone in our rooms, we get up, walk about, sit down again quite differently from the way we do when we have a visitor. But this indefinable influence that the presence o f another human being has on us is not exercised by men whom a moment o f impatience can deprive o f life, who can die before even thought has a chance topass sentence on them. In their presence, people move about as if they were not there; they, on their side, running the risk o f being reduced to nqthing in a single instant, imitate nothingness in their own persons. Pushed, they fall. Fallen, they lie where they are, unless chance gives somebody the idea o f raising them up again. But supposing that at long last they have been picked up, honored with cordial remarks, they still do not venture to take this resurrection seriously; they dare not express a wish lest an irritated voice return them forever to silence: H e spoke; the old man trembled and obeyed. A t least a suppliant, once his prayer is answered, becomes a human being again, like everybody else. But there are other, more unfortunate creatures who have become things for the rest o f their lives. Their days hold no pastimes, no free spaces, no room in them for any impulse o f their own. It is not that their life is harder than other men’s nor that they occupy a lower place in the social hierarchy; no, they are another human species, a compromise between a man and a corpse. The idea o f a person’s being a thing is a logical contradiction. Yet what is impossible in logic becomes true in life, and the contradiction lodged within the soul tears it to shreds. This thing is constantly aspiring to be a man or a woman, and never

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achieving it— here, surely, is death but death strung out over a whole lifetime; here, surely is life, but life that death congeals before abolishing. This strange fate awaits the virgin, the priest’s daughter: I will not give her up. Sooner shall old age come upon her In our house in Argos, far from her native land, Tending the loom and sharing my bed. It awaits the young wife, the young mother, the prince’s bride: A nd perhaps one day, in Argos, you will weave cloth for another, And the Messeian or Hyperian water you will fetch, Much against your will, yielding to a harsh necessity. It awaits the baby, heir to the royal scepter: Soon they w ill be carried off in the hollow ships, I with them. A nd you, my child, will either go with me, To a land where you will work at wretched tasks, Laboring for a pitiless master. . . . In the mother’s eyes, such a fate is, for her child, as terrible as death; the husband would rather die than see his wife reduced to it; all the plagues o f heaven are invoked by the father against the army that subjects his daughter to it. Yet the victims themselves are beyond all this. Curses, feelings o f rebellion, comparisons, reflections on the future and the past, are obliterated from the mind o f the captive; and memory itself barely lingers on. Fidelity to his city and his dead is not the slave’s privilege. And what does it take to make the slave weep? The misfortune o f his master, his oppressor, despoiler, pillager, o f the man who laid waste his town and killed his dear ones under his very eyes. This man suffers or dies; then the slave’s tears come. A nd really why not? This is for him the only occasion on which tears are permitted, are, indeed, required. A slave will always cry whenever he can do so with impunity— his situation keeps tears on tap for him. She spoke, weeping, and the women groaned, Using the pretext o f Patroclus to bewail their own torments. Since the slave has no license to express anything except what is pleasing to his master, it follows that the only emotion that can touch or enliven him a little, that can reach him in the desolation o f his life, is the emotion o f love for his master. There is no place else to send the gift of love; all other outlets

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are barred, just as, with the horse in harness, bit, shafts, reins bar every way but one. And if, by some miracle, in the slave’s breast a hope is born, the hope o f becoming, some day, through somebody’s influence, someone once again, how far w on’t these captives go to show love and thankfulness, even though these emotions are addressed to the very men who should, consider­ ing the very recent past, still reek with horror for them: My husband, to whom my father and respected mother gáve me, I saw before the city transfixed by the sharp bronze. M y three brothers, children, with me, o f a single mother, So dear to me! They all met their fatal day. But you did not allow me to weep, when swift Achilles Slaughtered my husband and laid waste the city o f Mynes. Y ou promised me that I would be taken by divine Achilles, For his legitimate wife, that he would carry me away in his ships, T o Pythia, where our marriage would be celebrated among the Myrmidons, So without respite I mourn for you, you who have always been gentle. T o lose more than the slave does is impossible, for he loses his whole inner life. A fragment o f it he may get back if he sees the possibility o f changing his fate, but this is his only hope. Such is the empire o f force, as extensive as the empire o f nature. Nature, 'too, when vital needs are at stake, can erase the whole inner life, even the grief o f a mother: But the thought o f eating came to her, when she was tired o f tears. Force, in the hands o f another, exercises over the soul the same tyranny that extreme hunger does; for it possesses, and in perpetuo, the power o f life and death. Its rule, moreover, is as cold and hard as the rule o f inert matter. The man who knows himself weaker than another is more alone in the heart o f a city than a man lost in the desert. Tw o casks are placed before Zeus’s doorsill, Containing the gifts he gives, the bad in one, the good in the other . . . The man to whom he gives baneful gifts, he exposes to outrage; A frightful-need drives him across the divine earth; He is a wanderer, and gets no respect from gods or men.

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Force is as pitiless to the man who possesses it, or thinks he does, as it is to its victims; the second it crushes, the first it intoxicates. The truth is, nobody really possesses it. The human race is riot divided up, in the Iliad, into conquered persons, slaves, suppliants, on the one hand, and conquerors and chiefs on the other. In this poem there is not a single man who does not at one time or another have to bow his neck to force. The com m on soldier in the Iliad is free and has the right to bear arms; nevertheless he is subject to the indignity o f orders and abuse: But whenever he came upon a commoner shouting out, He struck him with his scepter and spoke sharply: “ G ood for nothing! Be still and listen to your betters, Y ou are weak and cowardly and un warlike, Y ou count for nothing, neither in battle nor in council.” Thersites pays dear for the perfectly reasonable comments he makes, com ­ ments not at all different, moreover, from those made by Achilles: He hit him with his scepter on back and shoulders, So that he doubled over, and a great tear welled up, And a bloody welt appeared on his back Under the golden scepter. Frightened, he sat down, W ip in g away his tears, bewildered and in pain. Troubled though they were, the others laughed long at him. Achilles himself, that proud hero, the undefeated, is shown us at the outset o f the poem , weeping with humiliation and helpless grief— the woman he wanted for his bride has been taken from under his nose, and he has not dared to oppose it: . . . But Achilles W eeping, sat apart from his companions, By the white-capped waves, staring over the boundless ocean. W hat has happened is that Agamemnon has deliberately humiliated Achilles, to show that he himself is the master: . . . So you will learn That I am greater than you, and anyone else will hesitate To treat me as an equal and set himself against me. But a few days pass and now the supreme commander is weeping in his turn. He must humble himself, he must plead, and have, moreover, the added misery o f doing it all in vain.

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In the same way, there is not a single one o f the combatants who is spared the shameful experience o f fear. The heroes quake like everybody else. It only needs a challenge from Hector to throw the whole Greek force into consternation— except for Achilles and his men, and they did not happen to be present: He spoke and all grew still and held their peace, Ashamed to refuse, afraid to accept. But once Ajax comes forward and offers himself, fear quickly changes sides: A shudder o f terror ran through the Trojans, making their limbs weak; And Hector hismelf felt his heart leap in his breast. But he no longer had the right to tremble, or to run away. . . . Tw o days later, it is Ajax's turn to be terrified: Zeus the father on high, makes fear rise in Ajax. He stops, overcome, puts behind him his buckler made o f seven hides, Trembles, looks at the crowd around, like a wild beast. . . . Even to Achilles the moment comes; he too must shake and stammer with fear, though it is a river that has this effect on him, not a man. But, with the exception o f Achilles, every man in the Iliad tastes a moment o f defeat in battle. Victory is less a matter o f valor than o f blind destiny, which is symbolized in the poem by Zeus’s golden scales: Then Zeus the father took his golden scales, In them he pur the two fates o f death that cuts down all men, One for the Trojans, tamers o f horses, one for the bronze-sheathed Greeks. H e seized the scales by the middle; it was the fatal day o f Greece that sank. By its very blindness, destiny establishes a kind o f justice. Blind also is she who decress to warriors punishment in kind. He that takes the sword, will perish by the sword. The Iliad formulated the principle long before the Gospels did, and in almost the same terms: Ares is just, and kills those who kill.

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Perhaps all men, by the very act o f being born, are destined to suffer violence; yet this is a truth to which circumstance shuts men's eyes. The strong are, as a matter o f fact, never absolutely strong, nor are the weak absolutely weak, but neither is aware o f this. They have in com m on a refusal to believe that they both belong to the same species: the weak see no relation between themselves and the strong, and vice versa. The man who is the possessor o f force seems to walk through a non-resistant element; in the human substance that surrounds him nothing has the power to inter­ pose, between the impulse and the act, the tiny interval that is reflection. W here there is no room for reflection, there is none either for justice or prudence. Hence we see men in arms behaving harshly and madly. W e see their sword bury itself in the breast o f a disarmed enemy who is in the very act o f pleading at their knees. W e see them triumph over a dying man by describing to him the outrages his corpse will endure. W e see Achilles cut the throats o f twelve Trojan boys on the funeral pyre o f Patroclus as naturally as we cut flowers for a grave. These men, wielding power, have no suspicion o f the fact that the consequences o f their deeds will at length come home to them— they too will bow the neck in their turn. If you can make an old man fall silent, tremble, obey, with a single word o f your own, why should it occur to you that the curses o f this old man, who is after all a priest, will have their own importance in the gods’ eyes? W h y should you refrain from taking Achilles’ girl away from him if you know that neither he nor she can do anything but obey you? Achilles rejoices over the sight o f the Greeks fleeing in misery and confusion. W hat could possibly suggest to him that this rout, which will last exactly as long as he wants it to and end when his m ood indicates it, that this very rout will be the cause o f his friend’s death, and, for that matter, o f his own? Thus it happens that those who have force on loan from fate count on it too much and are destroyed. But at the time their own destruction seems impossible to them. For they do not see that the force in their possession is only a limited quantity; nor do they see their relations with other human beings as a kind o f balance between unequal amounts o f force. Since other people do not impose on their movements that halt, that interval o f hesitation, wherein lies all our consideration for our brothers in humanity, they conclude that destiny has given complete license to them, and none at all to their inferiors. And at this point they exceed the measure o f the force that is actually at their disposal. Inevitably they exceed it, since they are not aware that it is limited. A nd now we see them committed irretrievably to chance; suddenly things cease to obey them. Sometimes chance is kind to them, sometimes cruel. But in any case there they are, exposed, open to misfortune; gone is the armor o f power that formerly protected their naked souls; nothing, no shield, stands between them and tears. This retribution, which has a geometrical rigor, which operates automa­ tically to penalize the abuse o f force, was the main subject o f Greek thought.

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It is the soul o f the epic. Under the name o f Nemesis, it functions as the mainspring o f Aeschylus's tragedies. T o the Pythagoreans, to Socrates and Plato, it was the jum ping-off point o f speculation upon the nature o f man and the universe. Wherever Hellenism has penetrated, we find the idea o f it familiar. In Oriental countries which are steeped in Buddhism, it is perhaps this Greek idea that has lived on under the name o f Kharma. The Occident, however, has lost it, and no longer even has a word to express it in any o f its languages: conceptions o f limit, measure, equilibrium, which ought to determine the conduct o f life are, in the W est, restricted to a servile function in the vocabulary o f technics. W e are only geometricians o f matter; the Greeks were, first o f all, geometricians in their apprenticeship to virtue. The progress o f the war in the Iliad is simply a continual game o f seesaw. The victor o f the moment feels him self invincible, even though, only a few hours before, he may have experienced defeat; he forgets to treat victory as a transitory thing. A t the end o f the first day o f combat described in the Iliad, the victorious Greeks were in a position to obtain the object o f all their efforts, i.e., Helen and her riches— assuming o f course as Homer did, that the Greeks had reason to believe that Helen was in Troy. Actually, the Egyptian priests, who ought to have known, affirmed later on to Herodotus that she was in Egypt. In any case, that evening the Greeks are no longer interested in her or her possessions: “ For the present, let us not accept the riches o f Paris; N or Helen; everybody sees, even the most ignorant, That Troy stands on the verge o f ruin.” He spoke, and all the Achaeans acclaimed him. W hat they want is, in fact, everything. For booty, all the riches o f Troy; for their bonfires, all the palaces, temples, houses; for slaves, all the women and children; for corpses, all the men. They forget one detail, that everything is not within their power, for they are not in Troy. Perhaps they w ill be there tomorrow; perhaps not. Hector, the same day, makes the same mistake: For I know well in my entrails and in my hearts, A day will come when H oly Troy will perish, A nd Priam, and the nation o f Priam o f the good lance. But I think less o f the grief that is in store for the Trojans, A nd o f Hecuba herself, and o f Priam the king, And o f m y brothers, so numerous and so brave, W h o will fall in the dust under the blows o f the enemy, Than o f you that day when a Greek in his bronze breastplate W ill drag you away weeping and deprive you o f your liberty.

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But as for me, may I be dead, and may the earth have covered me Before I hear you cry out or see you dragged away! At this moment what would he not give to turn aside those horrors which he believes to be inevitable? But at this moment nothing he could give would be o f any use. The next day but one, however, the Greeks have run away miserably, and Agamemnon himself is in favor o f putting to the sea again. And now Hector, by making a very few concessions, could readily secure the enemy’s departure; yet now he is even unwilling to let them go empty-handed: Set fires everywhere and let the brightness mount the skies Lest in the night the long-haired Greeks, Escaping, sail over the broad back o f ocean . . . Let each o f them take home a wound to heal . . . thus others will fear To bring dolorous war to the Trojans, tamers o f horses. His wish is granted; the Greeks stay; and the next day they reduce Hector and his men to a pitiable condition: As for them— they fled across the plain like cattle W h om a lion hunts before him in the dark m idnight . . . Thus the mighty Agamemnon, son o f Atreus, pursued them, Steadily killing the hindmost; and still they fled. In the course o f the afternoon, Hector regains the ascendancy, withdraws again, then puts the Greeks to flight, then is repulsed by Patroclus, who has come in with his fresh troops. Patroclus, pressing his advantage, ends by finding himself exposed, wounded and without armor, to the sword o f Hector. A nd finally that evening the victorious H ector hears the prudent counsel o f Polydamas and repudiates it sharply: N ow that wily Kronos’s son has given me Glory at the ships; now that I have driven the Greeks to the sea, D o not offer, fool, such counsels to the people. N o Trojan will listen to you; nor would I permit it . . . So Hector spoke, and the Trojans acclaimed him. . . . The next day H ector is lost. Achilles has harried him across the field and is about to kill him. He has always been the stronger o f the two in combat; how much the more so now, after several weeks o f rest, ardent for vengeance

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and victory, against an exhausted enemy? A nd Hector stands alone, before the walls o f Troy, absolutely alone, alone to wait for death and to steady his soul to face it: Alas, were I to slip through the gate, behind the rampart, Polydamas at once would heap dishonor on me . . . And now that through my recklessness I have destroyed my people* I fear the Trojans and the long-robed Trojan women, I fear to hear from some one far less brave than I: “ Hector, trusting his own strength too far, has ruined his p eop le/' . . . Suppose I were to down my bossed shield, M y massive helmet, and, leaning my spear against the wall, Should go to meet renowned Achilles? . . . But why spin out these fancies? W h y such dreams? I would not reach him, nor would he pity me, Or respect me. He would kill me like a woman If I came naked thus . . . N ot a jot o f the grief and ignom iny that fall to the unfortunate is Hector spared. Alone, stripped o f the prestige o f force, he discovers that the courage that kept him from taking to the shelter o f the walls is not enough to save him from flight: Seeing him, H ector began to tremble. He had not the heart To stay . . . . . . It is not for a ewe nor the skin o f an ox, That they are striving, not these ordinary rewards o f the race; It is for a life that they run, the life o f Hector, tamer o f horses. W ounded to supplications:

death,

he enhances

his

conqueror’s triumph

by vain

I implore you, by your soul, by your knees, by your parents. . . . But the auditors o f the Iliad knew that the death o f Hector would be but a brief joy to Achilles, and the death o f Achilles but a brief joy to the Trojans, and the destruction o f Troy but a brief joy to the Achaeans. Thus violence obliterates anybody who feels its touch. It comes to seem just

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as external to its employer as to its victim. And from this a destiny before which executioner and victim stand before which conquered and conqueror are brothers in The conquered brings misfortune to the conqueror, and

springs the idea o f equally innocent, the same distress. vice versa:

A single son, short-lived, was born to him. Neglected by me, he grows old— for far from home I camp before Troy, injuring you and your sons. A moderate use o f force, which alone would enable man to escape being enmeshed in its machinery, would require superhuman virtue, which is as rare as dignity in weakness. Moreover, moderation itself is not without its perils, since prestige, from which force derives at least three quarters o f its strength, rests principally upon that marvelous indifference that the strong feel toward the weak, an indifference so contagious that it infects the very people who are the objects o f it. Yet ordinarily excess is not arrived at through prudence or politic considerations. On the contrary, man dashes to it as to an irresistible temptation. The voice o f reason is occasionally heard in the mouths o f the characters in the Iliad. Thersites’ speeches are reason­ able to the highest degree; so are the speeches o f the angry Achilles: N othing is worth my life, not all the goods They say the well-built city o f Ilium contains. . . . A man can capture steers and fatted sheep But, once gone, the soul cannot be captured back. But words o f reason drop into the void. If they come from an inferior, he is punished and shuts up; if from a chief, his actions betray them. And failing everything else, there is always a god handy to advise him to be unreasonable. In the end, the very idea o f wanting to escape the role fate has allotted one— the business o f killing and dying— disappears from the mind: W e to whom Zeus Has assigned suffering, from youth to old age, Suffering in grievous wars, till we perish to the last man. Already these warriors, like Craonne’s so much later, felt themselves to be "condemned m en.” It was the simplest trap that pitched them into this situation. A t the outset, at the embarkation, their hearts are light, as hearts always are if you have a large force on your side and nothing but space to oppose you. Their weapons are in their hands; the enemy is absent. Unless your spirit has been con­ quered in advance by the reputation o f the enemy, you always feel yourself

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to be much stronger than anybody who is not there. An absent man does not impose the yoke o f necessity. T o the spirits o f those embarking no necessity yet presents itself; consequently they go off as though to a game, as though on holiday from the confinement o f daily life. W here have they gone, those braggadocio boasts W e proudly flung upon the air at Lemnos, Stuffing ourselves with flesh o f horned steers, Drinking from cups brimming over with wine? As for Trojans— a hundred or two each man o f us Could handle in battle. And now one is too much for us. But the first contact o f war does not immediately destroy the illusion that war is a game. W ar's necessity is terrible, altogether different in kind from the necessity o f peace. So terrible is it that the human spirit will not submit to it so long as it can possibly escape; and whenever it can escape it takes refuge in long days empty o f necessity, days o f play, o f revery, days arbitrary and unreal. Danger then becomes an abstraction; the lives you destroy are like toys broken by a child, and quite as incapable o f feeling; heroism is but a theatrical gesture and smirched with boastfulness. This becomes doubly true if a momentary access o f vitality comes to reinforce the divine hand that wards off defeat and death. Then war is easy and basely, coarsely loved. But with the majority o f the combatants this state o f mind does not persist. Soon there comes a day when fear, or defeat, or the death o f beloved comrades touches the warrior's spirit, ; and it crumbles in the hand of necessity. A t that moment war is no more a game or a dream; now at last the warrior cannot doubt the reality o f its existence. And this reality, which he perceives, is hard, much too hard to be borne, for it enfolds death. Once you acknowledge death to be a practical possibility, the thought o f it becomes unendurable, except in flashes. True enough, all men are fated to die; true enough also, a soldier may grow old in battles; yet for those whose spirits have bent under the yoke o f war, the relation between death and the future is different than for other men. For other men death appears as a limit set in advance on the future; for the soldier death is the future, the future his profession assigns him. Yet the idea o f man's having death for a future is abhorrent to nature. Once the experience o f war makes visible the possibility o f death that lies locked up in each moment, our thoughts cannot travel from one day to the next without meeting death’s face. The mind is then strung up to a pitch it can stand for only a short time; but each new dawn reintroduces the same necessity; and days piled on days make years. On each one o f these days the soul suffers violence. Regularly, every morning, the soul castrates itself o f aspiration, for thought cannot journey through time without meeting death on the way. Thus war effaces all conceptions o f purpose or goal, including even its own “ war aims.” It

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effaces the very notion o f war s being brought to an end. To be outside a situation so violent as this is to find it inconceivable; to be inside it is to be unable to conceive its end. Consequently, nobody does anything to bring this end about. In the presence o f an armed enemy, what hand can relin­ quish its weapon? The mind ought to find a way out, but the mind has lost all capacity to so much as look outward. The mind is completely absorbed in doing itself violence. Always in human life, whether war or slavery is in question, intolerable sufferings continue, as it were, by the force o f their own specific gravity, and so look to the outsider as though they were easy to bear; actually, they continue because they have deprived the sufferer o f the resources which might serve to extricate him. Nevertheless, the soul that is enslaved to war cries out for deliverance, but deliverance itself appears to it in an extreme and tragic aspect, the aspect o f destruction. Any other solution, more moderate, more reasonable in char­ acter, would expose the mind to suffering so naked, so violent that it could not be borne, even as memory. Terror, grief, exhaustion, slaughter, the annihilation o f comrades— is it credible that these things should not con­ tinually tear at the soul, if the intoxication o f force had not intervened to drown them? The idea that an unlimited effort should bring in only a limited profit or no profit at all is terribly painful. W hat? W ill we let Priam and the Trojans boast O f Argive Helen, she for whom so many Greeks Died before Troy, far from their native land? W hat? D o you want us to leave the city, wide-streeted Troy, Standing, when we have suffered so much for it? But actually what is Helen to Ulysses? W hat indeed is Troy, full o f riches that will not compensate him for Ithaca's ruin? For the Greeks, Troy and Helen are in reality mere sources o f blood and tears; to master them is to master frightful memories. If the existence o f an enemy has made a soul destroy in itself the thing nature put there, then the only remedy the soul can imagine is the destruction o f the enemy. At the same time the death o f dearly loved comrades arouses a spirit o f somber emulation, a rivalry in death: May I die, then, at .once! Since fate has not let me Protect my dead friend, who far from home Perished, longing for me to defend him from death. So now I go to seek the murderer o f my friend, Hector. A nd death shall I find at the moment Zeus wills it— Zeus and the other immortals.

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It is the same despair that drives him on toward death, on the one hand, and slaughter on the other: I know it well, my fate is to perish here, Far from father and dearly loved mother; but meanwhile I shall not stop till the Trojans have had their fill o f war. The man possessed by this twofold need for death belongs, so long as he has not become something still different, to a different race from the race o f the living. W hat echo can the tim id hopes o f life strike in such a heart? H ow can it hear the defeated begging for another sight o f the light o f day? The threatened life has already been relieved o f nearly all its consequence by a single, simple distinction: it is now unarmed; its adversary possesses a weapon. Furthermore, how can a man who has rooted out o f him self the notion that the light o f day is sweet to the eyes respect such a notion when it makes its appearance in some futile and humble lament? I clasp tight your knees, Achilles. Have a thought, have pity for me. I stand here, O son o f Zeus, a suppliant, to be respected. In your house it was I first tasted Demeter’s bread, That day in my well-pruned vineyard you caught me And sold me, sending me far from father and friends, T o holy Lemnos; a hundred oxen was my price. And now I will pay you three hundred for ransom. This dawn is for me my twelfth day in Troy, After so many sorrows. See me here, in your hands, Through some evil fate. Zeus surely must hate me W h o again puts me into your hands. Alas, my poor mother, Laothoe, Daughter o f the old man, Altes— a short-lived son you have borne. W hat a reception this feeble hope gets! Come, friend, you too must die. W h y make a fuss about it? Patroclus, he too has died— a far better man than you are. D on ’t you see how handsome I am, how mighty? A noble father begat me, and I have a goddess for mother. Yet even I,Tike you, must some day encounter my fate, W hether the hour strikes at noon, or evening, or sunrise,

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The hour that comes when some arms-bearing warrior will kill me. To respect life in somebody else when you have had to castrate yourself o f all yearning for it demands a truly heart-breaking exertion o f the powers o f generosity. It is impossible to imagine any o f H om er’s warriors being capable o f such an exertion, unless it is that warrior who dwells, in a peculiar way, at the very center o f the poem— I mean Patroclus, who “ knew how to be sweet to everybody,” and who throughout the Iliad commits no cruel or brutal act. But then how many men do we know, in several thousand years o f human history, who would have displayed such god-like generosity? T w o or three?— even this is doubtful. Lacking this generosity, the conquering soldier is like a scourge o f nature. Possessed by war, he, like the slave, becomes a thing, though his manner o f doing so is different— over him too, words are as powerless as over matter itself. And both, at the touch o f force, experience its inevitable effects: they become deaf and dumb. y Such is the nature o f force. Its power o f converting a man into a thing is a double one, and in its application double-edged. T o the same degree, though in different fashions, those who use it and those who endure it are turned to stone. This property o f force achieves its maximum effective­ ness during the clash o f arms, in battle, when the tide o f the day has turned, and everything is rushing toward a decision. It is not the planning man, the man o f strategy, the man acting on the resolution taken, who wins or loses a battle; battles are fought and decided by men deprived o f these faculties, men who have undergone a transformation, who have dropped either to the level o f inert matter, which is pure passivity, or to the level o f blind force, which is pure momentum. Herein lies the last secret o f war, a secret revealed by the Iliad in its similes, which liken the warriors either to fire, flood, wind, wild beasts, or G od knows what blind cause o f disaster, or else to frightened animals, trees, water, sand, to anything in nature that is set into motion by the violence o f external forces. Greeks and Trojans, from one day to the next, sometimes even from one hour to the next, experience, turn and turn about, one or the other o f these transmutations: As when a lion, murderous, springs among the cattle W hich by thousands are grazing over some vast marshy field. . . . And their flanks heave with terror; even so the Achaeans Scattered in panic before H ector and Zeus, the great father. As when a ravening fire breaks out deep in a bushy wood

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And the wheeling wind scatters sparks far and wide, And trees, root and branch, topple over in flames; So Atreus’ son, Agamemnon, roared through the ranks O f the Trojans in flight. . . . The art o f war is simply the art o f producing such transformations, and its equipment, its processes, even the casualties it inflicts on the enemy, are only means directed toward this end— its true object is the warrior’s soul. Yet these transformations are always a mystery; the gods are their authors, the gods who kindle men’s imagination. But however caused, this petrifactive quality o f force, two-fold always, is essential to its nature; and a soul which has entered the province o f force will not escape this except by a miracle. Such miracles are rare and o f brief duration. The wantonness o f the conqueror that knows no respect for any creature or thing that is at its mercy or is imagined to be so, the despair o f the soldier that drives him on to destruction, the obliteration o f the slave or the conquered man, the wholesale slaughter— all these elements combine in the Uiad to make a picture o f uniform horror, o f which force is the sole hero. A monotonous desolation would result were it not for those few luminous moments, scattered here and there throughout the poem, those brief, celestial moments in which man possesses his soul. The soul that awakes then, to live for an instant only and be lost almost at once in force’s vast kingdom , awakes pure and whole; it contains no ambiguities, nothing complicated or turbid; it has no room for anything but courage and love. Sometimes it is in the course o f inner deliberations that a man finds his soul: he meets it, like Hector before Troy, as he tries to face destiny on his own terms, without the help o f gods or men. A t other times, it is in a moment o f love that men discover their souls— and there is hardly any form o f pure love known to humanity o f which the Iliad does not treat. The tradition of hospitality persists, even through several generations, to dispel the blind­ ness o f combat. Thus I am for you a beloved guest in the breast o f Argos . . . Let us turn our lances away from each other, even in battle, The love o f the son for the parents, o f father for son, o f mother for son, is continually described, in a manner as touching as it is curt: Thetis answered, shedding tears, “ You were born to me for a short life, my child, as you say . . Even brotherly love:

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My three brothers whom the same mother bore for me, So dear. . . . Conjugal love, condemned to sorrow, is o f an astonishing purity. Imaging the humiliations o f slavery which await a beloved wife, the husband passes over the one indignity which even in anticipation would stain their tender­ ness. W hat could be simpler than the words spoken by his wife to the man about to die? . . . Better for me Losing you, to go under the earth. N o other comfort W ill remain, when you have encountered your death-heavy fate, Only grief, only sorrow. . . . N ot less touching are the words expressed to a dead husband: Dear husband, you died young, and left me your widow Alone in the palace. Our child is still tiny, The child you and I, crossed by fate, had together. I think he will never grow up . . . For not in your bed did you die, holding my hand And speaking to me prudent words which forever N ight and day, as I weep, m ight live in my memory. The most beautiful friendship o f all, the friendship between comrades-atarms, is the final theme o f The Epic: . . . But Achilles W ept, dreaming o f the beloved comrade; sleep, allprevailing, W ou ld not take him; he turned over again and again. But the purest triumph o f love, the crowning grace o f war, is the friendship that floods the hearts o f mortal enemies. Before it a murdered son or a murdered friend no longer cries out for vengeance. Before it— even more miraculous— the distance between benefactor and suppliant, between victor and vanquished, shrinks to nothing: But when thirst and hunger had been appeased, Then Dardanian Priam fell to admiring Achilles. H ow tall he was, and handsome; he had the face o f a god; A nd in his turn Dardanian Priam was admired by Achilles, W h o watched his handsome face and listened to his words.

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A nd when they were satisfied with contemplation o f each other . . . These moments o f grace are rare in the Iliad, but they are enough to make us feel with sharp regret what it is that violence has killed and will kill again. However, such a heaping-up o f violent deeds would have a frigid effect, were it not for the note o f incurable bitterness that continually makes itself heard, though often only a single word marks its presence, often a mere stroke o f the verse, or a run-on line. It is in this that the Iliad is absolutely unique, in this bitterness that proceeds from tenderness and that spreads over the whole human race, impartial as sunlight. Never does the tone lose its coloring o f bitterness; yet never does the bitterness drop into lamenta­ tion. Justice and love, which have hardly any place in this study o f extremes and o f unjust acts o f violence, nevertheless bathe the work in their light without ever becom ing noticeable themselves, except as a kind o f accent. N othing precious is scorned, whether or not death is its destiny; everyone’s unhappiness is laid bare without dissimulation or disdain; no man is set above or below the condition com m on to all men; whatever is destroyed is regretted. Victors and vanquished are brought equally near us; under the same head, both are seen as counterparts o f the poet, and the listener as well. If there is any difference, it is that the enemy’s misfortunes are possibly more sharply felt. So he fell there, put to sleep in the sleep o f bronze, Unhappy man, far from his wife, defending his own people. . . . And what accents echo the fate o f the lad Achilles sold at Lemnos! Eleven days he rejoiced his heart among those, he loved, Returning from Lemnos; the twelfth day, once more, God delivered him into the hands o f Achilles, To him who had to send him, unwilling, to Hades. And the fate o f Euphorbus, who saw only a single day o f war. Blood soaked his hair, the hair like to the Graces’ . . . W hen Hector is lamented: . . . guardian o f chaste wives and little children. . . .

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In these few words, chastity appears, dirtied by force, and childhood, delivered to the sword. The fountain at the gates o f Troy becomes an object o f poignant nostalgia when Hector runs by, seeking to elude his doom: Close by there stood the great stone tanks, Handsomely built, where silk-gleaming garments W ere washed clean by Troy’s lovely daughters and housewives In the old days o f peace, long ago, when the Greeks had not come. Past these did they run their race, pursued and pursuer. The whole o f the Iliad lies under the shadow o f the greatest calamity the human race can experience— the destruction o f a city. This calamity could not tear more at the heart had the poet been born in Troy. But the tone is not different when the Achaeans are dying, far from home. Insofar as this other life, the life o f the living, seems calm and full, the brief evocations o f the world o f peace are felt as pain: W ith the break o f dawn and the rising o f the day, On both sides arrows flew, men fell. But at the very hour that the woodcutter goes home to fix his meal In the mountain valleys when his arms have had enough O f hacking great trees, and disgust rises in his heart, A nd the desire for sweet food seizes his entrails, A t that hour, by their valor, the Danaans broke the front. Whatever is not war, whatever war destroys or threatens, the Iliad wraps in poetry; the realities o f war, never. N o reticence veils the step from life to death: Then his teeth flew out; from two sides, Blood came to his eyes; the blood that from lips and nostrils He was spilling, open-mouthed; death enveloped him in its black cloud. The cold brutality o f the deeds o f war is left undisguised; neither victors nor vanquished are admired, scorned, or hated. Almost always, fate and the gods decide the changing lot o f battle. W ith in the limits fixed by fate, the gods

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determine with sovereign authority victory and defeat. It is always they who provoke those fits o f madness, those treacheries, which are forever blocking peace; war is their true business; their only motives, caprice and malice. As for the warriors, victors or vanquished, those comparisons which liken them to beasts or things can inspire neither admiration nor contempt, but only regret that men are capable o f being so transformed. There may be, unknown to us, other expressions o f the extraordinary sense o f equity which breathes through the Iliad; certainly it has not been imitated. One is barely aware that the poet is a Greek and not a Trojan. The tone o f the poem furnishes a direct clue to the origin o f its oldest portions; history perhaps will never be able to tell us more. If one believes with Thucydides that eighty years after the fall o f Troy, the Achaeans in their turn were conquered, one may ask whether these songs, with their rare references to iron, are not the songs o f a conquered people, o f whom a few went into exile. O bliged to live and die, “ very far from the homeland,” like the Greeks who fell before Troy, having lost their cities like the Trojans, they saw their own image both in the conquerors, who had been their fathers, and in the conquered, whose misery was like their own. They could still see the Trojan war over that brief span o f years in its true light, unglossed by pride or shame. They could look at it as conquered and as conquerors simultaneously, and so perceive what neither conqueror nor conquered ever saw, for both were blinded. O f course, this is mere fancy; one can see such distant times only in fancy’s light. In any case, this poem is a miracle. Its bitterness is the only justifiable bitterness, for it springs from the subjections o f the human spirit to force, that is, in the last analysis, to matter. This subjection is the com m on lot, although each spirit will bear it differently, in proportion to its own virtue. N o one in the Iliad is spared by it, as no one on earth is. N o one who succumbs to it is by virtue o f this fact regarded with contempt. W hoever, within his own soul and in human relations, escapes the dominion o f force is loved but loved sorrowfully because o f the threat o f destruction that con­ stantly hangs over him. Such is the spirit o f the only true epic the Occident possesses. The Odyssey seems merely a good imitation, now o f the Iliads now o f Oriental poems; the Aeneid is an imitation which, however brilliant, is disfigured by frigidity, bombast, and bad taste. The chansons de geste, lacking the sense o f equity, could not attain greatness: in the Chanson de Roland, the death o f an enemy does not come home to either author or reader in the same way as does the death o f Roland. A ttic tragedy, or at any rate the tragedy o f Aeschylus and Sophocles, is the true continuation o f the epic. The conception o f justice enlightens it, without ever directly intervening in it; here force appears in its coldness and

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hardness, always attended by effects from whose fatality neither those who use it nor those who suffer it can escape; here the shame o f the coerced spirit is neither disguised, nor enveloped in facile pity, nor held up to scorn; here more than one spirit bruised and degraded by misfortune is offered for our admiration. The Gospels are the last marvelous expression o f the Greek genius, as the Iliad is the first: here the Greek spirit reveals itself not only in the injunction given mankind to seek above all other goods, “ the kingdom and justice o f our Heavenly Father,” but also in the fact that human suffering is laid bare, and we see it in a being who is at once divine and human. The accounts o f the Passion show that a divine spirit, incarnate, is changed by misfortune, trembles before suffering and death, feels itself, in the depths o f its agony, to be cut off from man and God. The sense o f human misery gives the Gospels that accent o f simplicity that is the mark o f the Greek genius, and that endows Greek tragedy and the Iliad with all their value. Certain phrases have a ring strangely reminiscent o f the epic, and it is the Trojan lad dispatched to Hades, though he does not wish to go, who comes to mind when Christ says to Peter: “ Another shall gird thee and carry thee whither thou wouldst not.” This accent cannot be separated from the idea that inspired the Gospels, for the sense o f human misery is a pre­ condition o f justice and love. He who does not realize to what extent shifting fortune and necessity hold in subjection every human spirit, cannot regard as fellow-creatures nor love as he loves himself those whom chance separated from him by an abyss. The variety o f constraints pressing upon man give rise to the illusion o f several distinct species that cannot com m u­ nicate. Only he who has measured the dominion o f force, and knows how not to respect it, is capable o f love and justice. The relations between destiny and the human soul, the extent to which each soul creates its own destiny, the question o f what elements in the soul are transformed by merciless necessity as it tailors the soul to fit the require­ ments o f shifting fate, and o f what elements can on the other hand be preserved, through the exercise o f virtue and through grace— this whole question is fraught with temptations to falsehood, temptations that are positively enhanced by pride, by shame, by hatred, contempt, indifference, by the will to oblivion or to ignorance. Moreover, nothing is so rare as to see misfortune fairly portrayed; the tendency is either to treat the unfortunate person as though catastrophe were his natural vocation, or to ignore the effects o f misfortune on the soul, to assume, that is, that the soul can suffer and remain unmarked by it, can fail, in fact, to be recast in misfortune’s image. The Greeks, generally speaking, were endowed with spiritual force that allowed them to avoid self-deception. The rewards o f this were great; they discovered how to achieve in all their acts the greatest lucidity, purity, and simplicity. But the spirit that was transmitted from the Iliad to the Gospels by way o f the tragic poets never jumped the borders o f Greek

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civilization; once Greece was destroyed, nothing remained o f this spirit but pale reflections. Both the Romans and the Hebrews believed themselves to be exempt from the misery that is the common human lot. The Romans saw their country as the nation chosen by destiny to be mistress o f the world; with the Hebrews, it was their G od who exalted them and they retained their superior position just as long as they obeyed Him. Strangers, enemies, conquered peoples, subjects, slaves, were objects o f contempt to the Romans; and the Romans had no epics, no tragedies. In Rome gladiatorial fights took the place o f tragedy. W ith the Hebrews, misfortune was a sure indication o f sin and hence a legitimate object o f contempt; to them a vanquished enemy was abhorrent to G od himself and condemned to expiate all sorts o f crimes— this is a view that makes cruelty permissible and indeed indispensable. And no text o f the Old Testament strikes a note comparable to the note heard in the Greek epic, unless it be certain parts o f the book o f Job. Throughout twenty centuries o f Christianity, the Romans and the Hebrews have been admired, read, imitated, both in deed and word; their masterpieces have yielded an appropriate quotation every time anybody had a crime he wanted to justify. Furthermore, the spirit o f the Gospels was not handed down in a pure state from one Christian generation to the next. T o undergo suffering and death joyfully was from the very beginning considered a sign o f grace in the Christian martyrs— as though grace could do more for a human being than it could for Christ. Those who believe that G od himself, once he became man, could not face the harshness o f destiny without a long tremor of anguish, should have understood that the only people who can give the impression o f having risen to a higher plane, who seem superior to ordinary human misery, are the people who resort to the aids o f illusion, exaltation, fanaticism, to conceal the harshness o f destiny from their own eyes. The man who does not wear the armor o f the lie cannot experience force without being touched by it to the very soul. Grace can prevent this touch from corrupting him, but it cannot spare him the wound. Having forgotten it too well, Christian tradition can only rarely recover that simplicity that renders so poignant every sentence in the story o f the Passion. On the other hand, the practice o f forcible proselytization threw a veil over the effects o f force on the souls o f those who used it. In spite o f the brief intoxication induced at the time o f the Renaissance by the discovery o f Greek literature, there has been, during the course o f twenty centuries, no revival o f the Greek genius. Something o f it was seen in V illon, in Shakespeare, Cervantes, Moliere, and— just once— in Racine. The bones o f human suffering are exposed in UFcole des Femmes and in Phèdre, love being the context— a strange century indeed, which took the opposite view from that o f the epic period, and would only acknowledge human suffering in the context o f love, while it insisted on swathing with

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glory the effects o f force in war and in politics. To the list o f writers given above, a few other names m ight be added. But nothing the peoples o f Europe have produced is worth the first known poem that appeared among them. Perhaps they w ill yet rediscover the epic genius, when they learn that there is no refuge from fate, learn not to admire force, not to hate the enemy, nor to scorn the unfortunate. H ow soon this w ill happen is another question.

46 Odysseus’ Scar*

E. Auerbach * Source: Mimesis. The Representation o f R eality in W estern Literature, translated from the German (1945) by W .R . Trask, Copyright received 1953 by Princeton University Press, pp. 3 -2 3 .

Readers o f the Odyssey will remember the well-prepared and touching scene in book 19, when Odysseus has at last come home, the scene in which the old housekeeper Euryclea, who had been his nurse, recognizes him by a scar on his thigh. The stranger has won Penelope's good will; at his request she tells the housekeeper to wash his feet, which, in all old stories, is the first duty o f hospitality toward a tired traveler. Euryclea busies herself fetching water and m ixing cold with hot, meanwhile speaking sadly o f her absent master, who is probably o f the same age as the guest, and who perhaps, like the guest, is even now wandering somewhere, a stranger; and she remarks how astonishingly like him the guest looks. Meanwhile Odysseus, remem­ bering his scar, moves back out o f the light; he knows that, despite his efforts to hide his identity, Euryclea will how recognize him, but he wants at least to keep Penelope in ignorance. N o sooner has the old woman touched the scar than, in her joyous surprise, she lets Odysseus’ foot drop into the basin; the water spills over, she is about to cry out her joy; Odysseus restrains her with whispered threats and endearments; she recovers herself and conceals her emotion. Penelope, whose attention Athena’s foresight had diverted from the incident, has observed nothing. A ll this is scrupulously externalized and narrated in leisurely fashion. The two women express their feelings in copious direct discourse. Feelings though they are, with only a slight admixture o f the most general con­ siderations upon human destiny, the syntactical connection between part and part is perfectly clear, no contour is blurred. There is also room and time for orderly, perfectly well-articulated, uniformly illuminated descrip­ tions o f implements, ministrations, and gestures; even in the dramatic moment o f recognition, H om er does not omit to tell the reader that it is with his right hand that. Odysseus takes the old woman by the throat to keep her from speaking, at the same time that he draws her closer to him with his left. Clearly outlined, brightly and uniformly illuminated, men

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and things stand out in a realm where everything is visible; and not less clear— wholly expressed, orderly even in their ardor— are the feelings and thoughts o f the persons involved. In my account o f the incident I have so far passed over a whole series o f verses which interrupt it in the middle. There are more than seventy o f these verses— while to the incident itself some forty are devoted before the interruption and some forty after it. The interruption, which comes just at the point when the housekeeper recognizes the scar— that is, at the moment o f crisis— describes the origin o f the scar, a hunting accident which occurred in Odysseus' boyhood, at a boar hunt, during the time o f his visit to his grandfather Autolycus. This first affords an opportunity to inform the reader about Autolycus, his house, the precise degree o f the kinship, his character, and, no less exhaustively than touchingly, his behavior after the birth o f his grandson; then follows the visit o f Odysseus, now grown to be a youth; the exchange o f greetings, the banquet with which he is welcomed, sleep and waking, the early start for the hunt, the tracking o f the beast, the struggle, Odysseus' being wounded by the boar’s tusk, his recovery, his return to Ithaca, his parents’ anxious questions— all is narrated, again with such a complete externalization o f all the elements o f the story and o f their interconnections as to leave nothing in obscurity. N ot until then does the narrator return to Penelope’s chamber, not until then, the digression having run its course, does Euryclea, who had recognized the scar before the digression began, let Odysseus' foot fall back into the basin. The first thought o f a modern reader— that this is a device to increase suspense— is, if not wholly wrong, at least not the essential explanation o f this Homeric procedure. For the element o f suspense is very slight in the Homeric poems; nothing in their entire style is calculated to keep the reader or hearer breathless. The digressions are not meant to keep the reader in suspense, but rather to relax the tension. And this frequently occurs, as in the passage before us. The broadly narrated, charming, and subtly fashioned story o f the hunt, with all its elegance and self-sufficiency, its wealth o f idyllic pictures, seeks to win the reader over wholly to itself as long as he is hearing it, to make him forget what had just taken place during the foot­ washing. But an episode that will increase suspense by retarding the action must be so constructed that it will not fill the present entirely, will not put the crisis, whose resolution is being awaited, entirely out o f the reader’s mind, and thereby destroy the m ood o f suspense; the crisis and the suspense must continue, must remain vibrant in the background. But Homer— and to this we shall have to return later— knows no background. W hat he narrates is for the time being the only present, and fills both the stage and the reader’s mind completely. So it is with the passage before us. W hen the young Euryclea (w . 4 0 Iff.) sets the infant Odysseus on his grandfather Autolycus’ lap after the banquet, the aged Euryclea, who a few lines earlier

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had touched the wanderer’s foot, has entirely vanished from the stage and from the reader’ s mind. Goethe and Schiller, who, though not referring to this particular episode, exchanged letters in April 1797 on the subject o f “ the retarding element” in the Homeric poems in general, put it in direct opposition to the element of suspense— the latter word is not used, but is clearly implied when the “ retarding” procedure is opposed, as something proper to epic, to tragic procedure (lettèts o f April 19, 21, and 22). The “ retarding element,” the “ going back and forth” by means o f episodes, seems to me, too, in the Homeric poems, to be opposed to any tensional and suspensive striving toward a goal, and doubtless Schiller is right in regard to Homer when he says that what he gives us is “ simply the quiet existence and operation o f things in accordance with their natures” ; H om er’s goal is “ already present in every point o f his progress.” But both Schiller and Goethe raise H om er’s procedure to the level o f a law for epic poetry in general, and Schiller s words quoted above are meant to be universally binding upon the epic poet, in contradistinction from the tragic. Yet in both modern and ancient times, there are important epic works which are composed throughout with no “ retarding element” in this sense but, on the contrary, with suspense throughout, and which perpetually “ rob us o f our emotional freedom” — which power Schiller will grant only to the tragic poet. And besides it seems to me undemonstrable and improbable that this procedure o f H o ­ meric poetry was directed by aesthetic considerations or even by an aesthetic feeling o f the sort postulated by Goethe and Schiller. The effect, to be sure, is precisely that which they describe, and i$, furthermore, the actual source o f the conception o f epic which they therfiselves hold, and with them all writers decisively influenced by classical antiquity. But the true cause o f the impression o f “ retardation” appears to me to lie elsewhere— namely, in the need o f the Homeric style to leave nothing which it mentions half in darkness and unexternalized. The excursus upon the origin o f Odysseus’ scar is not basically different from the many passages in which a newly introduced character, or even a newly appearing object or implement, though it be in the thick o f a battle, is described as to its nature and origin; or in which, upon the appearance o f a god, we are told where he last was, what he was doing there, and by what road he reached the scene; indeed, even the Homeric epithets seem to me in the final analysis to be traceable to the same need for an externalization o f phenomena in terms perceptible to the senses. Here is the scar, which comes up in the course o f the narrative; and H om er’s feeling simply will not permit him to see it appear out o f the darkness o f an unilluminated past; it must be set in full light, and with it a portion o f the hero’s boyhood— just as, in the Iliad, when the first ship is already burning and the Myrmidons finally arm that they may hasten to help, there is still time not only for the wonderful simile o f the wolf, not only for the order o f the Myrmidon host,

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but also for a detailed account of the ancestry o f several subordinate leaders (16, vv. 155ff). To be sure, the aesthetic effect thus produced was soon noticed and thereafter consciously sought; but the more original cause must have lain in the basic impulse o f the Homeric style: to represent phenomena in a fully externalized form, visible and palpable in all their parts, and completely fixed in their spatial and temporal relations. N or do psycholo­ gical processes receive any other treatment: here too nothing must remain hidden and unexpressed. W ith the utmost fullness, with an orderliness which even passion does not disturb, H om er’s personages vent their inmost hearts in speech; what they do not say to others, they speak in their own minds, so that the reader is informed o f it. Much that is terrible takes place in the Homeric poems, but it seldom takes place wordlessly: Polyphemus talks to Odysseus; Odysseus talks to the suitors when he begins to kill them; Hector and Achilles talk at length, before battle and after; and no speech is so filled with anger or scorn that the particles which express logical and grammatical connections are lacking or out o f place. This last observa­ tion is true, o f course, not only o f speeches but o f the presentation in general. The separate elements o f a phenomenon are most clearly placed in relation to one another; a large number o f conjunctions, adverbs, parti­ cles, and other syntactical tools, all clearly circumscribed and delicately differentiated in meaning, delimit persons, things, and portions o f incidents in respect to one another, and at the same time bring them together in a continuous and ever flexible connection; like the separate phenomena themselves, their relationships— their temporal, local, causal, final, conse­ cutive, comparative, concessive, antithetical, and conditional limitations— are brought to light in perfect fullness; so that a continuous rhythmic procession o f phenomena passes by, and never is there a form left fragmen­ tary or half-illuminated, never a lacuna, never a gap, never a glimpse o f unplumbed depths. And this procession o f phenomena takes place in the foreground— that is, in a local and temporal present which is absolute. One m ight think that the many interpolations, the frequent moving back and forth, would create a sort o f perspective in time and place; but the Homeric style never gives any such impression. The way in which any impression o f perspective is avoided can be clearly observed in the procedure for introducing episodes, a syntac­ tical construction with which every reader o f Homer is familiar; it is used in the passage we are considering, but can also be found in cases when the episodes are much shorter. To the word scar (v. 393) there is first attached a relative clause (“ which once long ago a boar . . .” ), which enlarges into a voluminous syntactical parenthesis; into this an independent sentence unex­ pectedly intrudes (v. 396: “ A god himself gave him . . .” ), which quietly disentangles itself from syntactical subordination, until, with verse 399, an equally free syntactical treatment o f the new content begins a new present which continues unchallenged until, with verse 467 (“ The old woman now

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touched it . . .” ), the scene which had been broken o ff is resumed. To be sure, in the case o f such long episodes as the one we are considering, a purely syntactical connection with the principal theme would hardly have been possible; but a connection with it through perspective would have been all the easier had the content been arranged with that end in view; if, that is, the entire story o f the scar had been presented as a recollection which awakens in Odysseus’ mind at this particular moment. It would have been perfectly easy to do; the story o f the scar had only to be inserted two verses earlier, at the first mention o f the word scar, where the motifs ‘Odysseus” and “ recollection” were already at hand. But any such subjectivistic-perspectivistic procedure, creating a foreground and background, resulting in the present lying open to the depths o f the past, is entirely foreign to the Homeric style; the Homeric style knows only a foreground, only a uniformly illuminated, uniformly objective present. A nd so the excursus does not begin until two lines later, when Euryclea has discovered the scar— the possibility for a perspectivistic connection no longer exists, and the story o f the wound becomes an independent and exclusive present. The genius o f the Homeric style becomes even more apparent when it is compared with an equally ancient and equally epic style from a different world o f forms. I shall attempt this comparison with the account o f the sacrifice o f Isaac, a homogeneous narrative produced by the so-called Elohist. The King James version translates the opening as follows (Genesis 22: 1): “ A nd it came to pass after these things, that G od did tempt Abraham, and said to him, Abraham! and he said, Behold, here I am.” Even this opening startles us when we come to it from Homer. Where are the two speakers? W e are not told. The reader, however, knows that they are not normally to be found together in one place on earth, that one o f them, G od, in order to speak to Abraham, must come from somewhere, must enter the earthly realm from some unknown heights or depths. W hence does he come, whence does he call to Abraham? W e are not told. He does not come, like Zeus or Poseidon, from the Aethiopians, where he has been enjoying a sacrificial feast. N or are we told anything o f his reasons for tempting Abraham so terribly. He has not, like Zeus, discussed them in set speeches with other gods gathered in council; nor have the deliberations in his own heart been presented to us; unexpected and mysterious, he enters the scene from some unknown height or depth and calls: Abraham! It w ill at once be said that this is to be explained by the particular concept o f God which the Jews held and which was wholly different from that o f the Greeks. True enough— but this constitutes no objection. For how is the Jewish concept o f G od to be explained? Even their earlier G od o f the desert was not fixed in form and content, and was alone; his lack o f form, his lack o f local habitation, his singleness, was in the end not only maintained but developed even, further in com petition with the comparatively far more manifest gods o f the surrounding Near Eastern world. The concept o f

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G od held by the Jews is less a cause than a symptom o f their manner o f comprehending and representing things. This becomes still clearer if we now turn to the other person in the dialogue, to Abraham. W here is he? W e do not know. He says, indeed: Here I am— but the Hebrew word means only something like “ behold m e,” and in any case is not meant to indicate the actual place where Abraham is, but a moral position in respect to G od, who has called to him— Here am I awaiting thy command. W here he is actually, whether in Beersheba or elsewhere, whether indoors or in the open air, is not stated; it does not interest the narrator, the reader is not informed; and what Abraham was doing when G od called to him is left in the same obscurity. To realize the difference, consider Hermes’ visit to Calypso, for example, where command, journey, arrival and reception o f the visitor, situation and occupation o f the person visited, are set forth in many verses; and even on occasions when gods appear suddenly and briefly, whether to help one o f their favorites or to deceive or destroy some mortal whom they hate, their bodily forms, and usually the manner o f their com ing and going, are given in detail. Here, however, G od appears without bodily form (yet he “ appears” ), com ing from some unspecified place— we only hear his voice, and that utters nothing but a name, a name without an adjective, without a descriptive epithet for the person spoken to, such as is the rule in every Homeric address; and o f Abraham too nothing is made perceptible except the words in which he answers God: Hinne-ni, Behold me here— with which, to be sure, a most touching gesture expressive o f obedience and readiness is suggested, but it is left to the reader to visualize it. Moreover the two speakers are not on the same level: if we conceive o f Abraham in the foreground, where it m ight be possible to picture him as prostrate or kneeling or bowing with outspread arms or gazing upward, G od is not there too: Abraham’s words and gestures are directed toward the depths o f the picture or upward, but in any case the undetermined, dark place from which the voice comes to him is not in the foreground. After this opening, G od gives his command, and the story itself begins: everyone knows it; it unrolls with no episodes in a few independent sentences whose syntactical connection is o f the most rudimentary sort. In this atmosphere it is unthinkable that an implement, a landscape through which the travelers passed, the serving-men, or the ass, should be described, that their origin or descent or material or appearance or usefulness should be set forth in terms o f praise; they do not even admit an adjective: they are serving-men, ass, wood, and knife, and nothing else, without an epithet; they are there to serve the end which G od has commanded; what in other respects they were, are, or w ill be, remains in darkness. A journey is made, because God has designated the place where the sacrifice is to be performed; but we are told nothing about the journey except that it took three days, and even that we are told in a mysterious way: Abraham and his followers

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rose "early in the morning” and "went unto” the place o f which God had told him; on the third day he lifted up his eyes and saw the place from afar. That gesture is the only gesture, is indeed the only occurrence during the whole journey, o f which we are told; and though its motivation lies in the fact that the place is elevated, its uniqueness still heightens the impression that the journey took place through a vacuum; it is as if, while he traveled on, Abraham had looked neither to the right nor to the left, had suppressed any sign o f life in his followers and him self save only their footfalls. Thus the journey is like a silent progress through the indeterminate and the contingent, a holding o f the breath, a process which has no present, which is inserted, like a blank duration, between what has passed and what lies ahead, and which yet is measured: three days! Three such days positively demand the symbolic interpretation which they later received. They began "early in the m orning.” But at what time on the third day did Abraham lift up his eyes and see his goal? The text says nothing on the subject. Obviously not "late in the evening,” for it seems that there was still time enough to clim b the mountain and make the sacrifice. So "early in the m orning” is given, not as an indication o f time, but for the sake o f its ethical significance; it is intended to express the resolution, the promptness, the punctual obedience o f the sorely tried Abraham. Bitter to him is the early morning in which he saddles his ass, calls his serving-men and his son Isaac, and sets out; but he obeys, he walks on until the third day, then lifts up his eyes and sees the place. W hence he comes, we do not know, but the goal is clearly stated: Jeruel in the land o f Moriah. W hat place this is meant to indicate is not clear— "M oriah” especially may be a later correction o f some other word. But in any case the goal was given, and in any case it is a matter o f some sacred spot which was to receive a particular consecration by being connected with Abraham’s sacrifice. Just as little as "early in the m orning” serves as a temporal indication does “Jeruel in the land o f Moriah” serve as a geographical indication; and in both cases alike, the complementary indication is not given, for we know as little o f the hour at which Abraham lifted up his eyes as we do o f the place from which he set forth— Jeruel is significant not so much as the goal o f an earthly journey, in its geographical relation to other places, as through its special election, through its relation to God, who designated it as the scene o f the act, and therefore it must be named. In the narrative itself, a third chief character appears: Isaac. W hile G od and Abraham, the serving-men, the ass, and the implements are simply named, without mention o f any qualities or any other sort o f definition, Isaac once receives an appositive; God says, "Take Isaac, thine only son, whom thou lovest.” But this is not a characterization o f Isaac as a person, apart from his relation to his father arid apart from the story; he may be handsome or ugly, intelligent or stupid, tall or short, pleasant or unpleasant— we are not told. Only what we need to know about him as a personage in the action,

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here and now, is illuminated, so that it may become apparent how terrible Abraham's temptation is, and that God is fully aware o f it. By this example o f the contrary, we see the significance o f the descriptive adjectives and digressions o f the Homeric poems; with their indications o f the earlier and as it were absolute existence o f the persons described, they prevent the reader from concentrating exclusively on a present crisis; even when the most terrible things are occurring, they prevent the establishment o f an overwhelming suspense. But here, in the story o f Abraham's sacrifice, the overwhelming suspense is present; what Schiller makes the goal o f the tragic poet— to rob us o f our emotional freedom, to turn our intellectual and spiritual powers (Schiller says “ our activity” ) in one direction, to concen­ trate them there— is effected in this Biblical narrative, which certainly deserves the epithet epic. W e find the same contrast if we compare the two uses o f direct discourse. The personages speak in the Bible story too; but their speech does not serve, as does speech in Homer, to manifest, to externalize thoughts— on the contrary, it serves to indicate thoughts which remain unexpressed. God gives his command in direct discourse, but he leaves his motives and his purpose unexpressed; Abraham, receiving the command, says nothing and does what he has been told to do. The conversation between Abraham and Isaac on the way to the place o f sacrifice is only an interruption o f the heavy silence and makes it all the more burdensome. The two o f them, Isaac carrying the wood and Abraham with fire and a knife, “ went together.” Hesitantly, Isaac ventures to ask about the ram, and Abraham gives the well-known answer. Then the text repeats: “ So they went both o f them together.” Everything remains unexpressed. It would be difficult, then, to imagine styles more contrasted than those o f these two equally ancient and equally epic texts. On the one hand, externalized, uniformly illuminated phenomena, at a definite time and in a definite place, connected together without lacunae in a perpetual fore­ ground; thoughts and feeling completely expressed; events taking place in leisurely fashion and with very little o f suspense. On the other hand, the externalization o f only so much o f the phenomena as is necessary for the purpose o f the narrative, all else left in obscurity; the decisive points o f the narrative alone are emphasized, what lies between is nonexistent; time and place are undefined and call for interpretation; thoughts and feeling remain unexpressed, are only suggested by the silence and the fragmentary speeches; the whole, permeated with the most unrelieved suspense and directed toward a single goal (and to that extent far more o f a unity), remains mysterious and “ fraught with background.” I will discuss this term in some detail, lest it be misunderstood. I said above that the Homeric style was “ o f the foreground” because, despite much going back and forth, it yet causes what is momentarily being narrated to give the impression that it is the only present, pure and without perspective.

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A consideration o f the Elohistic text teaches us that our term is capable o f a broader and deeper application. It shows that even the separate personages can be represented as possessing “ background” ; G od is always so repre­ sented in the Bible, for he is not comprehensible in his presence, as is Zeus; it is always only “ something” o f him that appears, he always extends into depths. But even the human beings in the Biblical stories have greater depths o f time, fate, and consciousness than do the human beings in Homer; although they are nearly always caught up in an event engaging all their faculties, they are not so entirely immersed in its present that they do not remain continually conscious o f what has happened to them earlier and elsewhere; their thoughts and feelings have more layers, are more entangled. Abraham’s actions are explained not only by what is happening to him at the moment, nor yet only by his character (as Achilles’ actions by his courage and his pride, and Odysseus’ by his versatility and foresightedness), but by his previous history; he remembers, he is constantly conscious of, what G od has promised him and what G od has already accomplished for him— his soul is torn between desperate rebellion and hopeful expectation; his silent obedience is multilayered, has background. Such a problematic psychological situation as this is impossible for any o f the Homeric heroes, whose destiny is clearly defined and who wake every morning as if it were the first day o f their lives: their emotions, though strong, are simple and find expression instantly. H ow fraught with background, in comparison, are characters like Saul and David! H ow entangled and stratified are such human relations as those between David and Absalom, between David and Joab! Any such “ back­ ground” quality o f the psychological situation as that which the story o f Absalom ’s death and its sequel (II Samuel 18 and 19, by the so-called Jahvist) rather suggests than expresses, is unthinkable in Homer. Here we are confronted not merely with the psychological processes o f characters whose depth o f background is veritably abysmal, but with a purely geo­ graphical background too. For David is absent from the battlefield; but the influence o f his will and his feelings continues to operate, they affect even Joab in his rebellion and disregard for the consequences o f his actions; in the magnificent scene with the two messengers, both the physical and psycho­ logical background is fully manifest, though the latter is never expressed. W ith this, compare, for example, how Achilles, who sends Patroclus first to scout and then into battle, loses almost all “ presentness” so long as he is not physically present. But the most important thing is the “ multilayeredness’ of the individual character; this is hardly to be met with in Homer, or at most in the form o f a conscious hesitation between two possible courses o f action; otherwise, in Homer, the complexity o f the psychological life is shown only in the succession and alternation o f emotions; whereas the Jewish writers are able to express the simultaneous existence o f various layers o f consciousness and the conflict between them.

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The Homeric poems, then, though their intellectual, linguistic, and above all syntactical culture appears to be so much more highly developed, are yet comparatively simple in their picture o f human beings; and no less so in their relation to the real life which they describe in general. Delight in physical existence is everything to them, and their highest aim is to make that delight perceptible to us. Between battles and passions, adventures and perils, they show us hunts, banquets, palaces and shepherds’ cots, athletic contests and washing days— in order that we may see the heroes in their ordinary life, and seeing them so, may take pleasure in their manner o f enjoying their savory present, a present which sends strong roots down into social usages, landscape, and daily life. And thus they bewitch us and ingratiate themselves to us until we live with them in the reality o f their lives; so long as we are reading or hearing the poems, it does not matter whether we know that all this is only legend, “ make-believe.” The oftrepeated reproach that Homer is a liar takes nothing from his effectiveness, he does not need to base his story on historical reality, his reality is powerful enough in itself; it ensnares us, weaving its web around us, and that suffices him. And this “ real” world into which we are lured, exists for itself, contains nothing but itself; the Homeric poems conceal nothing, they contain no teaching and no secret second meaning. Homer can be analyzed, as we have essayed to do here, but he cannot be interpreted. Later allegor­ izing trends have tried their arts o f interpretation upon him, but to no avail. H e resists any such treatment; the interpretations are forced and foreign, they do not crystallize into a unified doctrine. The general considerations which occasionally occur (in our episode, for example, v. 360: that in misfortune men age quickly) reveal a calm acceptance o f the basic facts o f human existence, but with no compulsion to brood over them, still less any passionate impulse either to rebel against them or to embrace them in an ecstasy o f submission. It is all very different in the Biblical stories. Their aim is not to bewitch the senses, and if nevertheless they produce lively sensory effects, it is only because the moral, religious, and psychological phenomena which are their sole concern are made concrete in the sensible matter o f life. But their religious intent involves an absolute claim to historical truth. The story o f Abraham and Isaac is not better established than the story o f Odysseus, Penelope, and Euryclea; both are legendary. But the Biblical narrator, the Elohist, had to believe in the objective truth o f the story o f Abraham’s sacrifice— the existence o f the sacred ordinances o f life rested upon the truth o f this and similar stories. H e had to believe in it passionately; or else (as many rationalistic interpreters believed and perhaps still believe) he had to be a conscious liar— no harmless liar like Homer, who lied to give pleasure, but a political liar with a definite end in view, lying in the interest o f a claim to absolute authority. T o me, the rationalistic interpretation seems psychologically absurd; but

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even if we take it into consideration, the relation o f the Elohist to the truth o f his story still remains a far more passionate and definite one than is H om er’s relation. The Biblical narrator was obliged to write exactly what his belief in the truth o f the tradition (or, from the rationalistic standpoint, his interest in the truth o f it) demanded o f him— in either case, his freedom in creative or representative imagination was severely limited; his activity was perforce reduced to com posing an effective version o f the pious tradi­ tion. W hat he produced, then, was not primarily oriented toward “ realism” (if he succeeded in being realistic, it was merely a means, not an end); it was oriented toward truth. W oe to the man who did not believe it! One can perfectly well entertain historical doubts on the subject o f the Trojan W ar or o f Odysseus’ wanderings, and still, when reading Homer, feel precisely the effects he sought to produce; but without believing in Abraham’s sacrifice, it is impossible to put the narrative o f it to the use for which it was written. Indeed, we must go even further. The B ible’s claim to truth is not only far more urgent than H om er’s, it is tyrannical— it excludes all other claims. The world o f the Scripture stories is not satisfied with claiming to be a historically true reality— it insists that it is the only real world, is destined for autocracy. A ll other scenes, issues, and ordinances have no right to appear independently o f it, and it is promised that all o f them, the history o f all mankind, will be given their due place within its frame, will be subordinated to it. The Scripture stories do not, like H om er’s, court our favor, they do not flatter us that they may please us and enchant us— they seek to subject us, and if we refuse to be subjected we are rebels. Let no one object that this goes too far, that not the stories, but the religious doctrine, raises the claim to absolute authority; because the stories are not, like H om er’s, simply narrated “ reality.” Doctrine and promise are incarnate in them and inseparable from them; for that very reason they are fraught with “ background” and mysterious, containing a second, concealed meaning. In the story o f Isaac, it is not only G o d ’s intervention at the beginning and the end, but even the factual and psychological elements which come between, that are mysterious, merely touched upon, fraught with background; and therefore they require subtle investigation and inter­ pretation, they demand them. Since so much in the story is dark and incomplete, and since the reader knows that G od is a hidden God, his effort to interpret it constantly finds something new to feed upon. Doctrine and the search for enlightenment are inextricably connected with the physical side o f the narrative— the latter being more than simple “ reality” ; indeed they are in constant danger o f losing their own reality, as very soon happened when interpretation reached such proportions that the real vanished. If the text o f the Biblical narrative, then, is so greatly in need o f interpretation on the basis o f its own content, its claim to absolute authority forces it still further in the same direction. Far from seeking, like Homer,

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merely to make us forget our own reality for a few hours, it seeks to overcome our reality: we are to fit our own life into its world, feel ourselves to be elements in its structure o f universal history. This becomes increas­ ingly difficult the further our historical environment is removed from that o f the Biblical books; and if these nevertheless maintain their claim to absolute authority, it is inevitable that they themselves be adapted through interpretative transformation. This was for a long time comparatively easy; as late as the European M iddle Ages it was possible to represent Biblical events as ordinary phenomena o f contemporary life, the methods o f inter­ pretation themselves forming the basis for such a treatment. But when, through too great a change in environment and through the awakening o f a critical consciousness, this becomes impossible, the Biblical claim to abso­ lute authority is jeopardized; the method o f interpretation is scorned and rejected, the Biblical stories become ancient legends, and the doctrine they had contained, now dissevered from them, becomes a disembodied image. As a result o f this claim to absolute authority, the method o f interpreta­ tion spread to traditions other than the Jewish. The Homeric poems present a definite com plex o f events whose boundaries in space and time are clearly delimited; before it, beside it, and after it, other complexes o f events, which do not depend upon it, can be conceived without conflict and without difficulty. The O ld Testament, on the other hand, presents , universal history: it begins with the beginning o f time, with the creation o f the world, and will end with the Last Days, the fulfilling o f the Covenant, with which the world w ill come to an end. Everything else that happens in the world can only be conceived as an element in this sequence; into it every­ thing that is known about the world, or at least everything that touches upon the history o f the Jews, must be fitted as an ingredient o f the divine plan; and as this too became possible only by interpreting the new material as it poured in, the need for interpretation reaches out beyond the original Jewish-Israelitish realm o f reality— for example to Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, and Roman history; interpretation in a determined direction becomes a general method o f comprehending reality; the new and strange world which now comes into view and which, in the form in which it presents itself, proves to be wholly unutilizable within the Jewish religious frame, must be so interpreted that it can find a place there. But this process nearly always also reacts upon the frame, which requires enlarging and modifying. The most striking piece o f interpretation o f this sort occurred in the first century o f the Christian era, in consequence o f Paul’s mission to the Gentiles: Paul and the Church Fathers reinterpreted the entire Jewish tradition as a succession o f figures prognosticating the appearance o f Christ, and assigned the Roman Empire its proper place in the divine plan o f salvation. Thus while, on the one hand, the reality o f the O ld Testament presents itself as complete truth with a claim to sole authority, on the other hand that very claim forces it to a constant interpretative change in its own

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content; for millennia it undergoes an incessant and active development with the life o f man in Europe. The claim o f the O ld Testament stories to represent universal history, their insistent relation— a relation constantly redefined by conflicts— to a single and hidden G od, who yet shows himself and who guides universal history by promise and exaction, gives these stories an entirely different perspective from any the Homeric poems can possess. As a composition, the Old Testament is incomparably less unified than the Homeric poems, it is more obviously pieced together— but the various components all belong to one concept o f universal history and its interpretation. If certain elements survived which did not immediately fit in, interpretation took care o f them; and so the reader is at every moment aware o f the universal religio-historical perspective which gives the individual stories their general meaning and purpose. The greater the separateness and horizontal disconnection o f the stories and groups o f stories in relation to one another, compared with the Iliad and the Odyssey, the stronger is their general vertical connection, which holds them all together and which is entirely lacking in Homer. Each o f the great figures o f the Old Testament, from Adam to the prophets, embodies a moment o f this vertical connection. G od chose and formed these men to the end o f embodying his essence and will— yet choice and formation do not coincide, for the latter proceeds gradually, historically, during the earthly life o f him upon whom the choice has fallen. H ow the process is accom­ plished, what terrible trials such a formation inflicts, can be seen from our story o f Abraham’s sacrifice. Herein lies the reason why the great figures o f the Old Testament are so much more fully developed, so much more fraught with their own biographical past, so miich more distinct as individuals, than are the Homeric heroes. Achilles and Odysseus are splendidly described in many well-ordered words, epithets cling to them, their emotions are constantly displayed in their words and deeds— but they have no development, and their life-histories are clearly set forth once and for all. So little are the Homeric heroes presented as developing or having developed, that most o f them— Nestor, Agamemnon, Achilles— appear to be o f an age fixed from the very first. Even Odysseus, in whose case the long lapse o f time and the many events which occurred offer so much opportunity for biographical development, shows almost nothing o f it. Odysseus on his return is exactly the same as he was when he left Ithaca two decades earlier. But what a road, what a fate, lie between the Jacob who cheated his father out o f his blessing and the old man whose favorite son has been torn to pieces by a wild beast!— between David the harp player, persecuted by his lord’s jealousy, and the old king, surrounded by violent intrigues, whom Abishag the Shunnamite warmed in his bed, and he knew her not! The old man, o f whom we know how he has become what he is, is more o f an individual than the young man; for it is only during the course o f an eventful life that men are differentiated into full individuality; and it is

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this history o f a personality which the O ld Testament presents to us as the formation undergone by those whom God has chosen to be examples. Fraught with their development, sometimes even aged to the verge o f dissolution, they show a distinct stamp o f individuality entirely foreign to the Homeric heroes. Tim e can touch the latter only outwardly, and even that change is brought to our observation as little as possible; whereas the stern hand o f G od is ever upon the O ld Testament figures; he has not only made them once and for all and chosen them, but he continues to work upon them, bends them and kneads them, and, without destroying them in essence, produces from them forms which their youth gave no grounds for anticipating. The objection that the biographical element o f the Old Testament often springs from the combination o f several legendary perso­ nages does not apply; for this combination is a part o f the development o f the text. And how much wider is the pendulum swing o f their lives than that o f the Homeric heroes! For they are bearers o f the divine will, and yet they are fallible, subject to misfortune and humiliation— and in the midst o f misfortune and in their humiliation their acts and words reveal the transcendent majesty o f God. There is hardly one o f them who does not, like Adam, undergo the deepest humiliation— and hardly one who is not deemed worthy o f G od's personal intervention and personal inspiration. Humiliation and elevation go far deeper and far higher than in Homer, and they belong basically together. The poor beggar Odysseus is only masquer­ ading, but Adam is really cast down, Jacob really a refugee, Joseph really in the pit and then a slave to be bought and sold. But their greatness, rising out o f humiliation, is almost superhuman and an image o f G od ’s greatness. The reader clearly feels how the extent o f the pendulum ’s swing is connected with the intensity o f the personal history— precisely the most extreme circumstances, in which we are immeasurably forsaken and in despair, or immeasurably joyous and exalted, give us, if we survive them, a personal stamp which is recognized as the product o f a rich existence, a rich development. A nd very often, indeed generally, this element o f devel­ opment gives the O ld Testament stories a historical character, even when the subject is purely legendary and traditional. Homer remains within the legendary with all his material, whereas the material o f the O ld Testament comes closer and closer to history as the narrative proceeds; in the stories o f David the historical report predomi­ nates. Here too, much that is legendary still remains, as for example the story o f David and Goliath; but much— and the most essential— consists in things which the narrators knew from their own experience or from first­ hand testimony. N ow the difference between legend and history is in most cases easily perceived by a reasonably experienced reader. It is a difficult matter, requiring careful historical and philological training, to distinguish the true from the synthetic or the biased in a historical presentation; but it is easy to separate the historical from the legendary in general. Their

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structure is different. Even where the legendary does not immediately betray itself by elements o f the miraculous, by the repetition o f well-known standard motives, typical patterns and themes, through neglect o f clear details o f time and place, and the like, it is generally quickly recognizable by its composition. It runs far too smoothly. A ll cross-currents, all friction, all that is casual, secondary to the main events and themes, everything unresolved, truncated, and uncertain, which confuses the clear progress o f the action and \the simple orientation o f the actors, has disappeared. The historical event which we witness, or learn from the testimony o f those who witnessed it, runs much more variously, contradictorily, and confusedly; not until it has produced results in a definite domain are we able, with their help, to classify it to a certain extent; and how often the order to which we think we have attained becomes doubtful again, how often we ask ourselves if the data before us have not led us to a far too simple classification o f the original events! Legend arranges its material in a simple and straightforward way; it detaches it from its contemporary historical context, so that the latter will not confuse it; it knows only clearly outlined men who act from few and simple motives and the continuity o f whose feelings and actions remains uninterrupted. In the legends o f martyrs, for example, a stiff­ necked and fanatical persecutor stands over against an equally stiff-necked and fanatical victim; and a situation so complicated— that is to say, so real and historical— as that in which the “ persecutor” Pliny finds himself in his celebrated letter to Trajan on the subject o f the Christians, is unfit for legend. A nd that is still a comparatively simple case. Let the reader think o f the history which we are ourselves witnessing; anyone who, for example, evaluates the behavior o f individual men ¿nd groups o f men at the time o f the rise o f National Socialism in Germany, or the behavior o f individual peoples and states before and during the last war, will feel how difficult it is to represent historical themes in general, and how unfit they are for legend; the historical comprises a great number o f contradictory motives in each individual, a hesitation and ambiguous groping on the part o f groups; only seldom (as in the last war) does a more or less plain situation, comparatively simple to describe, arise, and even such a situation is subject to division below the surface, is indeed almost constantly in danger o f losing its simplicity; and the motives o f all the interested parties are so complex that the slogans o f propaganda can be composed only through the crudest simplification— with the result that friend and foe alike can often employ the same ones. To write history is so difficult that most historians are forced to make concessions to the technique o f legend. It is clear that a large part o f the life o f David as given in the Bible contains history and not legend. In Absalom’s rebellion, for example, or in the scenes from David’s last days, the contradictions and crossing o f motives both in individuals and in the general action have become so concrete that it is impossible to doubt the historicity o f the information conveyed. N ow the

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men who composed the historical parts are often the same who edited the older legends too; their peculiar religious concept o f man in history, which we have attempted to describe above, in no way led them to a legendary sim pli­ fication o f events; and so it is only natural that, in the legendary passages o f the Old Testament, historical structure is frequently discernible— o f course, not in the sense that the traditions are examined as to their credibility according to the methods o f scientific criticism; but simply to the extent that the tendency to a smoothing down and harmonizing o f events, to a simplification o f motives, to a static definition o f characters which avoids conflict, vacillation, and development, such as are natural to legendary structure, does not predominate in the O ld Testament world o f legend. Abraham, Jacob, or even Moses produces a more concrete, direct, and historical impression than the figures o f the Homeric world— not because they are better described in terms o f sense (the contrary is the case) but because the confused, contradictory multiplicity o f events, the psychological and factual cross-purposes, which true history reveals, have not disappeared in the representation but still remain clearly perceptible. In the stories o f David, the legendary, which only later scientific criticism makes recogniz­ able as such, imperceptibly passes into the historical; and even in the legendary, the problem o f the classification and interpretation o f human history is already passionately apprehended— a problem which later shatters the framework o f historical composition and completely overruns it with prophecy; thus the O ld Testament, in so far as it is concerned with human events, ranges through all three domains: legend, historical reporting, and interpretative historical theology. Connected with the matters just discussed is the fact that the Greek text seems more limited and more static in respect, to the circle o f personages involved in the action and to their political activity. In the recognition scene with which we began, there appears, aside from Odysseus and Penelope, the housekeeper Euryclea, a slave whom Odysseus' father Laertes had bought long before. She, like the swineherd Eumaeus, has spent her life in the service o f Laertes' family; like Eumaeus, she is closely connected with their fate, she loves them and shares their interests and feelings. But she has no life o f her own, no feelings o f her own; she has only the life and feelings o f her master. Eumaeus too, though he still remembers that he was born a freeman and indeed o f a noble house (he was stolen as a boy), has, not only in fact but also in his own feeling, no longer a life o f his own, he is entirely involved in the life o f his masters. Yet these two characters are the only ones whom Homer brings to life who do not belong to the ruling class. Thus we become conscious o f the fact that in the Homeric poems life is enacted only among the ruling class— others appear only in the role o f servants to that class. The ruling class is still so strongly patriarchal, and still itself so involved in the daily activities o f domestic life, that one is sometimes likely to forget their rank. But they are unmistakably a sort o f feudal aristocracy,

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whose men divide their lives between war, hunting, marketplace councils, and feasting, while the women supervise the maids in the house. As a social picture, this world is completely stable; wars take place only between different groups o f the ruling class; nothing ever pushes up from below. In the early stories o f the O ld Testament the patriarchal condition is dominant too, but since the people involved are individual nomadic or half-nomadic tribal leaders, the social picture gives a much less stable impression; class distinctions are not felt. As soon as the people completely emerges-that is, after the exodus from Egypt— its activity is always dis­ cernible, it is often in ferment, it frequently intervenes in events not only as à whole but also in separate groups and through the medium o f separate individuals who come forward; the origins o f prophecy seem to lie in the irrepressible politico-religious spontaneity o f the people. W e receive the impression that the movements emerging from the depths o f the people o f Israel-Judah must have been o f a wholly different nature from those even o f the later ancient democracies— o f a different nature and far more elemental. W ith the more profound historicity and the more profound social activity o f the Old Testament text, there is connected yet another important dis­ tinction from Homer: namely, that a different conception o f the elevated style and o f the sublime is to be found here. Homer, o f course, is not afraid to let the realism o f daily life enter into the sublime and tragic; our episode o f the scar is an example, we see how the quietly depicted, domestic scene o f the foot-washing is incorporated into the pathetic and sublime action o f Odysseus’ home-coming. From the rule o f the separation o f styles which was later almost universally accepted and which specified that the realistic depiction o f daily life was incompatible with the sublime and had a place only in comedy or, carefully stylized, in idyll— from any such rule Homer is still far removed. And yet he is closer to it than is the O ld Testament. For the great and sublime events in the Homeric poems take place far more exclusively and unmistakably among the members o f a ruling class; and these are far more untouched in their heroic elevation than are the Old Testament figures, who can fall much lower in dignity (consider, for example, Adam, Noah, David, Job); and finally, domestic realism, the representation o f daily life, remains in Homer in the peaceful realm o f the idyllic, whereas, from the very first, in the O ld Testament stories, the sublime, tragic, and problematic take shape precisely in the domestic and commonplace: scenes such as those between Cain and Abel, between Noah and his sons, between Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar, between Rebekah, Jacob, and Esau, and so on, are inconceivable in the Homeric style. The entirely different ways o f developing conflicts are enough to account for this. In the Old Testament stories the peace o f daily life in the house, in the fields, and among the flocks, is undermined by jealousy over election and the promise of- a blessing, and complications arise which would be utterly incomprehensible to the Homeric heroes. The latter must have palpable and

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clearly expressible reasons for their conflicts and enmities, and these work themselves out in free battles; whereas, with the former, the perpetually smouldering jealousy and the connection between the domestic and the spiritual, between the paternal blessing and the divine blessing, lead to daily life being permeated with the stuff o f conflict, often with poison. The sublime influence o f G od here reaches so deeply into the everyday that the two realms o f the sublime and the everyday are not only actually unsepa­ rated but basically inseparable. W e have compared these two texts, and, with them, the two kinds o f style they embody, in order to reach a starting point for an investigation into the literary representation o f reality in European culture. The two styles, in their opposition, represent basic types: on the one hand fully externalized description, uniform illumination, uninterrupted connection, free expres­ sion, all events in the foreground, displaying unmistakable meanings, few elements o f historical development and o f psychological perspective; on the other hand, certain parts brought into high relief, others left obscure, abruptness, suggestive influence o f the unexpressed, “ background” quality, m ultiplicity o f meanings and the need for interpretation, universal-historical claims, development o f the concept o f the historically becoming, and preoccupation with the problematic. H om er’s realism is, o f course, not to be equated with classical-antique realism in general; for the separation o f styles, which did not develop until later, permitted no such leisurely and externalized description o f everyday happenings; in tragedy especially there was no room for it; furthermore, Greek culture very soon encountered the phenomena o f historical becom ing and o f the “ multilayeredness’ o f the human problem, and dealt with them in its fashion; in Roman realism, finally, new and native concepts are added. W e shall go into these later changes in the antique representation o f reality when the occasion arises; on the whole, despite them, the basic tendencies o f the Homeric style, which we have attempted to work out, remained effec­ tive and determinant down into late antiquity. Since we are using the two styles, the Homeric and the O ld Testament, as starting points, we have taken them as finished products, as they appear in the texts; we have disregarded everything that pertains to their origins, and thus have left untouched the question whether their peculiarities were theirs from the beginning or are to be referred wholly or in part to foreign influences. W ith in the limits o f our purpose, a consideration o f this ques­ tion is not necessary; for it is in their full development, which they reached in early times, that the two styles exercised their determining influence upon the representation o f reality in European literature.

47 T h e Proems o f the Ilia d and the O d yssey*

B.A. van Groningen ^Source: Mededelingen der Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, afd. Letterkunde, deel 9, no. 8, Amsterdam, 1946, pp. 1 -1 0 .

The proems o f the Iliad and the Odyssey have not always been appreciated in the same way. A n intelligent rhetor, as Quintilian undoubtedly was, writes: Again, in the few lines with which he introduces both o f his epics, has he not, Ï will not say observed, but actually established the law which should govern the com position o f the exordium? For, by his invocation o f the goddesses believed to preside over poetry he wins the goodw ill o f his audience, by his statement o f the greatness o f his themes he excites their attention, and renders them receptive by the briefness o f his summary.1 However, if we survey the philological literature o f the last century, the opinion is, generally speaking, less favourable. It is based on some ascer­ tainments to which a certain value cannot be denied: the prologue o f a Greek epic naturally contains three elements, the invocation o f the Muses, the summary o f the poem , the fixation o f the starting-point. In fact both the Argonautica o f Apollonius Rhodius and V ergil’s Aeneid answer this scheme to the full.2 Homer, indeed, invokes the Muses. Because his work is no longer con­ nected with the cult o f a special deity, nor recited at its festival, he mentions Zeus’ daughter who is accepted everywhere as the patroness o f poetry. This invocation is only due to a sacred tradition and is not organically connected with the follow ing epic tale. The second element, the indication o f the subject, is directly connected with the poem itself, because the latter will have to be the working-out o f the theme proposed in the beginning. The purpose o f this indication is obvious. The continuity o f the mythical tales which, as a rule, lack a sharply defined beginning as well as a precise ending, and the facility with which the poet starts on side-tracks com pel him to apply several compositional

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devices w hich are meant to safe-guard the unity and the cohesion o f the whole. T he m ore extensive the piece, the more necessary those m ethods. O ne o f these is the prefatory announcem ent o f the con ten ts.3

Thirdly, we find the indication o f the beginning o f the tale. Some years ago, I had the honour to expound to you4 that every epic, even the most extensive one, was considered as part o f a greater whole. Then the startingpoint must needs be announced at once. W e find these three parts considered essential a priori in the proem o f the Iliad as well as o f the Odyssey. There are other points o f similarity:5 both are short and contain respectively no more than 8 and 10 verses; the syntactic structure is well-nigh the same, since both are formed as a compositional “ ring” , a usual way o f proceeding when one wants to round o ff a part and to separate it from an adjacent one; both omit to mention data which are essential, systematically speaking, among others the name o f Odysseus, the place o f Achilles’ wrath in the chronology o f the Trojan war etc. This similarity may be due to tradition or to the poet; for the time being, we are not yet able to choose with some certainty between these alternatives. It is then perhaps worth while looking for parallels. First o f all, we shall search in the two Homeric poems themselves. W e find something, indeed. In the Iliad the poet invokes the Muses five times more. The enumeration o f the Greek nations with their leaders and their ships as they prepared themselves for the expedition against Troy, is introduced in the second book as follow s:0 Tell me now, ye Muses that have dwellings on Olympus— for ye are goddesses and are at hand and know all things, whereas we hear but a rumour and know not anything— who were the captains o f the Danaans and their lords. But the com mon folk I could not tell nor name, nay, not though ten tongues were mine and ten mouths and a voice unwearying, and though the heart within me were o f bronze, did not the Muses o f Olympus, daughters o f Zeus that beareth the aegis, call to my mind all them that came beneath Ilios. N ow will I tell the captains o f the ships and the ships in their order. As we see, the invocation o f the goddesses and the mentioning o f the subject both occur. The latter is sharply defined. As it is no tale, but an enumera­ tion there is no question o f the indication o f a starting-point. The four other cases are much shorter and strongly resemble each other. In the same second book we find the first o f these four cases (7 6 1 -2 ); after the enumeration o f the Greek army we read: “ But who was far the best among them do thou tell me, Muse— best o f the warriors and o f the horses that followed with the sons o f Atreus” . In some 16 verses the exact answer to this simple question is given. The next passage (Λ 218—20) does not differ much from the preceding

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one. The Muses are asked to tell ‘ who it was that first came to face Agamemnon, either o f the Trojans or o f their allies” . The answer follows at once: it is Iphidamas. Ξ 5 0 8 -9 run as follows: “ Tell me now, ye Muses that have dwellings on Olympus, who it was o f the Greeks that first carried off an armour” . W e learn that it is Aias. A t last Π 1 1 2 -1 3 : the poet invokes the Muses requesting them to relate how it came to.pass that the fire fell on the ships. Then follows the narrative. W e do not learn much from these passages. As natural as the invocations o f the Muses, so precise is the statement o f the subjects. As only one single concrete and plain question is asked, the indication o f the theme and its working-out closely correspond with each other. But a starting-point cannot possibly be fixed. Here the Odyssey teaches us something m ore.7 W hen seated as a guest among the Phaeacian lords Odysseus requests the minstrel Demodocus (θ 492f.) “ to sing o f the building o f the horse o f wood, which Epeius made with Athene's help, the horse which once Odysseus led up into the citadel as a thing o f guile, when he had filled it with the men who sacked Ilios” . The singer complies with this request (499 fi) and he sang beginning with the god, taking up the tale where the Argives had embarked on their benched ships and were sailing away, after casting fire on their huts, while those others led by glorious Odysseus were now sitting in the place o f assembly o f the Trojans, sitting in the horse. Here we find the three normal elements: Odysseus fixes the subject himself, “ the building o f the horse” ; Demodocus begins with the divinity and chooses his starting-point. This choice, however, causes a certain discre­ pancy between the theme and the tale. Twice already this minstrel had made himself heard. The Muse moved the minstrel to sing o f the glorious deeds o f warriors, from that lay the fame whereof had then reached broad heaven, even the quarrel o f Odysseus and Achilles, son o f Peleus, how once they strove with furious words at a rich feast o f the gods. The invocation is mentioned indirectly, the contents o f the song directly 73f.) In θ 266 v. Demodocus preludes on his stringed instrument in order to sing “ o f the love o f Ares and Aphrodite o f the fair crown, how first they lay together in the house o f Hephaestus secretly” . The invocation is not mentioned, but theme and starting-point are communicated to the audi­ ence. W e must pay attention to the fact that the statement o f the subject is no table o f contents, for Homer does not allude to the revenge o f cheated

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Hephaestus beforehand, however important this element may be in the narrative itself.

O f the so-called Little Iliad the two first verses are preserved: “ Ilios do I sing and Dardania, land with its powerful steeds, that wrought so bitter woe to the Greeks, servants o f Ares” , and o f the Thebaid the first verse: “ Thirsty Argos do thou sing, o Muse, whence once the lords . . .” . It is difficult to draw reliable conclusions from these lines, for it is perfectly unknown to us what the proems contained further.8 W e ascertain that the poet o f the Little Iliad does not invoke the Muses, but marks the contents as follows: Troy and the troubles o f the Greeks. This is very general; we know that the epic related the battle o f Troy from the end o f our own Iliad onwards. But nobody can possibly know whether the poet defined the contents afterwards more precisely. This applies still more to the one verse o f the Thebaid,9 and we are, as it were, driven back once more to the examination o f the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves.10 Neither the invocation o f the Muse nor the determination o f the startingpoint do I wish to treat here, but only the indication o f the contents. It is a well-known fact that the indications o f the contents do not tally with the contents themselves. In the prologue o f the Iliad we do not read anything about the vain efforts to reconcile the quarellers, neither about Patroclus and his death which is, for all that, the unexpected cause o f the decisive change in Achilles’ heart, nor about the revenge on H ector and so, at the same time, about the end o f the wrath. In the first verses o f the Odyssey no mention is made o f that which happens in Ithaca, o f Telemachus’ part in the course o f events, o f Odysseus’ retaliation. Scholars have wanted to explain these deficiencies. W e need not treat all their efforts materially. It will do to quote some clear examples, because to me only the method and the prin­ ciples are o f interest. A bout the proem o f the Iliad we read in Croiset’s extensive History o f Greek Literature as follow s:11 Ces vers, en raison même de leur peu de precision, ne peuvent pas avoir été composés par un aède pour servir d ’introduction au poème après son achèvement complet. C’est donc bien l’auteur de la Querelle (viz. mainly book A ) qui a dû les mettre en tête de son chant; seulement ne devient-il pas probable par là-même qu ’en les composant, il n’avait aucune inten­ tion arrêtée de développer les événements qui figurent aujourd’hui dans YIliade} And about the prologue o f the Odyssey a little further:12 On peut conclure de là que cette sorte de prélude poétique a dû être composé en vue d ’un groupe de chants qui comprenait les événements notables de la première partie (i.e. the tale o f Odysseus’ travels) dans un

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temps où la seconde (i.e. the narrative o f that which happens in Ithaca) n avait pas encore pris sa place et sa forme actuelles. In both cases this view, to which mutatis mutandis a great many investigators revert, means that the proems preserved have not been written for our Iliad and our Odyssey, This opinion is again and again connected with a certain theory about the com position and the origin o f the two poems and is used to support this theory. But it is based upon the conviction that the old Greek poet can reasonably only give an indication o f the contents which tallies completely with the real contents. This conviction, however, is nothing but an unproved a priori which, moreover, may even be erroneous. A few words on the proem o f the Odyssey taken from Bergk’s Griechische Literaturgeschichte13 may throw light on a totally different way o f inter­ pretation : “ Das Schweigen des Dichters (viz. about the second part o f the poem) liesse sich rechtfertigen durch die Absicht, der Darstellung selbst nicht vorzugreifen” . This means that in principle, it is true, introduction and contents must correspond with each other, but that the poet, by reason o f a premeditated purpose, deviates from the rule. Materially seen, the purpose is the following: he wants to keep the audience in suspense. This purpose is certainly not in accordance with the poet’s habits: as we know, he never fears to announce beforehand what he is going to say or intends relating later o n .14 But in rejecting this application o f a principle we have not yet refuted the principle itself and it m ight still be true that the poet is led by conscious designs and not by the natural and unpreme­ ditated current o f his inspiration. This distinction sounds a little mechan­ ical, but it is, all the same, no less real.15 So once again the question may be put: is it so certain that Homer proceeded according to such semi-rhetorical principles? Let us take another example. Bassett is o f opinion16 that the proem “ gives the theme o f the tale . . . wi th just enough detail to catch the attention” . The restriction is essentially the same as the one proposed by Bergk, but here the interest must not apparently be excited by that which the poet does not tell, but by such details as he communicates beforehand. Materially, the difficult question then arises, e.g. in the Odyssey>why Homer chooses from the many adventures o f his hero which he is going to relate, exactly one so unimportant as the eating o f Helios’ kine, which, moreover, does not concern Odysseus himself, but chiefly his comrades. A nd the same question o f principle presents itself again. Real insight will not be reached by assuming in anticipation a number o f unproved methodical principles but by a careful and, at the same time, sharp observation o f the facts themselves. Sharp, because nothing may escape our attention; careful, because we may only combine those facts which force themselves as connected upon our observation. First o f all then, we must throw light on a fact known to everyone but which is perhaps more important than one thinks. In what way do the poets

I l4

Literary Interpretation

again and again announce the theme o f their tale? First o f all by one single word: μ ήνιν in the Iliad, άνδρα in the Odyssey ?ΎΚ\OV in the Little Ilia d ?1

'Ά ρ γ ο ς in the Thebaid. This is not so much a statement o f the contents, but rather a very concise indication o f the subject, the theme itself.18 A ll details are omitted for the time being, but we may declare emphatically, on the basis o f Iliad and Odyssey which we possess completely, that these initial words are uncommonly expressive and exact. It would be difficult to give in a single word a more striking résumé o f the psychological drama o f the Iliad and o f the tale o f Odysseus' adventures. To the question whether we justly assume that Homer intends indicating the subjects in his prologues we may answer in the affirmative, already with a view to these two words only. But there follow all sorts o f things which clamour for formal and material explanation. Simple observation must again be our starting-point. In the four cases at present known to us the theme-word is defined in the same grammatical form, first by a sounding epithet, then by a relative clause. In the Iliad we read: Μήνιν άειδε θεά Πηληιάδεω Άχχλήος | ούλομένην, ή μυρΤΆχαιοίς etc.; in the Odyssey: ’Άνδρα μοι εννεπε Μούσα πολύτροπον, ος μάλα πολλά etc.; in the Little Iliad: "Ιλιον άείδω και Δαρδανίην έύπωλον, |ής περί πολλά πάθον etc., and in the Thebaid ’Άργος αειδε θεά πολυδίψιον, ένθεν άνακτες etc.19 This simple statement already enables us to draw two conclusions. It bears out the opinion that the poet really wants to indicate the contents with the first word. It shows, moreover, that everything which follows is subordinate to it, that is to say that it forms a current o f ideas which that one word sets into motion. Materially, however, there are various possibilities. A mind, systematically trained and systematically writing, will define the themeword with an exact statement o f the contents and we shall read a survey, logically justified, o f the real narrative. But such treatment presupposes a purposeful strain o f the attention: such a sustained exposition, consequently set up, requires strenuous perseverance and active guidance o f a trained mind. There is a quite different way o f thinking, a passive, automatic and flowing one, which does not choose the successive ideas on account o f their suitability for a broad context, but immediately accepts them when they spontaneously arise. These two extremes, however, can also cooperate in all sorts o f intermediate forms. Unconcerned observation shows once again how the Homeric proems behave in this respect. The proem o f the Odyssey runs as follows: Tell me, O Muse, o f the man o f many devices, who wandered full many ways after he had sacked the sacred citadel o f Troy. Many were the men whose cities he saw and whose mind he learned, aye, and many the woes he suffered in his heart upon the sea, seeking to win his own life and the return o f his comrades. Yet even so he saved not his comrades, though he desired it sore, for through their own blind folly they perished— fools,

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who devoured the kine o f Helios Hyperion; but he took from them the day o f their returning. O f these things, Goddess, daughter o f Zeus, beginning where thou wilt, tell thou even unto us. It seems obvious: here is a case in which the two tendencies mentioned above are both working. On the one hand the poet’s attention is undeniably drawn towards the adventurous wanderings o f his hero: he speaks o f towns which Odysseus visited, o f men whose mind he learned to know, o f trouble at sea and o f the struggle for the preservation o f his own life and that o f his comrades. A ll this is put in general terms, nothing is specified; his attention is not bent upon the details o f his narrative. Exactly for this reason it may easily be conceived that he goes astray, if it is allowed to say so. Speaking more precisely: the casual nature o f the association o f his thoughts and the freedom o f his inspiration bring him on a by-path which he certainly did not mean to tread. It is said that Odysseus wanted to save his comrades also. Directly and by antithetical association the thought urges itself upon his mind that Odysseus did not succeed in doing so and was unable to save them. The question: why not? automatically arises and brings about the idea that they owe their doom to their own folly. Is it strange that the poet now mentions their sin? The association o f ideas indeed seems quite obvious, and so does the last remark that Helios deprived them o f their return. So what does happen in this proem? The poet mentions the theme with one pithy word, άνδρα; afterwards he communicates in general what happened to this man, but meanwhile a casual detail catches his attention and breaks the line which was not strained too tightly. The result is that an element o f very little interest in the whole finds a place here. Then the poet pulls himself as it were together, back td the right path when saying: τών άμόθεν γε 'θεά, θύγατερ Διός, είπε καί ήμΐν. That strange άμόθεν is not only a symbol o f the formal and traditional character o f the indication o f the starting-point, but also a direct consequence o f the inefficient statement o f the contents which is so abruptly broken off.20 But this may be only incidental in the Odyssey. Let us, therefore, cast a look on the introduction o f the Iliad. “ The wrath do thou sing, O Goddess, o f Peleus’ son, Achilles, that baneful wrath which brought countless woes upon the Achaeans, and sent forth to Hades many valiant souls o f warriors, and made them to be a spoil for dogs and all manner o f birds; and thus the will o f Zeus was being brought to fulfilment;— sing thou thereof from the time when at the first there parted in strife Atreus’ son, king o f men, and goodly Achilles” . The resemblance and the difference between the two proems strike us at once. The resemblance consists in the relative clauses following the theme-word with its epithet, which are kept as general as those o f the Odyssey: we read o f grief for the Achaeans, o f dead warriors and corpses violated by beasts o f prey. The difference is that there is no transi­ tion here to particulars. On the contrary, the mentioning o f Zeus’ plans

lió

Literary Interpretation

which will accomplish themselves, leads us away from the facts to the most general background. But essentially there is similarity here too: the poet is influenced by the two tendencies discussed above. The theme-word μήνις calls to his mind a general image o f what he is going to relate, but the strongly associative character o f his imagination causes him to work out the epithet ούλομένη, first o f all in its consequences, finally in its metaphysical cause.21 Homer does not talk about the course o f events itself; there is no real summary o f the contents. So the same way o f thinking, the same poetical technique is decisive as to form and contents o f the two proems: no sharp discipline o f the mind, but easy association o f ideas, “ strains o f unpremeditated art” . Again and again the poet is fascinated by the things at hand and expresses them in an unconcerned way; his muse is the inspiration o f the moment, not a lasting purpose. It is necessary to return to the opinion o f those who judge that the preserved proems were never written for our Iliad and Odyssey y but for other epics. It is worth while asking what epics can possibly be meant, if we put as a principle that the proem must give an efficient survey o f the contents. Apart from the theme-word both restrict themselves to general expressions from which it is impossible to construct a better fitting whole, and the mentioning o f the killing o f Helios' kine, being a very particular fact, never can find a reasonable place beside the foregoing generalities in a system­ atically projected statement o f contents. For the latter, as well as the themeword, bring Odysseus into particular evidence.22 Should then that epic o f the “ man” end in the death o f “ comrades?” This would make a queer poem. The conclusion seems to be justified that the preserved proems fit as well, or if we prefer to say so, as badly to the preserved poems as to other epics o f which we can construct the contents at will. For there is but one alternative: either the statements o f the contents remain unsuitable or the poems are monstrosities. If we assume that the prologue must not contain a real survey o f the contents, but that it grows spontaneously in a poet's mind, which follows a free course and listens more to his muse than to a theory, this disagreeable dilemma no longer exists. This idea fits also very well into the frame o f our knowledge concerning the epic technique o f the archaic period. The poet performs his work with startling ease; verse is strung on to verse in a supple and elegant way; it is not a stiff and wearisome wrestling on from step to step, but an easy gliding on which, o f course, does not exclude utmost expressiveness o f diction and intensity o f feeling; nothing seems to cost him any trouble; nowhere does severe discipline o f thinking become apparent, which keeps the inspiration within bounds. W hat is more; this conception fits also in the frame o f our knowledge as regards all archaic Greek poetry. The “ tournure d ’esprit” which called theoretical philosophy and rhetoric into existence, was hardly awakening. Pindar knows that a prologue should

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emanate its glow till far in the distance, but next to that aesthetic demand of glorious beauty he lays no intellectual claim to matter-of-fact adequacy. The primary actions and reactions strongly predominate over the secondary and the cerebral ones. It seems to me that with these views the question concerning H om er’s proems is answered more satisfactorily than has been done up to now to my knowledge. But exactly when a general tendency o f the mind is expressed in the nature o f these proems, other prologues too must, in principle, show the same peculiarities. This is indeed the case and in a very striking measure.

N otes 1. X 1, 48 (transi. H. E. Butler, Loeb Library); cf. IV 1, 34.

2 . The former invokes Phoebus and announces afterwards that he is going to treat the voyage o f the Argonauts from their sailing into the Pontus till the winning o f the Golden Fleece. V irgil’s introduction shows the same explicitness and preciseness. 3. The technique o f a recitation where the public often gave out the theme (cf. θ 429 r.) had already collaborated to form this habit at a time when the poems were still o f limited size. 4. Paratactische compositie in de oudste Grieksche literatuury Mededeelingen 83, A 3 (1937) p. 109 (27) f. 5. Cf. S. E. Bassett, T he Proems o f the I lia d a n d the Odyssey. Amer. J. o f Phil. 44 (1923) p. 339 f·, especially pp. 340—1. 6 . B 484 f. Here and elsewhere I avail myself o f the translation o f A. T. Murray (Loeb Library). 7. Pro memoria we mention a 325 f. Phemius sings in the midst of the suitors “ o f the return o f the Achaeans— the woeful return from Troy” (cf. 489 f. 'Αχαιών οιτος). This is only an indication o f the subject. 8 . That is why it is risky to conclude with J. A. Scott (T h e U n ity o f H om er pp. 252-3): “ It must have been more than pure accident that the Iliad and the Odyssey both have this perfect introduction, a perfection approached by no other early poet” . 9. It is, for instance, quite possible that the T heba id was the epic o f the Argive assailants. 10. According to Aristoxenus there was a second proem o f the Ilia d extant:

’Έσπετε νυν μοι Μοΰσαι Όλύμπια δώματ3εχουσαι δππως δή μήνις τε χόλος θ ’ ελε Πηλείωνα Αητούς τ’ άγλαόν υιόν, ό γαρ βασιληι χολωθείς etc. This is clearly meant as a transitional passage between the the C ypria. Less clear is the proem o f the so-called O ld Ilia d :

Μ ο ύ σ α ς άείδω καί Α π ό λ λ ω ν α κ λυ τότοξον

Αητούς καί Διός υιόν* ο γαρ βασιληι χολωθειίς 11. Vol. I p . 108. 12. Vol. I p . ”273·. 13. Vol. I p. 663 n. 18.

etc.

I lia d

and the end o f

118 14

Literary Interpretation C f. G . E. D u ck w orth ,

Foreshadowing and Suspense in the Epics of Homer,

Apollonius and Verg if 1933. 15. W h o e v e r takes the trouble to compare tw o poets o f the first rank as A eschylus and C allim achus, w ill clearly notice this difference.

16 . O.r. p. 340; cf. p. 342: the antithesis between Odysseus and his comrades in the proem draws the attention to the hero. 17. The words και Δ αρδανίη ν έύπωλον do not add anything essential. 18. C f already Naeke’s Opuscula 1 p. 268 about the Iliad: “ Mfjviv pollicetur: quod argumentum quam grave sit, aptissime monstrat ex effectu: ούλομένην ή μυρία et quae sequuntur” ; and Bassett o.c. p. 340 where he speaks about ούλομένην, and π ολύτροπον, which both “ characterize the theme” . 19* A fifth example is easily deduced from θ 492-3: “ Sing me the building of the horse of wood, which Epeius made with Athene's help etc.” 20. That is the reason why τών is not a clear reference to the preceding sentence, but a vague summary of that which the poet might have heard. Bassett (p. 341) translates too precisely: “ anywhere in the wanderings” . 21 . The idea that Zeus’ will forms the chief motive (so already Aristophanes and Aristarchus, cf schol. A 5-6, Λ 6θ4, N 348) or an important auxiliary element (so Bassett p. 345) in the Iliad is, I think, exceedingly far-fetched. If this thought had not been expressed in the proem, nobody would have proposed the theory. But the belief that the proem must give a real table of contents, peeps out here. 22. Even there where the doom of the comrades is mentioned for the first time, it is Odysseus who tries to save their lives. It is again Odysseus who does not succeed in doing so. Here and elsewhere Homer takes a special interest in the individual, the one hero, not in the nameless group of the many.

48 Z ur inneren Form der Ilias*

A. Heubeck * Source: Gymnasium; voi. 6 5 , 1958, pp. 3 7 -4 7 .

W er ein Kunstwerk, vor allem ein literarisches Kunstwerk, recht zu werten und zu würdigen sich bemüht, mag ausgehen von dem Versuch, dieses W erk aus sich selbst zu verstehen und in seiner Einmaligkeit und Eigen­ ständigkeit, seiner Un Wiederholbarkeit und Überzeitlichkeit zu begreifen. Ein anderer W eg der Deutung ist von diesem ersten grundverschieden: Er ist von der Bereitschaft des Interpreten gewiesen, dem Kunstwerk in dem weiten Koordinatensystem der geistesgeschichtlichen Tradition und Entwicklung und der einmaligen zeitlichen und räumlichen Situation seinen rechten Platz anzuweisen, es also weniger aus sich selbst, als vielmehr aus seiner „Gebundenheit“ zu erfassen. Trotz der Verschiedenartigkeit der Ausgàngspunkte schließen die beiden hier nur angedeuteten W ege einander nicht aus— im Gegenteil: Ihre Kombination ist nicht nur denkbar und praktikabel, sondern in den meis­ ten Fällen durchaus wünschenswert oder sogar notwendig. N un ist für das Verständnis der Ilias, von der hier allein die Rede sein soll, der zweite W eg, von dem wir sprachen, für uns bekanntlich nicht gangbar: W ir wissen über die historischen, soziologischen und vor allem literarischen Voraussetzungen, aus denen die Ilias erwachsen und geschaff­ en ist, so gut wie nichts, und der Versuch, die Ilias als die Spiegelung oder Repräsentation einer bestimmten historischen Situation oder gar als das Ergebnis einer literarischen Entwicklung zu begreifen, scheint von vorneherein zum Scheitern verurteilt. W enn man sich nun bemüht hat, der homerischen Dichtung selbst eine hinreichende Kenntnis der historisch-soziologischen Verhältnisse, der mate­ riellen Kultur und des ethisch-religiösen Bewußtseins der sog. „home­ rischen“ Zeit abzugewinnen und von dem so rekonstruierten Gesamtbild das Besondere und Untypische homerischer Seinsgestaltung abzuheben, so ist dieser Versuch, mit einem mißlichen Dilemma wenigstens einigermaßen methodisch fertigzuwerden, nur allzu verständlich.

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Und wenn man gar die verschiedensten W ege beschritten hat, um den dem Dichter vorausliegenden Stoff und die vorhomerische Formulierung dieses Stoffes, ja überhaupt die epische Kunstübung der vorhomerischen Zeit aus der Untersuchung und Deutung der homerischen (und nachhomerischen) Dichtung selbst rekonstruierend wiederzugewinnen, dann sollte das weniger als ein reizvolles, unverbindliches Gelehrtenspiel scharfsinniger Kombina­ tionen und kühner Phantasien gewertet werden, denn vielmehr als der Ausdruck eines sehr ernsthaften und tiefgehenden Anliegens, der Dichtung auch auf dem W eg eines Verstehens, „von außen her“ näherzukommen. Aber ebensowenig darf vergessen werden, daß dieser hier eingeschlagene W e g a limine fragwürdig ist und daß wir uns bei diesem Verfahren in einem hoffnungslosen Zirkel befinden, der keine beweisbaren Ergebnisse ermöglichen kann. Bei dieser Forschungssituation kann es nicht verwundern, daß auf die Frage nach der Besonderheit und Eigenart, nach der literarhistorischen Stellung und dem eigentlichen Wesen der homerischen Dichtung eine Fülle verschiedenartiger und widersprechender Antworten gegeben wurde— Antworten, deren Variationsbreite hier nur durch die Nennung einiger Stichworte angedeutet sei, die als extreme Formulierungen das weite Feld der Möglichkeiten abzustecken in der Lage sind: Homer— der erste Epiker des Abendlandes oder der Vollender einer Jahrhunderte alten epischen Entwicklung; die Ilias— ein W erk des dichtenden Volksgeistes oder ein Kunstepos höchster Vollendung; Gemeinschaftsleistung eines Teams geprägter Dichterpersönlichkeiten oder geniale Schöpfung des einen großen Homer usw. W ir sind uns durchaus bewußt, der eben angedeuteten Aporie der For­ schungssituation ebenso verhaftet zu sein wie jeder andere auch, mit den gleichen unverbindlichen Argumenten— Möglichkeiten, W ahrscheinlich­ keiten und unbeweisbaren Hypothesen— arbeiten zu müssen und vielleicht überhaupt nichts Neues zu dem viel diskutierten Themenkreis sagen zu können, zumal sich auch die hie und da vielleicht gehegte Hoffnung nicht erfüllt hat, man werde die seit einigen Jahren glücklicherweise lesbaren knossischen und pylischen Tontafeln des 2. Jahrtausends als Quellen für die Vorgeschichte des homerischen Epos heranziehen und für das Verständnis der homerischen Poesie auswerten können. Diese Urkunden sind zwar für die Kenntnis der Geschichte, der materiellen Kultur und Soziologie ihrer Zeit von nicht zu unterschätzender Bedeutung, aber diese Zeit ist von der des Dichters durch einen Abstand eines halben Jahrtausends und die grundstürzenden Umwälzungen der Wanderungszeit getrennt, und zudem hat sich von poetischen und mythologischen Texten keine Spur gefunden. Nach wie vor also scheint die Aporie auf jeden Fall unentrinnbar; und so zwingt auf der einen Seite die aus einer langen Periode intensiver philolo­ gischer Arbeit resultierende unübersehbare Fülle verschiedenartigster Äußerungen zu Homer und der homerischen Frage zu einem resignierten

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Verzicht auf jegliche Prätention von Originalität, und zum anderen veranlaßt die aller objektiven und dauerhaften Substruktionen in so eklatanter W eise entbehrende Problemlage einen jeden, der sich mit Homer befaßt und nicht in verschwommenen Banalitäten hängen bleiben will, Position zu beziehen— eine Position allerdings, deren Subjektivität und Unbeweisbarkeit ebenso bewußt bleiben muß wie ihre methodische UnausWeichlichkeit. W enn wir uns zur Verdeutlichung unserer Stellung auf W . Schadewaldt als den Bahnbrecher einer neuen, vertieften Homerauslegung unitarischer Richtung berufen, dann geschieht das in unserem Zusammenhang zugleich in einer ganz speziellen Absicht, nämlich in Anknüpfung an den zu Beginn geäußerten Gedanken. Hat doch gerade auch Schadewaldt vor nicht allzu langer Zeit in einer bedeutsamen Studie das eigentlich Homerische im Homer, die spezielle Leistung des Iiiasdichters dadurch deutlich herausar­ beiten zu können geglaubt, daß er die Ilias abhebt gegen diejenige D ich­ tung, die— rekonstruierbar aus den homerischen Epen selbst, dem nachhomerischen Kyklos und der späteren Sagenüberlieferung— die unmit­ telbare poetische Vorstufe der Ilias darstelle: eine Dichtung, die vor allem das aus kyklischer Überlieferung bekannte Geschehen um Antilochos und Memnon, gipfelnd in dem Tod des A chill, zum Gegenstand gehabt habe— eine Memnonis, Aithiopis oder Achilleis, oder wie man sie sonst nennen mag. Es ist hier nicht nötig, die ebenso komplizierte wie in ihrer inneren Geschlossenheit und Abrundung überzeugend wirkende Argumentation zum Erweis dieser vorhomerischen Dichtung wiederholend zu referieren und zu zeigen, wie bei dieser Konstruktion einzelne homerische Figuren in entscheidenden Wesenszügen und Geschehensmotiven bereits durch tragende Gestalten dieser Aithiopis angelegt scheinen: Hektor z. B. und Sarpedon durch Memnon, Patroklos durch Antilochos und den vorhome­ rischen Achill usw.; ebensowenig ist hier eine Kritik dieser Gedankengänge nötig und beabsichtigt, und so mag der Hinweis genügen, daß u. E. von all diesen Rekonstruktionen kaum eine beweisbar und haltbar ist, außer etwa der M öglichkeit, daß in der iliadischen Schilderung des Patroklos-Todes eine vorhomerische Darstellung von Achills letztem Kam pf nachklinge. W ichtiger ist hier, etwas anderes zu betonen: So geläutert die Vorstellung vom Verhältnis Homers zu seinen literarischen Vorbildern bei diesem neuen Aspekt gegenüber früheren Annahmen erscheint, so ist doch bezeichnen­ derweise auch hier eine ältere Idee im Prinzip nicht preisgegeben, nämlich daß wir uns die Vorstufen des homerischen Großepos in Gestalt von zahlreichen Kleinepen desselben oder verwandter Sagenkreise— die A ithio­ pis sei ja nur das am deutlichsten faßbare Kleinepos einer ganzen Gruppe!— vorzustellen hätten. M. a. W .: es wird hier die ältere Vorstellung aufrechterhalten, daß die bedeutendste Leistung, das eigentliche poetische Verdienst des Iiiasdichters in der Konzeption der groß-epischen Darstel­ lungsform zu suchen sei; wenn dabei die voriliadischen Kleinepen nicht

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mehr so sehr als verwendbare Werkstücke und Bauglieder als vielmehr in ihrer lebenzeugenden Vorbildhaftigkeit betrachtet werden, dann ist das zwar ein nicht zu unterschätzender Fortschritt, aber im Prinzip ist eben doch eine Vorstellung beibehalten, die vielleicht der Revision bedarf. Ganz abgesehen davon, daß bei dieser Vorstellung die Fähigkeit des Dichters zu kompositorischer Bewältigung mehr oder weniger divergenter und disparater Materialmengen wider Gebühr in den Vordergrund gerückt, ja sogar als das Entscheidende betrachtet wird, und somit in der Beurteilung der poetischen Leistung das quantitative Element den Ausschlag zu geben droht: die Situation der archaischen Epik zwingt keineswegs dazu, den Schritt vom Kleinen zum Großen, der zweifellos irgendwann einmal getan worden ist, gerade für die Zeit Homers und die Person dieses Dichters zu vindizieren. Die vorhomerische Dichtung ist zweifellos mündliche und zwar aus­ schließlich mündliche Epik gewesen. Schon von hier aus wird die Vorstel­ lung einer vorhomerischen Aithiopis im Sinn der eben erwähnten Rekonstruktion einigermaßen fragwürdig; denn die ihr zugeschriebene W irkung und W irksamkeit hätte sie doch nur als literarisches Kunstwerk entfalten können. A u f der anderen Seite ist die Annahme, ein solches Kleinepos sei— als einmalige mündliche Schöpfung— wortwörtlich auswen­ dig gelernt stets in gleicher Form, ohne Variation des Inhalts und der sprachlichen Gestaltung von Hand zu Hand weitergegeben worden, für das Zeitalter rein mündlicher Poesie nicht m öglich; denn es liegt im W esen dieser, „unliterarischen“ Dichtung, daß auch dann, wenn der gleiche D ich­ ter den gleichen Stoff zu wiederholten Malen vorgetragen hat, wohl nie eine Rezitation der anderen in ihrer dichterischen Formung, geschweige denn in der sprachlichen Formulierung völlig geglichen hat. Als auswendig gelernt dürfen wir uns bei den vorhomerischen Rhapsoden nur die geprägten Formulierungen der von der Alltagssprache abgehobenen Kunstsprache— Verstelle, Verse und Versgruppen— vorstellen, aus denen sich in jeweils neuer Variation und Kombination die Züge des überkommenen und zu freier Ausgestaltung einladenden Sagenmaterials immer wieder neu formen ließen. W enn man aber in dieser erlernbaren Formelsprache, die dem handsamen Material des knetbaren Tons vergleichbar ist, der sich unter den flinken Händen des formenden Künstlers zu immer neuen Gebilden gestaltet, das konstitutive Element mündlicher Epik zu sehen gelernt hat, wird man nicht nur an der Existenz einer in erster Linie vom „literarischen“ Denken der Moderne her konzipierten Aithiopis zweifeln: auch die Annahme, daß es vor Homer ausschließlich kurze Gedichte mit beschränkter Themastellung gegeben habe, bleibt keineswegs logisch notwendige im Gegenteil: sie wird vielleicht sogar fragwürdig. In Anbetracht der Arbeitsmethoden der vorho­ merischen Epik scheint es durchaus möglich zu folgern, daß es damals nicht nur kleinere Gedichte, die sich ein eng begrenztes Thema aus einem

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größeren Sagenkreis gewählt hätten, sondern auch universale Epen gegeben hat, die— vielleicht im Verlauf von mehreren Tagen vorgetragen— größere Sagenkomplexe in mehr oder minder linearem, vor allem von der „Chro­ nologie“ her geordnetem A blauf zum Gegenstand hatten: vielleicht also ein Argonauten-Epos, ein Gedicht von den Taten und Schicksalen des Herakles, ein thebanisches Heldenepos, das von Laios bis zu den Epigonen zu be­ richten wußte, und schließlich vielleicht auch eine „Ilias“ , in der von den ersten Anlässen des großen Krieges, seinem Beginn, seinen wechselvollen Kämpfen und dem schließlichen Sieg und der Heimfahrt der Helden berichtet war. Natürlich gilt von diesen hypothetischen Großepen dasselbe, was von der mündlichen Epik insgesamt zu sagen war: Sie waren, falls wir mit ihrer Existenz zu rechnen haben, nicht in feste, unabänderliche Formen gebannt; ihre Formung unterlag stets den jeweiligen Erfordernissen des Augenblicks und den wechselnden Intentionen der improvisierenden D ich ­ ter. Daß in einer Zeit rein mündlicher Epik Großkompositionen dieser Art keineswegs unvorstellbar sind, beweisen übrigens die Forschungen der von M. Parry begründeten amerikanischen Schule, die im jugoslavischen Bereich mündliche Vorträge von Epen im Umfang bis zu 10 000 Versen aufgezeichnet bzw. phonographisch festgehalten hat. D och— so wird man fragen— was sollen die Erwägungen darüber, ob es vor Homer Dichter gegeben haben mag, die in großangelegten Epen das troische Geschehen in seiner Gesamtheit bald so, bald so poetisch zu bewältigen versucht haben? W as sollen diese Spekulationen, unbeweisbar wie alles andere, was bisher über Antehomerica erdichtet und ersonnen worden ist? W ill man unseren Rekonstruktionen vorerst den bedingten W ert einer Arbeitshypothese zubilligen, dann mag man etwa folgendermaßen weiter­ argumentieren: Die Vorstellung von Homer als dem ersten Großepiker müßte ebenso aufgegeben werden wie der verwandte Gedanke, daß er der erste Dichter gewesen sei, der sein W erk mit ausgesprochen universeller Zielsetzung begonnen habe. Die Frage hieße dann vielmehr, in welcher ganz spezifischen Form er eine tradierte Aufgabe sich angeeignet und als Herausforderung zu eigenwilliger Bewältigung aufgefaßt hätte. Daß Homer das Ziel der Universalität erreicht hat, daran ist kein Zweifel: Aus der Fülle der handelnden Personen und vollbrachten Taten, aus der Vielfalt und Vielfarbigkeit der Szenen des Krieges und des Friedens, bei Griechen und Troern, im Staub der Erde und in den luftigen Sitzen der leichtlebenden Götter erwächst dem Zuhörer ein monumentales Bild der gesamten Troica, der ruhmvollsten Aera der heroischen W elt. Aber noch mehr: So wie durch zahlreiche kurze Anspielungen und Rück­ erinnerungen und durch Verweise auf das Kommende das außerhalb des zeitlichen Rahmens der Ilias stehende zehnjährige troische Geschehen stets im Bewußtsein lebendig erhalten wird, so werden auch die Hauptphasen des

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Gesamtgeschehens in dem kurzen Zeitausschnitt von 50 Iliastagen durch einen eigenartigen Kunstgriff des Dichters vor unseren Augen aktualisiert: In dem sog. Schiffskatalog, der großen Heerführerparade des 2. Buches, erlebt der Hörer gewissermaßen noch einmal die gewaltige Flottensamm­ lung in Aulis; in den Zweikampf- und Helenaszenen des 3. Buches entfaltet sich die Rivalität und das Ringen von Menelaos und Paris um die schönste Frau, das „der Anfang des Leides“ für Griechen und Troer gewesen war, in neuer Aktualisierung, und mit der Tat des wortbrüchigen Bogenschützen Pandaros wird die alte Schuld des Paris ebenso wieder lebendig wie das schwarze Verhängnis, das seit Paris’ Tat über dem mitschuldig-unschuldig leidenden V olk des Priamos schwebt. In den wechselvollen Schicksalen der drei Großkampftage der Bücher Δ —Σ spiegelt sich das schwankende Kriegs­ glück der neun zurückliegenden Kriegsjahre. Und so wie schließlich mit dem Bericht von dem Sieg und Tod des Patroklos das Schicksal Achills in eigenartiger W eise des Dichtens— Patroklos kämpft und fällt, wird beklagt und gefeiert, als sei er selbst Achill— schon in die Ilias hineingenommen ist, so ist mit dem Tode Hektors bereits das Schicksal der Stadt besiegelt,— ja ist die Stadt eigentlich schon dahingesunken unter den grausamen Händen der Eroberer. So hat der Dichter in seinem Streben nach Universalität durch eine ganz besondere Art der „Quellenbenützung“, nämlich durch die umsetzende Verlebendigung entscheidender Fakten und Motive des gesamttroischen Sagenkomplexes in einem von ihm gewählten Ausschnitt des Ganzen, eine neue Strukturform des Großepos gefunden, durch die im Teil das Ganze, im Ausschnitt die Fülle gestaltet werden konnte. Aber noch in einem anderen Betracht ist die tiefgehende W irkung seines umformenden und neuformenden Genius nicht zu verkennen: W ir meinen die Art und W eise, wie Homer die zahlreichen Einzelbilder, aus denen sich das Ganze zusammensetzt, angelegt hat. Um das bekannteste und zugleich in letzter Zeit am heftigsten umstrit­ tene Beispiel herauszunehmen, die H om ilie im 6 . Buch der Ilias: Kein Zweifel, daß dieses Bild „H ektor in Troia“ vor allem seinen W ert in sich selbst trägt und wenig von seiner Schönheit einbüßt, wenn wir es aus dem Zusammenhang des Ganzen gelöst betrachten. Aber es kann ebensowenig zweifelhaft sein, daß dieser friedlichen Szene aus Troia eine ganz bestimmte Aufgabe im Rahmen des Epos zugewiesen ist: Sie zeichnet Hektor im häuslichen Bereich als Sohn, Bruder, Gatten und Vater, und ergänzt so das Bild des troischen Promachos, den wir aus den anderen Gesängen vor allem als überragenden Krieger und Heerführer kennen lernen. Ja noch mehr: Die Erinnerung an das Idyll aus Troia soll uns nicht verloren gehen, wenn wir Hektor im wechselvollen W ogen des Krieges draußen im Feld kämpfen, siegen und fliehen sehen, bis dann schließlich im 22. Gesang das Bild vom Abschied der beiden Ehegatten wieder schrecklich lebendig wird: in der Szene, wo Andromache Zwiesprache mit dem toten Hektor hält. N ur

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dem, der noch im X die Abschiedsszene des Z in lebendiger Erinnerung bewahrt, enthüllt sich das beziehungsreiche Spiel der parallelen, gegenläu­ figen und konvergierenden Linien in seinem ganzen Reichtum. Und noch auf ein zweites Beispiel sei hingewiesen: Ein in sich gerundetes, abgeschlossenes Einzelbild, scheinbar auslösbar, ohne daß eine Lücke spürbar oder überhaupt empfunden würde, gezeichnet mit den üblichen Routinemitteln epischer Kampfschilderung, stellt die Monomachie zwischen Hektor und Aias im 7. Buch dar. Aber auch dieses Bild trägt seinèn W ert nicht ausschließlich in sich; sein wahres inneres Gewicht, seine Bedeutsamkeit erhält es erst im Rahmen des Ganzen: Der erste Großkampftag der Ilias vollendet sich im ritterlichen Messen der Kräfte; die beiden Parteien haben für heute dem blutigen Kam pf entsagt und ergötzen sich am technisch vollendeten Turnierspiel der beiden Prot­ agonisten, die schließlich nach fairem Speerkampf als ritterliche Gegner, beide unbesiegt, in die Reihen ihrer stolzen Männer zurücktreten. Aber dieser K am pf ist ja letztlich nur Vorspiel, Folie und Gegenbild zu dem Kampf, in dem das kriegerische Geschehen des letzten Großkampftages, den die Ilias zu schildern hat, gipfelt und ausklingt: nicht mehr Aias, der Zweite nach dem Pelei den, sein großer Stellvertreter während der Kampf­ enthaltung, sondern Achill selbst ist jetzt Hektors Gegner geworden; kein Waffenstillstand— wie im 7. Buch— hält diesmal die beiden Heere in gemessenem Abstand von den beiden Einzelkämpfern: Achill hat mit seinem Rasen das Schlachtfeld reingefegt vom Feind und beide Parteien durch W ort und Tat in die Rolle der Zuschauer gezwungen, die in starrem. Entsetzen oder gebannter Faszination dem schrecklichen Schauspiel folgen, das sich ihren Augen bietet. Aus ritterlichen Gegnern sind leidenschaftliche Todfeinde, aus dem Spiel des Turniers ist! der blutige Emst eines bitteren Kampfes auf Leben und Tod geworden. Und wenn Hektor in letzter Selbsttäuschung über den hoffungslosen Ernst seiner Lage dem rasenden Gegner Kampfesbedingungen vorzuschlagen versucht, dann leuchtet noch einmal die Szene aus dem H auf, wo die gleichen Bedingungen sinnvoll, natürlich und notwendig gewesen waren. W ir halten hier kurz inne und erinnern uns daran, daß wir als poetische Vorläufer der Ilias großepische, immer wieder in neue Form gegossene Gedichte vermutet hatten, welche das gesamte Geschehen des troischen Krieges vom Parisurteil bis zur Heimfahrt der Griechen umfassend behan­ delt hatten. W ir mögen vielleicht ahnen, wie diese vorhomerischen Troia-Epen ausgesehen haben: Schillernde Ketten von bunten Perlen, farbenfrohe A n ­ einanderreihungen von Abenteuern und Kämpfen, von friedlichen und kriegerischen Szenen, von internen und hochpolitischen Konflikten— zusammengehalten durch das lose äußere Band sachlicher Zusammengehö­ rigkeit— ,Epen, die durch A ddition addierbarer Glieder geschaffen, durch Hinzufügung neuer Glieder ausgeweitet, durch W eglassung ursprünglich

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zugehöriger Elemente je nach der Intention des jeweiligen Vortragenden komprimiert werden konnten: viel anders können wir diese sich wandeln­ den und stets erneuernden, „Iliaden“ nicht denken. Demgegenüber stellt die Ilias Homers— bei aller stofflichen und thema­ tischen Bindung an das seit alters Tradierte— für die Zeitsituation des Dichters etwas schlechthin Neues, bisher nicht Dagewesenes dar: Zwar auch hier jene buntschillernde Kette glänzender Perlen, von der wir spra­ chen— doch wie gewaltig die innere Distanz, die sie von den zu er­ schließenden Vorbildern trennt: Die addierbaren, vertauschbaren und auswechselbaren Bauglieder des alten Epos sind zu etwas völlig Neuem umgeschaffen; sie sind zu integrierenden Bauteilen des Großepos, zu leben­ digen Gliedern eines lebendigen Ganzen geworden— Gliedern, die sich nicht mehr amputieren, nicht mehr beliebig versetzen, vertauschen oder vermehren ließen. Diese Metamorphose der vorhomerischen „Kettenglieder“ zu neuen Gebilden, deren ganzes W esen in einer einzigartigen, nur für Homer charakteristischen Synthese von Eigenleben und Funktion aufgeht, steht in einem innerlich notwendigen Zusammenhang mit dem Übergang von mündlicher zu schriftlicher Epik. Die vorhomerische Poesie war m öglich ohne schriftliche Fixierung; als stets neu formendes und improvisierendes Kunstschaffen ist sie nur und gerade aus der Schriftlosigkeit der Epoche verständlich. Die epoche­ machende Leistung des Iliasdichters läßt sich vielleicht am ehesten in einer paradox klingenden Alternative formulieren: Man möchte zweifeln, ob die neue Konzeption der Ilias ihren Dichter zu der— sicher seit geraumer Zeit theoretisch und praktisch möglichen— schriftlichen Fixierung gezwungen oder ob die in steter Zunahme begriffene Kunst des Schreibens dem Dichter den entscheidenden Anstoß zum Umdenken der altüberkommenen D ich ­ tungsform gegeben hat. Es liegt im Wesen einer solchen entscheidenden W ende im geistigen Bereich, daß das Neue ebensowenig schon seine endgültige Form gefunden hat, wie das Alte bereits restlos abgestreift und überwunden ist. Die Tradition steckt vor allem in den mehr oder weniger umfangreichen Schil­ derungen des heroischen Kampfes und des täglichen Lebens, den „typischen Szenen“ im weitesten Sinn, die im Großen und Ganzen noch ziemlich ausschließlich m it den Mitteln der alten oral composition, mit dem tradierten sprachlich-formalen Handwerkszeug einer alten Gildenkunst bestritten wer­ den. Die alten Züge bestimmen das Bild des neuen Epos teilweise noch in so beherrschender Form, daß man gelegentlich den Abstand zwischen der schriftlosen vorhomerischen Epik und Homer selbst auf ein Minim um zusammenschrumpfen ließ und Homer im Prinzip kaum anders beurteilte als seine Vorgänger— ein Vorgehen, das zweifellos ebenso fehl am Platze ist wie das umgekehrte Verfahren, durch die Anwendung der üblichen analy­ tischen Methoden stillschweigend die Voraussetzung zuzulassen, Homer

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habe es mit schriftlich niedergelegten dichterischen Quellen und V orbil­ dern zu tun gehabt, die sich nach Belieben zerlegen, ausbeuten und stück­ weise wiederverwenden ließen. Die neue epische Konzeption Homers war zweifellos nur durch die völlige Neuformulierung des Rahmens m öglich: Der Dichter setzte an die Stelle des unbestimmten und verschiebbaren zeitlichen, örtlichen und stofflichen Rahmens „Troischer K rieg“ das eine M otiv vom Zorn Achills, eine Episode, die— bei Licht besehen— für den Fortgang des Geschehens vor Troia keineswegs von ausschlaggebender Bedeutung war, durch die aber andererseits der Sagenstoff in einer ganz neuen W eise zu bändigen und— im rechten W ortsinn— zu kon-zentrieren war. Es sei gestattet, diese Episode vom Zorn Achills, die bei Homer zur tragenden Handlung des ganzen Gedichts geworden ist, und die Haupt­ gestalten dieser Episode in kurzem Resümee zu vergegenwärtigen: Da sind Agamemnon und A chill, die zwei mächtigsten Fürsten des Achaierheeres, zutiefst verschieden in ihrem W esen, einander innerlich fremd, schon bevor es zum offenen Konflikt kommt: A u f der einen Seite der in Äußerlichkeiten und Halbheiten befangene, in Bedingtheiten und Bindungen ausweglos verstrickte Hirte der Völker, schwankend zwischen Überheblichkeit und Defaitismus, zwischen stolzem Macht- und Selbstbe­ wußtsein und zaudernder Unsicherheit— ein Monarch, dem eine gewisse Größe ebensowenig abzusprechen ist wie die Schwächen einer menschlichalizumenschlichen Natur.— Und auf der anderen Seite der Peleide Achill, der in seiner überragenden Heldengröße, in der vollen inneren Freiheit seines Denkens, Sich-Entschließens und Handelns und in der U nbedingt­ heit seines Liebens, Hassens und Leideris weit über alles Menschenmaß hinausragt und bis an die Grenze des Übermenschlichen heranreicht,— aber doch wieder ein Mensch, der nur in den Augen jener Allzumensch­ lichen maßlos ist, denen für seine heroischen Dimensionen die kongenialen Maßstäbe versagt sind; in seinem Herzen scheint er tiefste Güte und härteste Grausamkeit, strengste Selbstzucht und ungehemmte Leidenschaft widerspruchslos zu einen, und— stets in Einklang mit seinem inneren Daimon— sagt er stolz und bedingungslos Ja zu seinem Schicksal, zum Leben wie zum Tod. Und dann der Streit der beiden Männer, der nur der äußere Ausdruck ist dafür, wie hier zwei Lebenskreise einander gegenüberstehen, zwischen denen es keine Verbindung und Verständigung geben kann: In jener unlösbaren Korrelation von innerem und äußerem Antrieb, von eigener Verschuldung und göttlich-dämonischer Verführung, selbst drängend und vom Schicksal gedrängt, nim mt Agamemnon dem Peleiden seine Ehre; er w ill m it dieser Kränkung trotz allem Egoismus letztlich das Rechte, nämlich die W ahrung der Zucht in seinem Heere, er tut aber gerade das Schlimmste, indem er dem Heer den mächtigsten Mann

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entzieht, und treibt so in verhängnisvoller Schicksalsironie wollend-nichtwollend sich selbst und die Seinen in tiefstes Unglück. Vergegenwärtigen wir uns weiter, wie spater diese beiden Könige A ga­ memnon und Achill, für die es letztlich kein Versöhnen gibt, nacheinander doch das U nm ögliche versuchen, um die aufgerissene Kluft zu verschütten und zu retten, was noch zu retten ist: Zuerst ist es Agamemnon, der nach dem ersten Vorstoß der Feinde bis an die Mauer des Schiffslagers die Versöhnung anbietet und dabei doch den ganzen Schritt nicht wagt: die Kränkung zu sühnen ist er bereit, doch zur Anerkennung der ϊση τιμή für Achill kann er sich nicht verstehen. Folge und Ergebnis dieser ersten Halbheit ist seine tiefste militärische Demütigung bis zum Brand des ersten Schiffes. Und dann ist es A chill, der— vom Mitleid für die geschlagenen Achaier gepackt— seinen Freund Patroklos zur Linderung der ärgsten N ot entsendet und mit dieser Ersatz- und Verlegenheitslösung ebenfalls den Schritt nur halb zu gehen wagt: W iederum ist tiefstes Leid die Folge dieser zweiten Halbheit; die Schiffe zwar und das Lager sind außer Gefahr, aber Patroklos ist gefallen. An diesem entscheidenden Punkt nun die gewaltige Metabolé der inne­ ren Handlung: Der ganze Herrenzwist ist mit einem Schlag völlig irrelevant geworden, ist auf einer neuen Ebene des Fühlens und Wertens zur Sinn- und Bedeutungslosigkeit zusammengefallen: über der Heroenehre steht dem Peleiden die Freundesliebe, das Rachebegehren gegen den Freundesmörder. Jetzt ist der W eg zum Ausgleich zwischen Agamemnon und Achill frei, keiner Versöhnung im wahren Sinn des W ortes, sondern nur einem Verzicht auf die Weiterführung des Streites— mit allem Zeremoniell zur Wiederherstellung des alten Status. Den Abschluß des Ganzen bildet jener über alles Menschen- und Heldenmaß hinausgehende K am pf des Peleiden gegen Menschen und Götter, sein Sieg über Hektor, mit dem er wissentlich-willentlich sein eigenes Schicksal provoziert; denn „gleich nach H ektor ist auch ihm das Todeslos bereit“ . Der Dichter entläßt uns in der düsteren Gewißheit eines Unheils, das in Kürze mit Schicksalsnotwendigkeit wird hereinbrechen müssen. W ir halten inne.— Ist das, was der Dichter hier vor unseren Augen abrollen läßt, überhaupt noch eine epische Handlung im üblichen Sinn des W ortes? Ist das nicht echteste Dramatik, tragische Verflechtung von Schicksalen und Taten, eine Tragik, die man— um ihr gerecht zu werden— am ehesten aus den Vorstellungen von Mensch und Gott, von Freiheit und Notwendigkeit, von innerer und äußerer Dämonie begreifen kann, die uns aus der attischen Tragödie vertraut sind? Um zusammenzufassen und abzurunden: Die Form des Großepos war— so möchten wir vermuten— schon in den Zeiten vor Homer m öglich und gebräuchlich; und diese Form hat Homer

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als Gefäß für seine epische Darstellung des troischen Geschehens von seinen Vorgängern übernommen. Der große Neuerer war er insofern, als er dieses Gefäß mit völlig neuen Inhalten zu füllen sich unterfing. In seinem Bestreben, m it seiner Ilias ein geschlossenes Bild der Iliaca von der α ρ χ ή κ α κ ώ ν bis zur Persis zu geben— in der vorhin angedeuteten Form des nachträglichen Hereinspiegelns von Sagenfakten der früheren Kriegsjahre (Helena-Raub, Versammlung in Aulis usw.) und des parallelisierenden Vorwegnehmens (Achills Tod, Troias Ende)— , klingt die universale Idee des alten zusammenfassenden Großepos noch deutlich nach. Aber dadurch, daß auf Grund der neuen Konzeption das tragende Geschehen der Ilias nun nicht mehr ein weite Zeiten umspannender mythischer Sagenablauf von den ersten Anfängen bis zum letzten Ende, sondern ein ganz kurzer Ausschnitt aus diesem Gesamtbereich war— sachlich, zeitlich und räumlich aufs engste beschränkt, eine einzige Episode aus einer schier unübersehbaren Fülle überlieferter Episoden ganz ähnlichen Gepräges, wie sie seit alters durch den Rahmen der troischen Sage zusam­ mengehalten wurden: dadurch ergab sich die zweite entscheidende W endung, welche die Idee des Großepos durch die Tat Homers bekam: Die von Homer als Leitlinie gewählte Episode vom Zorn Achills, mag sie bereits auf vorhomerische Tradition zurückgehen oder erst von Homer aus älteren Motiven neugeformt oder auch völlig neu erfunden sein, war mehr als alle anderen nicht nur geeignet, zum tragenden Gerüst für ein komplexes Ganzes zu werden, sondern war auch m it ungeheuerer innerer Energie geladen, war der tiefsten Verinnerlichungen und höchsten Subli­ mierungen fähig und barg m it ihren inneren Spannungen und Konflikten, mit ihrer echten Dramatik erst die tragischen Elemente, die das zweite Gesicht der Ilias bestimmen. So möchte man die übliche Formulierung, Homer sei als Schöpfer des Großepos anzusehen, geradezu umkehren und sagen, daß Homer mit der Konzeption seiner Ilias die im Großepos liegenden M öglichkeiten über­ spannt und so diese Dichtungsform überhaupt von innen her gesprengt habe. Dadurch, daß dem Achilleus-Zorn das umspannende troische Gesche­ hen funktional unterzuordnen war und daß somit die Einheit der Haupthandlung den Primat vor der Vielfalt und bunten Fülle der Einzel­ episoden beanspruchen mußte, war dem Großepos eine Aufgabe zugemutet, der es auf Grund seiner ganzen inneren Anlage nicht mehr gewachsen sein konnte. Die von der Kritik oft beanstandete Disharmonie zwischen Einzelbild und Gesamtablauf, zwischen der Fülle des Akzessorischen oder als akzessorisch Empfundenen und dem Gerüst des unabdingbar Notwendigen und K on­ stitutiven, zwischen der relativen Selbständigkeit und dem unbestreitbaren Eigenleben der Teile einerseits und den Ansprüchen des Ganzen auf die Funktionsaufgabe dieser Teile andererseits— diese Disproportion ist nicht das Ergebnis nachträglichen Stückens, Verfugens und Ineinanderschiebens,

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dessen Genesis man mit den Mitteln der Analyse zu Leibe rücken kann, sie ist vielmehr das Ergebnis der Grenzsituation, in die das Epos durch die Tat Homers gestellt ist. Die Ilias Homers zeigt ein Janus-Gesicht; sie blickt zurück in die alte Tradition und voraus in die Zukunft; das Nicht-mehr wird in ihr ebenso deutlich wie das Noch-nicht. A u f dem von Homer eingeschlagenen W e g gab es im Bereich epischer Dichtung kein Weiterschreiten mehr. Die Odyssee, vielleicht von einem Schüler des Iliasdichters geschaffen, scheint sich in manchen entscheidenden Zügen enger an die Kunst des vorhome­ rischen Epos als an die Ilias selbst anzuschließen, und in noch viel höherem Maß gilt das von den Kyklischen Epen der nachhomerischen Zeit, soweit wir ihre Struktur aus den dürftigen Überresten erkennen können. Aber die Tat Homers, der die alte Form epischen Dichtens vollendete und aushöhlte zugleich, war in einer anderen Richtung zukunftsträchtig wie kaum eine andere und bereitete einer Entwicklung den W eg, die erst Jahrhunderte später ihren Lauf nahm— zu einer Zeit, als die adäquate Form zur Darstellung dessen gefunden war, was den Dichter als Gestalter von Menschen und Menschenschicksalen bewegte. Diese neue Form, in der sich das mit tauglicheren Mitteln verwirklichen ließ, was der eine H omer mit dem letztlich nur bedingt tauglichen Mittel des Großepos ein einziges Mal und unwiederholbar geschaffen hatte, war die attische Tragödie.

A n m e rk u n g Der Vortragscharakter obenstehender Ausführungen veranlaßte dazu, auch beim Druck auf das wissenschaftliche Beiwerk der Anmerkungen zu verzichten. Wer sich etwas mit der interpretatorischen Arbeit an Homer in neuerer Zeit befaßt hat, wird ohne Schwierigkeiten feststellen können, an welchen Stellen und in welchem Umfang dieser Vortrag den Arbeiten der neueren Homerforschung verpflichtet ist. Doch sei gestattet, an dieser Stelle wenigstens auf die Fülle wertvoller Gedanken hinzuweisen, die A. Lesky, K. Reinhardt, W. Schadewaldt und R.A. Schröder verdankt werden.

49________________________ Telem achus and the T elem a ch eia *1

H .W . Clarke ^Source: American Journal o f Philology, vol. 84, 1963, pp. 1 2 9 -4 5 .

It has long been standard with Analysts that if the Telemacheia is not by another hand, then it is certainly distinct enough in treatment and integration to deserve its special name. N or are the reasons urging its separateness only aesthetic. First o f all, Telemachus' position in the Odyssey raises questions about the political structure o f Ithaca, or at least indicates that Homer has left much unsaid about the conditions o f royal tenure. Odysseus’ father Laertes, who is generally a blank in heroic mythology, has withdrawn to the country in sorrow over the loss o f his son, but even before his retirement he does not seem to.have ruled as k in g ,2 If Odysseus assumed the kingship as next in line and primogeniture were the rule, we might expect that Telemachus would have clear title to the throne after Odysseus failed to return from Troy. Such is not the case. Instead, the kingship is to be awarded to whoever marries Penelope— hence the dynastic ambitions o f the Suitors and their menace to Odysseus and Penelope. The dilemma in which this situation involves the Ithacans is obvious. On the one hand the old king has been made unfit for kingship through infirmity; on the other hand Telemachus is unqualified by youth and inexperience. Ithaca is trapped in the weakness o f its leaders, the weakness o f old age and the weakness o f youth, senility and adolescence .3 Odysseus alone combines exuberance and experience, and he is desperately needed. It is noteworthy too that when he returns not only does he save his family and his land, but the vitality o f his presence extends to his father and son. For Laertes there is a sudden and miraculous transformation .4 Athene herself intervened to increase his royal stature. As he stepped out o f the bath she made him seem taller and sturdier than before, so that his own son was amazed when he saw him looking like an immortal god.

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Athena's powers here show symbolically how the presence o f his beloved son has revitalized the aged Laertes. N or is the Telemachus Odysseus meets in Book X V I and fights beside in X X II the same young man Athena found in I; but his transformation has been gradual, for not even a goddess can immediately infuse into a young man the wisdom accumulated in a life­ time's experience as hero and king. Laertes needed only to be revivified; he had already known the meaning o f the heroic life. The process o f Telemachus' introduction into that life is one o f the purposes o f the four books (and part o f Book X V ) com monly referred to as the Telemacbeia. In a society where kingship depends upon merit as much as inheritance, the candidate must be prepared to prove his worth, as Telemachus will in Book X X II, but before the test he must know what it is he is fighting for. Pylos and Sparta can offer him examples. The Telemacheia properly begins after the Council o f the Gods when Athena visits Ithaca to hearten Odysseus’ son and urge him to call an assembly o f Ithacans and then set off to Sparta and Pylos in search o f news about his father. Here she finds a despairing Telemachus lost in the dream-world that has become his since the Suitors made the real world intolerable. He is hoping that somehow Odysseus will appear “ from some­ where” (115). It will be Athena's purpose in the next few books to rid Telemachus o f his melancholy, to show him how in the heroic world dreams are translated into realities. Naturally, the heroic paradigm is from the Agamemnon myth. 5 Y ou are no longer a child: you must put childish thoughts away. Have you not heard what a name Prince Orestes made for him self in the world when he killed the traitor Aegisthus for murdering his noble father? You, my friend— and what a tall and splendid fellow you have grown!— must be as brave as Orestes. Then future generations will sing your praises. Athena’s encouragement is not without its effect, but Telemachus' adoles­ cent attempts to take charge are a fiasco .6 H e shocks Penelope quite unnecessarily, even cruelly, and then turns on the Suitors in a tone that must have been totally unexpected by them, for they too are taken aback. But the N ew Telemachus lapses back into the O ld Telemachus as soon as Antinous has a chance to distract him. He discourses vaguely on the nature o f kingship, then is so uncertain o f his own position (if, indeed, he is to succeed Odysseus) that he concedes the claims o f the other princes. He then concludes lamely that he intends at least to control his own house. N ot a very convincing display o f newly found authority, but in his confusion Telemachus has at least raised the great question which Odysseus will answer: W h o is to be king o f Ithaca? He has also asked what kingship means; and his tentative answer— an enrichment o f one’s house arid an increase o f honor ( 392 - 2 )— will soon be confirmed in the glory and wealth

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o f the courts o f Nestor and Menelaus. This awakening to royal prerogatives is critical, for it will be his initial preparation for the com ing struggle to preserve the same privileges o f rightful kingship in Ithaca. W hen the first book ends with the touching scene o f Eurycleia tending Telemachus as he prepares for bed, Homer has completed the picture o f Telemachus' sur­ roundings. He is in some way subject to Penelope, although he has now dared to bridle at her authority; he is attended by an aged nursemaid; and he is bedevilled\and oppressed by insolent Suitors. Odysseus is away, Laertes is off on his farm, and Telemachus has only two women to support him against the menace o f 108 w ould-be usurpers. Book II does little to convince us that Telemachus has profited by Athena's encouragement. His indictment o f the Suitors and appeal to their non-existent sense o f justice and his plea that they regard Zeus and Themis is clearly not the kind o f speech his father would deliver, and whatever faint effect it m ight have had on their consciences is dissipated when he concludes his words with a sudden burst o f tears. The crowd pities him, less so the Suitors, particularly the cynical Antinous, who goes on to shift the blame to Penelope for her funeral shroud ruse. Once again Telemachus’ attempts at oratory have been abortive and ineffective, but once again he has raised a central theme o f the Odyssey: the justice o f Odysseus, the injustice o f the Suitors. Furthermore, the terms o f his speech, just as in Book I, foreshadow elements o f his experience in III and IV. He describes Odysseus’ kingship as fatherly in its gentleness (47), and he will see gentle and exemplary fathers in Nestor and Menelaus; the food wasted by the Suitors in their revels in Ithaca (55—6) will be consumed in order and harmony in the feasts in Pylos and Sparta; the wine that intoxicates the Suitors in Ithaca (57) will become a tranquillizer in Sparta; and the weakness he protests here (60—1) will be overcome by confidence and resolve before he sees Ithaca again. Telemachus next commences his preparations for his journey, but runs into the astonished protests o f Eurycleia: “ But there’s no need at all for you to endure the hardships o f wandering over the barren seas” (3 6 9 -7 0 ). This feminine attraction to place is partly what Telemachus must overcome by becoming acquainted with the ways o f the heroes who did suffer hard­ ships at Troy and then had to return over the seas to the great centers o f the Mycenaean age. But for all Telemachus’ determination, Eurycleia’s objec­ tion still stands; and to assert that Telemachus must rid himself o f his feminine inhibitions is not a very convincing justification for his trip. That Telemachus intends to go off on a junket at this crucial time was duly noted by Analyst critics and made one o f their reasons for the original separateness o f the Telemacheia. 7 In this objection, however, they were anticipated by Homer himself, not only here but also by Odysseus in XIII, 417, and Eumaeus in X IV , 178.8 A ll stress that this is the worst conceivable time for Telemachus to leave Ithaca, what with the Suitors getting impatient and Penelope at her w it’s end. To them the answer is provided by Athena in

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XIII 422. Yes, she could have told Telemachus the truth about his father, but she wanted him to make the trip to win kleos. The fact is that nothing Athena told Telemachus would have any lasting effect; what he needed before meeting his father was experience in heroic society, and this journey to Pylos and Sparta was the only resort. Telemachus had to be baptized into the heroic life, commune with its leaders, and be confirmed in its values or he would never be a trusted ally to his father or a fit successor to the kingship. Kleos ranks with arete as an honorific word in the heroic vocabu­ lary, and it is only in places like Pylos and Sparta that Telemachus can absorb their meanings and prepare himself to merit them. It is true that this is a critical juncture in the affairs o f Ithaca, but far from impeding Telemachus, it makes his journey all the more necessary. For it is at the truly critical periods o f man’s life— when he is most exposed— that he must appeal to an extra source o f strength. Hence Telemachus’ journey is neither unnecessary nor unmotivated, although the necessity is Telemachus himself and the motive transcends the averred search for information. Book III brings the travellers to the first stage o f their journey, Nestor’s citadel at Pylos. Here we are in the heroic world and Telemachus does not know how to act, what to do, how to approach the great man. Athena encourages him as the libation is offered, and Telemachus manages nicely in his first bout with the social forms o f a kingly court, though not as deftly as Nestor’s son Peisistratus, who had, after all, the benefit o f growing up within this mannered society . 9 Nestor then delivers a long speech, luxur­ iating in the recollected sorrows o f the Trojan W ar and remarking Telemachus’ resemblance to his famous father.10 In reminiscing about Troy, Nestor passes from Achilles to Ajax to Patroclus and finally to his own son Antilochus. H e praises Odysseus for his good sense, tells how out o f allegiance and piety Odysseus stayed behind with Agamemnon, and does not forget to remind Telemachus approvingly o f the sterling example o f Agam em non’s son Orestes. Telemachus picks up the hint, but then awk­ wardly blurts out his despair o f ever seeing his father again, for which he is promptly chided by Athena. In the fully integrated society piety and manners are identical and Telemachus must learn to trim his private doubts accordingly. Athena leaves that evening and Telemachus is received into Nestor’s palace where he sleeps beside Nestor’s son Peisistratus. The next day Nestor arranges an elaborate banquet for Telemachus’ crew and even has his youngest daughter, Polycaste, give Telemachus a bath. This is almost a rebirth, for out o f it Telemachus emerges, “ looking like a g o d ” (III, 468). Nestor then gives him horses and a chariot and sends Peisistratus to accompany him in his way to Sparta. Athena is no longer with him; but he has been accepted into Nestor’s household, bathed by his daughter, and is now being accompanied by his son. For Telemachus this has been a tonic experience after the desperation o f his life at Ithaca, and at last he is ready to

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break out o f the shell o f his depression and uncertainty and make his way in broad heroic society. Book IV opens with a scene o f feasting and family cheer (the marriages o f Menelaus' son and daughter) in the splendid palace o f Menelaus. Here is a prosperity, a security, and a family intimacy that Telemachus had never known in Ithaca and only lately met in Pylos. Indeed, H om er’s choice o f details to contrast Menelaus and Sparta with Odysseus and Ithaca is subtle and exact. The primary complication o f the Odyssey proper is the disunion o f a family, whereas here we have an immediate awareness o f union (the marriages) and reunion (Helen). And compare the joy and harmony o f Menelaus’ banquet with the pointless carousing o f the Suitors. Nor has anything in Telemachus’ limited experience prepared him for the magnifi­ cence o f Menelaus’ palace, and before it even Peisistratus is impressed. Nevertheless, Telemachus is making progress; at the beginning o f Book III the mere sight o f a hero panicked him; here he seems quite sure o f himself before Menelaus, and he can be forgiven his awe before the royal palace (his father, who has seen everything, is no less impressed by Alcinous’ palace in Book VII). Manners are once again stressed: Menelaus’ anger that hospitality is refused strangers, and his embarrassment when Telemachus weeps as he reminisces o f Odysseus. And in the stories Menelaus tells there are little morals which can also be o f use to Telemachus. Proteus, for example, tells Menelaus that he should have sacrificed to Zeus before embarking; Ajax’ fate is an example to those who would blaspheme; and when Proteus tells Menelaus o f what happened to Agamemnon and then, urges him to hurry back to his land as quickly as he can, Homer shows us that the point is not lost on Telemachus. He refuses to protract his stay in Sparta, and when Menelaus offers him three horses he has the wit and temerity to ask for a gift he can carry, not horses which are so impractical on Ithaca. Menelaus is impressed. The Telmacheia next picks up in Book X V when Athena again visits Telemachus, this time in Sparta, and urges him to hasten back to Ithaca. His reaction is almost as precipitate as it was in I, but Peisistratus checks him: after all, there are ways o f doing these things, and “ a guest never forgets a host who has shown him kindness” (5 4 -5 ). Telemachus frets through Menelaus’ moralizing and the rituals o f gift-giving, but by now he is aware o f his responsibilities and feels himself a man o f action; now it is more than he can stand to have to return to Pylos and brave Nestor’s oppressive hospitality. Telemachus has been schooled in the forms o f the heroic life in Books III and IV; in X V he has earned the right to transcend them. He can dispense with social obligations, for his own are infinitely more demanding. He must be about his father’s business. The last scene o f the Telemacheia, the Theoclymenus episode, is puzzling . 11 W h y is Theoclymenus brought in? Perhaps to palliate murder in the face o f Odysseus’ treatment o f the Suitors? Certainly Theoclymenus,

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like O d y s s e u s , can say, “ It is my fate to wander about the world” (X V , 276), and he is being pursued by the kinsmen o f the man he has slain. And for the rest o f the poem this relic o f heroic world feuds will hover uneasily in the background like Conrad’s Leggat, the secret sharer in Odysseus’ revenge and a disturbing reminder o f the random violence and blood guilt o f the heroic age. But for Telemachus this decision to accept Theoclymenus demonstrates his newly won authority, that he has the right to give asylum, even hospitality, if he wants, to a murderer. Through Theoclymenus Homer can underscore the identity o f Telemachus, show that he is now com ing into his own and can afford his father the assistance Odysseus might have received from another Achaean hero on the fields before Troy. In this sense it is appropriate that the Telemacheia end with Theoclymenus interpreting an omen, a hawk appearing on the right with a dove in its talons, which he sees as signifying that, “ N o family in Ithaca is kinglier than yours; you will have power forever” (533—4 ).12 As a professional performance this is indeed drab ,13 and as a prophecy it is so vague as to be meaningless. But it is not a prophecy; it is an accolade, a ceremony to complete the Telemacheia by marking Telemachus’ attainment to true sonhood. His doubts about his right to his royal patrimony are allayed, and he is rewarded with an assurance o f future success. Theoclymenus’ words signal an access o f power that Telemachus will need in the days ahead. After Telemachus returns to Ithaca his fortunes are subordinated to his father’s. This somewhat diminishes the impact o f Telemachus’ personality and Homer is not always successful in giving him something to do. Although he is potentially his father’s most powerful ally against the Suitors, even Odysseus seems to ignore him when he tells Athena, “ I am alone” (X X , 40). O f course, Telemachus shows his mettle: only a nod from Odysseus in X X I keeps him from stringing the bow , and he seems to do his share in the fight with the Suitors. He is exceptional in his mercy, checking Odysseus from slaying Phemius the minstrel and M edon the herald, and relentless in his revenge, personally stringing up the unfaithful serving women. But if Telemachus does acquire some o f his father’s heroism, it is at the price o f his own individuality. Homer seems conscious o f this and goes to great lengths to let us know Telemachus is still around. But the glimpses he gives us are often o f the “ o ld ” Telemachus, laughing (X X I, 105), sneezing (X V II, 541), and absentmindedly botching his father’s plans (X X II, 154); Telemachus speaks out o f turn (X X III, 97—103), parades in borrowed feathers. One answer here seems to be that the second half o f the Odyssey belongs to its hero alone. Odysseus must be alone in center stage i f his presence is to have the startling effect appropriate to the return o f the hero. But no sooner is Odysseus back in Ithaca than he finds him self implicated in an intrigue to disarm the Suitors and an alliance to slay them. This involvement could detract from the interest in Odysseus if Homer had not manipulated his

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characters in such a way as to enhance the personality o f Odysseus. His family becomes Odyssean. Penelope can even restrain herself from rushing into the arms o f her husband. Instead she tests him in proper Odyssean fashion, with a self-control and cunning that must have warmed Odysseus' wary old heart. This transformation also affects Laertes, who, as we have noted, is rejuvenated by Athena. Telemachus, for his part, becomes so like Odysseus that he is indistinguishable from him, being as much a replica o f his father as his own name is— or sounds like— a title o f Odysseus .14 The problem Homer faced was technical: how to show the maturity, individuality, and heroism o f Telemachus without detracting from the dominance o f Odysseus. If his compromises were not always successful, it is largely because the pre-logical situations o f myth will not readily conform to the logic o f literature.15 Telemachus' fortunes may be checkered in the Odyssey, but in his own “ epic" he can stand a thorough comparison with his more famous father. First, both Telemachus and his father make journeys, from which both must return home indirectly and in constant danger. Odysseus has to grapple with the w orld’s perils and disorders and yet survive, preserving his identity and his purpose. For Telemachus the world is precisely the opposite: the well-ordered kingdoms o f Nestor and Menelaus. Telemachus’ progress is from the chaos o f Ithaca to the cosmos o f Pylos and Sparta; Odysseus seeks the stability o f his home across the ragged edges o f the world. But in their separate worlds there is an important difference between the two: Odysseus acts, Telemachus reacts. Although Odysseus more than once comes within an inch o f his life, Telemachus’ experiences (apart from the social) are vicarious: he listens, observes, absorbs. Ffe learns about his father, not his whereabouts, but rather the full story o f the Odyssean exploits at Troy. He can now better appreciate his father (particularly when it comes to infiltrating a hostile city), because he has learned o f his derring-do from the greatest living authorities on heroic arete. It is important, therefore, that in this atmosphere o f wartime heroism recollected in the tranquillity o f peace Telemachus do nothing, just as it is for Odysseus in Book X I. And yet, through his own faltering efforts to make this trip and share the memories o f Nestor and Menelaus, Telemachus is able to rehearse privately many o f the great crises o f the Odyssey. The stories o f the heroes fighting at Troy and returning to Greece prepare him for the com ing struggle by expanding his knowledge, if not experience, o f the world. He has the same vision o f man’s life as Odysseus sees projected in the Underworld: family (Nestor and Menelaus), moral (Ajax’ blasphemy, Menelaus’ delay), and women who suffered through love (Helen). He hears a prophet (Proteus) who is at the same time a sea monster o f the ilk that besets his father; and he too must hurry home at the warning o f Athena to save Penelope from the Suitors. Homer has succeeded in packing a version o f the Odyssey into a little more than two books, all in the passive voice.

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The Nekyia serves in other ways to define the special quality o f the Telemacheia. Both o f these episodes presume to show us the hero learning something vital to his future welfare, yet in each the information is either not forthcoming as supposed or else could have been acquired elsewhere. Further, it is only in the Nekyia that Odysseus assumes the stance o f Telemachus in Books III and IV, that o f the passive observer o f an unfa­ miliar ceremony. However there are significant differences. Whereas Telemachus is introduced to the heroic tradition in the front parlors o f the returned chieftains where manners saturate conduct, where worldly prudence and social maturity have a climactic importance, and where the storms and struggles o f life seem comfortably remote; Odysseus on the other hand has to break through the world's surfaces, has to pass, indeed, from life to death. Telemachus hears about Agamemnon and Achilles; Odysseus goes to see them. Odysseus’ fate is cosmic, hence he must penetrate to the mistbound areas beyond this life. His living presence in Hades prefigures the life that he will restore to the stricken land o f Ithaca. Odysseus must go beneath the levels o f the world, the very levels which Telemachus must come to know with tact and nicety. Ordinarily Odysseus is satisfied with his knack o f survival in a hostile and perplexing world, but in the Nekyia he is in touch with powers beyond his techniques and he is immobilized by them. He comes for specific information from Tiresias, but he stays to meet the representatives o f the heroic Establishment. Odysseus needs no education in the ways o f this world; now his experience has been deepened by exposure to the ways o f the other world. But if the Odyssey in X I breaks through the forms, the Telemacheia is content to slide along their surface, initiating their hero into the rites o f a faith in which he was born but never reared. Its high priest is Nestor, its catechism the legends o f Troy. Again, Odysseus is saddled for much o f his return with the burden o f his company, the responsibility for their safety and the accountability for their lesser talents. W ith in his larger fate are subsumed the fates o f his compa­ nions. W ith Telemachus, however, the situation is reversed. He is under the divine protection o f Athena and the fraternal guidance o f Peisistratus. Since Odysseus overshadows his men when accompanied or else travels alone, his personality everywhere dominates the action even when the forces opposing him are most critical or catastrophic. Telemachus does not dominate the action; instead, he is usually at its mercy. He finds himself in social impasses, situations where he fears that his training and experience are not adequate to cope with them. He is never alone; Athena and Peisistratus are ever with him, and his final character is shaped by their tutoring or example. Their salutary presence, their promptings, assurances, commenda­ tions are the background o f his development. From the time o f Porphyrio, who called it a paideusis, 16 the Telemacheia has sometimes been taken as a kind o f Bildungsroman; and it is true that all the elements are there. Telemachus is the callow youth, Pylos and Sparta are

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the paradigms o f the princely court, Athena is the guide, and the result is Telemachus fighting with skill and courage beside his father against the Suitors. One distinction: the Telemacheia is not simply a schooling or an education; it is not something taught but something imparted; it is an experience, one young man’s initiation into a world he has inherited and whose values he will soon have to defend by force .17 And yet it is not a rite o f initiation in the anthropological sense o f a set o f artificial dangers contrived to test a candidate’s reactions .18 Growing up fatherless in a house full o f scheming Suitors has given him a taste o f peril; now in the Telemacheia Pylos and Sparta demonstrate to him the possibilities o f peace, and the example o f Nestor and Menelaus expose him to the precedents o f arete. The worlds Telemachus is exposed to— Ithaca and Pylos-Sparta— and the social images they offer him extend beyond the Odyssey; like so much o f Homeric poetry they are archetypes o f our literary consciousness. That the details o f the Telemacheia are not wholly arbitrary and that they have a high literary convertibility can be demonstrated by a cursory comparison with a modern analogue, W illiam Faulkner’s long short story The Bear. Faulkner’s story o f Ike McCaslin’s initiation into the mysteries o f the wilderness through participation in a hunt for a bear named O ld Ben touches H om er’s work in detail and theme. The ritual element o f The Bear is explicit, with Faulkner saying o f his hero at the beginning o f the story, “ He entered his novitiate to the true wilderness” (p. 195 ),19 and at the end, “ Sam led him into the wilderness and showed him and he ceased to be a child” (p. 330).· And like Telemachus in Pylos-Sparta, Ike in the big woods is more spectator than actor. “ So l w ill have to see him, he th o u g h t. . . I w ill have to look at him ' (p. 204, Faulkner’s italics). A nd for the term o f their preparation each is assigned a guardian. For Ike it is the appropriately named Sam Fathers, half N egro and half Indian, “ childless, kinless, peopleless” (p. 246); for Tele­ machus it is Athena, herself half native and half intruder, also childless and kinless, and appearing as Mentor, a name also used by Faulkner to make the educative meaning o f his story evident. There is also a resemblance in movement between the two stories. Each has two general episodes or stages, the Telemacheia moving from Nestor’s Pylos to Menelaus’ Sparta, while Faulkner’s hero first downs a buck under Sam Father’s tutelage before he is worthy to face O ld Ben .20 It is interesting that the end o f the first stage in each account is sealed by an accolade. Ike’s face is bathed with the buck’s blood. “ Sam Fathers marked his face with the hot blood which he had spilled and he ceased to be a child and became a hunter and a man” (p. 178 ). For Telemachus, too, the departure from Pylos is solemnized by a bath given him by none other than Nestor’s own daughter, from which he appears, “ looking like a g o d ” (II, 468). There are other details. W hen Ike finally sees O ld Ben and is so reverent before its “ furious immortality” (p. 194) that he is im m obilized, we recall Telemachus so awestruck by

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Nestor that he tells Athena, "Looking at him I think I am beholding immortality itself” (III, 246). Then when General Compson, him self a kind o f Nestor, lets Ike take his horse Katie, one thinks o f the horses Nestor gives Telemachus to continue his journey. And as Ike protects the repellent Boon H ogganbeck when his cousin McCaslin accuses him o f shooting Sam Fathers, so Telemachus accepts the murderer Theoclymenus and later spares Phemius and Medon in the slaughter o f the Suitors. The planter aristocracy which helps instruct Ike may also be compared with the feudal aristocracy o f the late Mycenaean age as represented in the Telemacheia by Nestor and Menelaus. Finally, the names o f the two boys have a symbolic dimension. Faulkner first calls his hero "the boy” or "h e,” then "Ike” ; but it is not until the end o f the story that Faulkner identifies him as, "A n Isaac born into later life than Abraham’s and repudiating immolation” (p. 283). In the same way, Telemachus’ aspirations to the conditions o f heroism are suggested by his name, so apt for this young Ithacan who in the future will be the kind o f fighter his father can trust and admire. Both Telemachus and Ike lost their fathers in early childhood and both grew up in worlds where they felt they did not belong. For both these abandoned children the trial they will ultimately face is the effort to prove themselves by worthy deeds, to demonstrate before their elders and peers that they are truly the sons o f their fathers. For Ike the preparation is the bear hunt, and for Telemachus, the journey to the heroic world. These are experiences in which each is received into a timeless world, ceremonies o f attainment in which they are secluded from distraction and released from the entanglements o f the present journeys into the exemplary past where historical pageant can already be made to yield a moral parable. For Telemachus the meetings with Nestor and Menelaus are sacraments, the visible means to the graces o f heroism. Hence his search is for more than news o f his father: he seeks the social and family assurance o f the heroic age, where sons are like their fathers because they have grown up in their shadows, as Antilochus was like Nestor, or where sons inherit their fathers’ bravery and defend their memories, as Orestes avenged the death o f Agamemnon. Telemachus has never had a father to provide the scenes and cues for his glory, and so this journey is not only for information but, as Athena admits (XIII, 422), to win him his first kleos. But like The Brothers Karamazov it deepens the search for the physical father into the profounder theme o f the spiritual condition o f children deprived o f faith and security. For both young men this trip "into the new and alien country” (p. 207) is a maturing and purifying experience, although in its results the Telemacheia extends into an heroic deed the action which for Faulkner’s hero culminates in renunciation. Whereas Ike leaves "the settled familiar land . . . the childish business o f rabbits” (p. 171), penetrates the elementary and numinous wilderness, sees the bear, learns in his bones its greatness o f courage and defiance and endurance, Telemachus on the other hand leaves

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the menace o f the Suitors behind in Ithaca, experiences the harmony and stability o f Pylos and Sparta, and then returns to help his father purge the contaminated land and restore justice and the social conventions. Ike is sequestered from society, Telemachus is exposed to it. Yet in each story the “ heroic” world, whether it be a Mycenaean court reflecting recent glories or the big woods sheltering a bear who is proud o f his liberty and ruthless to defend it, is opposed to the suffering homeland where the natural inheri­ tance has beep disrupted and power is passing into the hands o f the dispossessors and the exploiters. Ike is tragically aware o f his share in this corruption; his position is more ambiguous than Telemachus' and his opportunity for action more limited. So he repudiates his patrimony and becomes a carpenter without children or property. Telemachus' experience, in contrast, is more social; renunciation is a luxury he and his parents can scarcely afford— and so he joins his father and fights to restore his rights and ensure his succession. It does not really matter that O ld Ben, the bear, is a hunted animal, while Nestor and Menelaus are Telemachus’ father’s friends and allies. Both the animal and the heroes embody the pride and assurance and skill that mark maturity and assure survival. And both are destructive; for heroic selfassertion also has its toll o f grief (as Iphigeneia reminds us) and its besetting sins o f bloodlust and predatory pride. These are perhaps clearer in the Odyssey, where the brief glories o f the Trojan W ar are dimmed by time and by their entailments o f loss and suffering, and where the action culminates in the bloody impartiality o f the Freiermord. And if the Suitors represent the heroic age’s inevitable historic successors, seizing power through an oligarchic stasis, then this notion is not too far from Ben’s ultimate destruction by the dog Lion, “ an animal the color o f a gun or pistol barrel” (p. 216), owned by Boon H ogganbeck, “ a violent, insensitive, hard-faced man” (p. 220). In Faulkner’s story more than in H om er’s the obsolescence o f the heroic order is explicit, and Faulkner himself has under­ scored its significance: “ That is a change that’s going on everywhere, and I think that man progresses mechanically and technically much faster than he does spiritually, that there may be something he could substitute for the ruined wilderness, but he hasn’t found that.” 1 This is also the point o f the logging operations in Part 5 o f The Bear, a noisy and ruinous attack on the life o f nature that effectively matches the idle destructiveness of the Suitors in Ithaca. Granted the old, wild, heroic order cannot forever afford the costs o f its glories; yet if it must pass, it deserves worthier successors than Antinous and Eurymachus. Thus the wilderness Ike penetrates and the heroic society Telemachus traverses are not wholly dissimilar. Each is an enclosed world with its own laws and conventions, its own mystique of wisdom and virtue, and its own concept o f honor. It is in this “ other world” that the young novices are absolved o f the corrupting burdens o f the historical world and born again o f

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courage and truth and humility. Faulkner tells us that it seemed to Ike that,

“ at the age o f ten he was witnessing his own birth” (p. 195). This is also the final purpose o f the Telemacheia: the birth o f a hero. As such it parallels in its way the Odyssey, which presents the return o f the hero (and with Laertes, the rebirth o f a hero), and thereby completes the picture o f heroic life which the Odyssey celebrates.

N otes 1. This essay, in a somewhat revised form, was originally one chapter o f a dissertation accepted in partial fulfillment o f the requirements for the degree o f Doctor o f Philosophy in Comparative Literature at Harvard University ( The Lion and the Altar: Myth, Rite, and Symbol in the Odyssey, I960). I am indebted to Professors Finley and Whitman, who directed this dissertation. 2. Stanford sees Homer, “ suggesting a latent father-son antagonism,” The Ulysses Theme (Oxford, 1954), p. 60. Certainly mythology abounds in examples o f the feared son who will depose his father; there is even the un-Homeric account o f Circe’s son by Odysseus slaying his father. 3. Strength and vigor seem the qualifications for rule in Ithaca. M. I. Finley, The World of Odysseus (New York, 1954), p. 93. 4. X X IV , 368-71. Translation by E. V. Rieu. 5. I, 207-302. Translation by E. V. Rieu. 6 . Athena is impressed by Telemachus’ physical resemblance to his famous father, but his insecurity is such that he is even unsure o f his own identity. “ My mother says that I am my father’s son, but for myself I do not know” (I, 215-16). The burden o f the next few books is to harmonize Telemachus’ inner and outer selves. 7. Bethe’s objections are vigorous and detailed: Homer; Dichtung und Sage, II (Leipzig and Berlin, 1929), p. 15. 8 . See F. Klingner, “ Über die vier ersten Bücher der Odyssee,” Berichte über die Verhandlungen der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaft zu Leipzig, XCVI (1944), p. 14. 9. Elaborate form is part o f the heroic life; and the Odyssey is, generally, a very polite poem. The emphasis o f the Telemacheia on manners subtly indicates an extra dimension to the threat the Suitors embody. Not only do they want to marry Penelope and slay Odysseus and Telemachus, they also want to destroy the whole facade o f heroic manners. Themselves without courtesy, regard, tact, restraint, they would utterly dedvilize Ithaca. Manners are important; they buttress conduct and give life style, grace, and ease; in a formalized society they can heavily influence conduct by providing it with traditional and customary patterns o f action. All o f this the barbarism o f the Suitors would despoil. 10. Note the continuing reference to faithful sons— Antilochus, Peisistratus, Orestes. 11. Page criticizes it as too long an introduction for so unimportant a person: The Homeric Odyssey (Oxford, 1955), p. 84. 12. The comparative basileuteron is used by Agamemnon to describe himself in //., IX , 160. 13- Page, p. 85.

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14. Far-fighter? Cf. Astyanax and Hector. See G. Germain, Genese de POdysêe (Paris, 1954), p. 485, for a discussion and list o f references. 15. Mireaux sees Telemachus as the ritual successor o f Odysseus, as Oedipus succeeded Laius and Aegisthus Agamemnon and, indeed, Telegonus Odysseus, but precluded by the exigencies o f the myth— or Homer's version— from playing his sacral role. '‘Dans la légende odysséenne, il est vrai, Ulysse est vainqueur des prétendants; mais sa victoire, nous le savons, est celle de son fils qui a combattu à ses côtés, vaincu avec lui et peut ainsi lui succéder. Lui-même est obligé de s’exiler’': Lespobhes homériques et Γhistoire grecque (Paris, 1948—49), pp. 152—3- This is interesting, in that it offers an explanation for Odysseus' leaving Ithaca again, though this sort o f explanation may seem no less mysterious than Tiresias' and even less central to the poem. The point worth emphasizing is that the archery contest and the massacre o f the Suitors are essentially Odysseus’ affairs, and his favored position as king makes Telemachus superfluous. 16. Quaest. Horn,, ed. H. Schrader (Leipzig, 1890), pp. 1 5-18, on I, 284. Whether or not Telemachus' exploits in aid o f his father can be attributed to a change in his character, and whether or not this character change (or development) is directly induced by his trip to Pylos and Sparta or by Athena's appearance in Book I, has been much disputed. Favoring some sort o f Entwicklungsgang are E. Drerup, Homerische Poetik: Das Homerproblem in der Gegenwart, I (Würzburg, 1921), p. 365, n. 3; J. A. Scott, “ The Journey Made by Telemachus and its Influence on the Action o f the O d yssey C.J., XIII (1917—18), p. 426; H. Herter, “ Telemachos’' in R.-E., A 5, 1, col. 351; E. Schwartz, Die Odyssee (München, 1924), p. 253; R. Pfeiffer, rev. o f Schwartz, op. cit., and o f Wilamowitz, Die Heimkehr des Odysseus (Berlin, 1927), Deutsche Literaturzeitung, XLVIII (1928), pp. 2 3 6 8 -9 ; J- Geffcken, Griechische Literaturgeschichte, I (Heidelberg, 1926), p. 39; W . Jaeger, Paideia, I, trans. G. Highet (Oxford, 1939), pp· 2 8 -9 ; K. Reinhardt, Von 'Werken und Formen (Godesberg, 1948), p. 47; R. Robert, Homère (Paris, 1950), p. 267; E. D elebecque,. Télémaque et la stmcture de VOdyssée (Aix-la-Provence, 1958), p. 137. W ilamowitz' final view was that character development is foreign to Greek literature and that there is no change in Telemachus in the later books o f the poem, op. cit., p. 106. F. Focke quotes Wilamowitz approvingly, but also claims that after his trip Telemachus “ ist jetzt wer, eine vollwertige Persönlichkeit, von der ‘man’ mit Achtung spricht," Die Odyssee (Tübinger Beiträge, X X X V III [1943]), p- 60. Cf. the view o f Luigia Stella, that Telemachus is an unimportant character and the Telemacheia only a pretext to reinsert into the Odyssey the great figures o f epic legend, l l poema d'Hlisse (Florence, 1955), p. 88. Be he changed or developed, transformed or matured, and whatever his inci­ dental difficulties in helping his father (like leaving the storeroom door open in Book X XII), the Telemachus whom Odysseus meets in X V I has been abroad in the heroic world and has come to appreciate personally the glories o f a settled kingdom enjoying the benefits o f order and prosperity. This, at any rate^ is a kind o f knowledge he did not have before visiting Pylos and Sparta; but whatever the trip might have done for Telemachus' character, its vision o f the heroic world at peace with itself certainly enriches the poem and extends its meaning. 17. What one would most expect to happen fails to materialize, namely that either Nestor or Menelaus would volunteer to send off a detachment o f their palace guard to Ithaca to restrain the Suitors, protect Penelope, and confirm Telemachus in his patrimony. Instead, they seem to assume that this is exclusively the problem o f Telemachus and Odysseus. 18. Insofar as the Telemacheia does suggest such a rite o f passage, its truest correspondent in the Odyssey is the inserted account o f Odysseus’ naming in Book

1 4 4 Literary Interpretation X IX 392—466 , Here Autolycus visits his son-in-law and daughter on the remote island o f Ithaca and invites them to send the young Odysseus to Parnassus. In time

Odysseus visits the land o f his fathers, takes part in a hunt with Autolycus’ sons, is wounded by a boar, and returns home laden with presents. This hunt seems less an incidental episode than a rite o f initiation, wherein the young man participates in an adult act o f bravery superintended by his elders, suffers the ritual wound, sheds the symbolic blood, and then returns home, his success ratified by his many presents. This is paralleled by Telemachus’ experience, bloodlessly o f course, because his initiatory trial operates on the social surfaces and his participation in bloodshed— Troy and the nostoi— is vicarious, filtered through the accounts o f Nestor and Menelaus. 19. Page references are to the M odem Library edition o f Go down, Moses (New York, 1955). 20. Actually recounted in The Old People, the story preceding The Bear in Go down, Moses, but recalled twice (pp. 210, 323) in the latter story. 21. Faulkner in the University, ed. Frederick L. Gwynn and Joseph L. Blotner (Charlottesville, 1959), p. 68.

50 Z eu s’ Speech: Odyssey 1.28—4 3 *

K. Riiter, translated from the German by H.M. Harvey * Source: Odysseeinterpretationen. Untersuchungen & Ruprecht, Göttingen, 1969, pp. 64—82.

Z7¿m

ersten Buch und zur Phaiakis, Vandenhoeck

Hesiod begins his Works and Days with a correction to his Theogony, explaining that, in addition to an evil Eris, who had been described in the Theogony (225) with her sinister siblings and her malign descendants, there is also an older, benign one (Works 11—26). The Odyssey begins in a similar way, with a correction o f ideas that underlie the entire Iliad. A nd just as H esiod’s correction also creates a concept that is central to the Works, the revision o f the ideas from the Iliad that is undertaken at the beginning o f the Odyssey is also o f great significance for the understanding o f the action. The correction seems to be made in passing. Whereas quarrels between the gods dominate the Iliad, in the Odyssey the inhabitants o f Olympus appear to live in almost unbroken harmony (Od. 1 .16 -2 7 ). However, it is o f great significance that it is Zeus him self who challenges the idea that underlies the action o f the Iliads the idea o f the inseparable interaction o f three things: predestination by fate, guidance by gods and mortals’ indivi­ dual responsibility for their own actions. There is human suffering, as Zeus him self says, which it would be blasphemous to blame on fate or upon the gods: ‘How men now blame the gods! They regard us as the source o f their troubles when it is their own transgressions which bring them their suffer­ ing beyond their fate.’ This is now the case with Aegisthus. He has transgressed by marrying Agam em non’s wife, and by murdering him on his return. And yet he knew that this would be his own downfall, for the gods had sent Hermes to tell him beforehand that he should not kill Agamemnon, nor woo his wife, for Orestes would avenge him as soon as he was old enough and began to long for his own land. But, for all Hermes’ good intentions, Aegisthus would not listen, and now he has paid the price for it all (3 2 -4 3 ). Mortals believe that their sufferings come from the gods, and are fated and inevitable. This is true in the Iliad, but Zeus regards the idea as an indictment o f the gods. He defends himself by pointing out that men suffer

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more than is their fate, and the extra suffering is caused by their own misdeeds. Men bring these sufferings upon themselves, and the gods are not to blame, and this is clear in the case o f Aegisthus. But to what degree does this invalidate the indictment? Or does it only modify it ?1 The Iliad does not differentiate between suffering caused by fate and the gods, and extra suffering brought upon a mortal by his own transgressions. The war, the impending fall o f Troy, Achilles’ imminent death, the death o f Patroclus and Hector, the death o f the other heroes on the battlefield, all this is determined by inevitable fate. H ector knows this: ‘N o man will send me down to Hades before my fated time — and fate, I tell you, is something no man is ever freed from, be he good or bad, from the moment o f his birth’ (//. 6 .4 8 7 -9 ). This fate is determined by the gods, into whose hands Achilles com ­ mends his life: Ί shall accept my own death at whatever time Zeus and the other immortal gods wish to bring it on me. Even the m ighty Hercules could not escape death, and he was the dearest o f men to Lord Zeus, but fate conquered him, and the cruel anger o f Hera’ (II. 1 8 .1 1 5 -1 9 , 22.365L). However, fate is not only mighty and inevitable, it is also — in a strange way — just. Anyone experiencing a terrible fate has earned it by his own misdeeds. A nd even if it was the gods who entangled him in guilt, the actual performing o f the deeds sprang from his own will. In this way fate overwhelms a mortal when he tries to overstep the limits assigned to him; the gods lead him to the boundary o f what is permitted to him, or a little beyond, in order to direct him. back inside the limits. On the one hand, there is the mortal’s transgression and blindness'and its just punishment, and, on the other hand, there is the action o f the gods who lead him astray, blind him and punish him. These two elements form an inseparable unity that makes fáte into justice. This means that every fate has a threefold aspect: first, it is the just result o f an action that overstepped a boundary, or the result o f an incursion into the realm o f the gods (the plague as punishment for disregarding the priest o f A pollo), or the result o f an infringement o f law and custom (war as a result o f disregarding the laws o f hospitality and marriage), or the result o f ambition for too great a reputation, for achievements that were not destined for the heroes. Second, both deed and punishment are brought about by the gods; this does not exonerate mortals from their guilt, but it does lift the burden o f some o f their guilt from them. And, finally, even the actions o f the gods are laid down by inevitable destiny. They are not able to spare a mortal from his death. This does not take away all freedom o f action from the gods , 2 but it does mean that they cannot be accused o f deliberately inflicting a dreadful fate upon anyone. These three aspects have to be present in combination for each destiny, but they do not necessarily carry equal weight. Hector, blinded by his successes, throws every warning to the winds and fails to withdraw his army

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in time; he has to endure the catastrophic retreat, or rather rout, and blames himself for having brought disaster upon his own men by his own mistake (//. 2 2 .1 0 4 -7 ). But the fate that has overtaken his warriors and will soon overtake him is also part o f the fall o f the city, which has long been inevitable and cannot be blamed on him. Priam realizes that Troy was fated to fall when he excuses Helen although her adultery was the original cause o f the war: I t is not you I blame —I blame the gods, who brought upon me the misery o f war with the Greeks’ (//. 3.154£). The gods and fate are held responsible more often when someone is trying to justify him self rather than someone else. Thus Agamemnon defends himself against the accusations o f the Achaeans: he is not to blame for the quarrel with Achilles, ‘but rather Zeus and Fate and Erinys the mistwalking’ (II. 19.86f.). Achilles, too, blames his anger and its disastrous consequences on Zeus. Otherwise Agamemnon would not have annoyed him so very much and taken Briseis from him. ‘But Zeus must have wished that death should come to great numbers o f the Achaeans’ (11. 1 9 .2 7 0 -4 ). In each o f these cases there is a blinkered view that all the blame should be put on either the mortals or the gods. But in the context it is clear that this view is blinkered: the blame can never be placed completely on the gods and on fate, just as it is never completely the fault o f the mortals . 3 However much mortals are to blame, it is nevertheless accepted that war, anger and death come from the hands o f the gods. It may sometimes be difficult for gods to bring to pass what has been fated to happen4 and the mortals may attempt to rise higher than has been prescribed for them 5 and · to escape their fate ,6 but events will follow their predestined course. W e can only briefly indicate here how these ideas fit into the world o f the Iliad. Only when the events on both warring sides are in the hands o f an inescapable destiny can light and shadow fall equally on Trojan and Greek; only then can the gods be seen to take an interest in both sides while simultaneously bringing so much suffering upon them; only then can there be reconciliation between enemies, as for example between Achilles and Priam; only then is it possible for the gods to mourn the fall o f a hero, making his reputation immortal and immense, as compensation for the misery o f his death. Thus the Iliad is consistent in presenting the inseparable combination o f fateful predestination, divine governance and mortal responsibility for one’s own actions, leading to crime and punishment. But it should not be supposed that the same combination prevails in the whole o f early Greek epic. In the Thebaid the blame is placed squarely on the assailants, and the gods turn away from them .7 O n the other hand, the Aithiopis never raises the question o f blame; dying heroes win immortality through the pleading o f their divine mothers .8 By apotheosis the tragedy o f the hero’s fate is dispelled; there is no mourning among the gods, no quarrel between them, no inexorable final

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fate, no guilt on the mortal’s part to bring about the end. W hat boundary is Memnon supposed to have overstepped? The son o f a goddess —like Achilles — in the armour o f Hephaestus — like Achilles — could surely face this opponent in a way different from Hector. And, in the Aithiopis y what transgression is supposed to have brought Achilles to his death? In the Iliad his anger brought great disaster upon the Greeks. Achilles had sent Patroclus out to fight, lending him armour which he was not equal to, and Patroclus’ death can be blamed both on Achilles and on his own actions. But Achilles avenges him on Hector, with his own death fated to follow, and this exonerates Achilles from the death o f Patroclus. There is nothing like this in the Aithiopis. Even the death o f Antilochus, which is the basis here for Achilles’ obligation to take revenge, is free o f all blame: Antilochus falls com ing to the aid o f his aged father, Nestor; it is the heroic death o f a son saving the life o f his father. Patroclus, on the other hand, did not die so long as he was still engaged in trying to relieve the Greeks. It is only when he dares to attack Troy, which Achilles had expressly counselled against ( I 6 .9 1 -6 ), that A pollo and Hector overwhelm him. Even Achilles’ refusal to fight is not a problem in the Aithiopis. Achilles avoids confronting Memnon, and seeks other opponents, only because Thetis has warned him that he himself will fall soon after Memnon dies. But when Antilochus has fallen, Achilles regards the warning as less important than the obligation to avenge his friend. A ll this takes place freely, it is not in the hands o f fate. The motives are noble, and the deeds splendid. The sons o f gods are fighting in the armour o f gods to win honour and glory. Each dies a hero’s death; each is carried up to the gods. The great heroes o f the Iliad^ on the other hand, are restricted by their own mortality and governed by destiny; they, together with the gods who wrangle and mourn over them, are presented in a very different way, which could not encompass the glorification o f a heroic death. This comparison with the Aithiopis shows that the concept o f the relation­ ship between fate, gods and mortals as shown in the Iliad is by no means run o f the mill. It is not simply part o f the material, which was more or less the same in the previous epics about Troy. It is rather the case that both the Iliad and the other Trojan epics are differentiated by the particular slant given to the material. The fates o f the heroes were well known from tradition; the Iliad gave them a slant that seems to stem from a deep understanding o f the true meaning o f the traditional tales; this is the reason for its unsurpassed greatness, and why it seems to have achieved the form ideally suited to their nature. If we compare it with other epics from the same field, we see that the Iliad does not simply repeat the traditional tales, but slants them consistently to a different viewpoint. However, it was not possible to give this slant to all the traditional material, or, rather, no attempt was made to strike the same note through­ out the epic, although the individual approach is very much apparent over

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the whole work. Thus, in the Aithiopis, apotheosis is granted only to the sons o f goddesses; Antilochus has to go down to Hades; the special way o f glorifying a hero's death cannot be extended to all combatants. The Iliad treats warriors more equally: all are alike in being subject to death and dependent on the gods, and must accept good and bad fortune ( 2 1 . 106 - 1 3 , 2 4 .5 2 5 -5 1 ), but not every hero in the Iliad has a tragic end; there are also fortunate ones, Diomedes and Aeneas. This is also tfcue o f the Odyssey. Here, too, a conscious shaping emphasizes tendencies a n d xslants that, it is true, are completely appropriate to Odysseus' nostos, but in the form in which they appear in the Odyssey were not part o f the original material, and are not found to an equal degree in all parts o f the work. The connection between fate and guilt, between mortal responsibility for deeds and divine justice, is highlighted in the Odyssey as much as in the Iliad, but the Odyssey differs from the Iliad in the way in which the guilt o f mortals and the justice o f the gods are portrayed. It is true that the gods are seen as acting justly in the Iliad: they send death and suffering not arbitrarily but according to inexorable destiny. It is true that there are some cases that look arbitrary (such as the contract that Zeus makes with Hera about the destruction o f Troy, Argos, Sparta and Mycenae 4 .3 0 -6 7 ), but even in these cases the gods remain righteous: he whom they wish to cast down they first entrap in guilt. Pandarus has to be induced to break his oath before Troy can be destroyed. But the poet o f the Odyssey was not satisfied with justifying the actions o f the gods in this particular way. There was already a problem with this in the Iliad: had H ector really deserved to be mistreated by Achilles after his death? Does not Achilles’ outrageous treatment o f his opponent’s corpse deserve divine punishment? A pollo chides the other gods: ‘Y ou gods are cruel and mischievous’ (24.33). The gods are only freed from A pollo’s reproach by an end being put to the desecration o f the corpse. But what if something terrible happens that gods and destiny could not desire and never have desired? In the Iliad the gods prevent anything happening that is contrary to destiny. But in the Odyssey there is a more sensitive feeling for the dignity and righteousness o f the gods and there is a very different basic situation from that in the Iliad, and the gods and destiny can no longer be regarded as intervening in, and having responsibility for, every event. There were too many transgressions, υπέρ μόρον, outside the responsibility o f destiny and the gods, and they could not be required to carry the burden o f them. 9 In the same way that mortals are responsible for the deeds that they perform unaided by the gods, they are responsible for any suffering that may arise as a consequence. Their own misdeeds bring suffering over and above what is allotted to them by fate’. It is so important for the Odyssey to show that the gods bear responsibility neither for the misdeeds nor for the

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resultant suffering that Zeus himself explains the situation in a declaration at the beginning o f the first scene o f the work. Zeus rejects the mortal belief that evil comes from the gods, calling it an undeserved indictment, and says that, on the contrary, mortals bring extra suffering upon themselves by their own misdeeds. In saying this, he is not disclaiming responsibility for the extra suffering alone. H e is intent on rejecting the entire indictment. The gods cannot be blamed for the suffering that fate has allotted. The optional extra misery gives rise to great reproach, but this reproach should be directed back to the mortals themselves. This suffering arises from their own misdeeds and they should not complain. Thus, in the Odyssey, it is possible for deeds to occur υπέρ μόρον which result in additional suffering, and this entails a radical shift in the relation­ ship between fateful predestination, divine governance and human respon­ sibility. In the Iliad, gods, fate and mortals act together in everything that happens. That is why the gods could never claim in the Iliad that they had nothing to do with mortal suffering, and that, on the other hand, the mortals suffered only what they had brought upon themselves by their own actions. In contrast, in the Odyssey, Zeus demonstrates that the gods are not to blame. This alters not only the role o f the gods, but also the role o f fate. N o longer is every misfortune caused by fate; fate can appear less cruel because the worst catastrophes are caused by mortal misdeeds. Once fate is regarded as less cruel, then the gods, too, are shielded from any reproach. The prooemium to the Odyssey immediately makes it clear that the suffering narrated in this work, unlike that in the Iliads will not be presented as the result o f divine governance and intention; it can no longer be said Διός δ 3 έτελείετο βουλή, but αυτών γάρ σφετέρησιν ατασ-

θαλίησιν ολοντο, |νήπιοι. Fate and the gods no longer bear the responsibility. It has to be assumed by mortals and mortal actions. Mortals are now credited with a previously unknown independence o f action. The companions o f Odysseus prove unequal to this. They are fools enough (νήπιοι) to steal the cattle o f the sun-god. Aegisthus, too, was foolish enough to ignore Hermes' warning and went to his doom regardless. There can be no doubt that Aegisthus, knowing what would happen, should and could have acted differently.10 In the Iliad, too, anyone who has caused a terrible disaster is regarded as foolish. Athena induces Pandarus to break his oath: τφ δέ φρένας αφρονί πενθεν (4.104). Pandarus is seen to lose his reason, but nobody would expect him to keep his reason and not be seduced by Athena. Pandarus is so foolish, and Athena is so much in command, that the breach o f the oath by the fateful arrow-shot is inevitable. Even Agamemnon succumbs to seduc­ tion (2.38), and Achilles, Patroclus and Hector act shortsightedly with disastrous results (l6 .4 6 f., 684—91, 19.86—90, 270—5). By contrast, in the Odyssey, besides the companions who perish as a result o f their own foolishness, there is Odysseus himself, who survives because o f

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his α ρ ε τ ή (12.211). It is not the case that nobody could act any differently from the fools in the Odyssey. Their errors count against them; they should have been less foolish. In the Iliad even the great heroes sometimes appear to be fools, but in the Odyssey the hero may never be foolish. This implies that the inducement to act foolishly can no longer be thought o f as proceeding from the gods; a hero would be unable to disobey them. Instead o f leading mortals into foolish acts, the gods give warnings, as is shown in the case o f Aegisthus; ll. 4.10 4 τ φ δ έ φ ρ έ ν α ς α φ ρ ο ν ι π ε ι θ ε ν contrasts with Od. 1.42f. α λ λ 3ού φ ρ έ ν α ς Α ί γ ί σ θ ο ι ο π ε ΐ θ 3α γ α θ ά φ ρ ο ν έ ω ν The gods are well-meaning and give warnings. The foolish mortals take no notice and g o blindly to their doom. Like Aegisthus, the suitors, too, ignore the warning signs that they should have heeded. In the Iliad the warning comes from a fellow mortal: Achilles warns Patroclus, Polydamas warns Hector. That the warning is ineffective shows that destiny is allpowerful and the heroes cannot escape it.11 In contrast, in the Odyssey, doom is not presented as inevitable, but as a result o f one’s own actions.12 Because there is great emphasis on the mortals' independence o f action, divine intervention in the Odyssey generally takes the form not o f action but o f advice and warning. It is left to the mortals whether they allow the advice and warning to have effect or not. Aegisthus is able to act against the advice o f the gods; it is only later that he has to face their opposition and punish­ ment. In the Iliad the gods guide events according to an unchangeable plan, which brings good and evil, which they often cause to occur by the agency o f a foolish mortal act; but in the Odyssey they guide events towards the good, not by using their own power, which none could resist, but by giving advice, which only the foolish fail to follow . In the Iliad, divine inspiration was clearly behind every idea, whether righteous or doom-laden (1.188—222, 4.104). But in the Odyssey there is the possibility o f independent thought and action; Medon says to Penelope that he does not know whether a god caused Telemachus to undertake his journey or whether it was his own idea to go to Pylos (4 .7 1 2 f.).13 It is not the gods who lead mortals to foolishness and- crime in the Odyssey, but only circumstances and human thoughtlessness. Curiosity and envy cause the companions o f Odysseus to open the bag o f the winds (1 0 .3 4 -4 6 ); because they cannot endure hunger they steal the cattle o f the sun-god (12.339—52); because Aegisthus does not hesitate to steal what is not his, he falls victim to disaster. Odysseus, on the other hand, does not allow himself to be misled by circumstances to act thoughtlessly; he is able to endure hardship and has the foresight to avoid com m itting crimes. His companions chide him for being hard; their very human weakness is not equal to such demands (12.279b)· Odysseus has to possess advantages that are quite unlike those o f the heroes in the Iliady whose greatness was displayed in the strength with which they fought and in the courage with which they faced their destinies. Odysseus

Vi 52 : titerary Interpretation has to be clever (πολύμητίς), find loopholes (πολυμήχανος) and endure difficulties (πολύτλας) in order to be able to survive hardship and danger. A ll this makes clear to what a great degree the Odyssey is shaped by the changed relationship between fate, gods and mortals. However, we must immediately add that this does not mean that the older ideas have no part in the Odyssey. The new thinking that pervades the Odyssey was not able to penetrate and reshape all parts o f the traditional tales equally. W e must remember that the new thinking found its complete expression not in the epic at all, but at first only in lyric and early philosophy.14 In the Odyssey old and new ideas often stand side by side; the old are taken for granted and receive little emphasis, whereas much is made o f the new, where they occur. The loss o f the unity that was so impressive in the Iliad is very apparent. The world and mankind have become more complicated in the Odyssey. Zeus does well to use the misfortune o f Aegisthus to invalidate the accusations that mortals raise against the gods. The Odyssey includes reports o f other suffering that would not be so well-suited to Zeus’ declaration that mortals brought their misery upon themselves and the gods had nothing to do with it. N ot all the suffering in the Odyssey is ύπέρ μόρον. Even the story o f Aegisthus, quoted as an exemplary case, contains contradictions. In 1.29, in the lines that prepare for the speech by Zeus, Aegisthus is called άμύμων. The epithet does not seem appropriate. The lines are repeated in almost the same form (1 .2 9 -3 1 « 4 .1 8 7 -9 ) and therefore either the lines were regarded as interpolated in Book 1 15 or critics followed W ilam ow itz and Von der Miihll, who did not believe that these lines were interpolated, and regarded the whole o f Book 1 as derived from the Telemachy. However, there is no basic reason why the epithet άμύμων should not be used for Aegisthus, A king, descended from Pelops, cousin to the Atrides, may be described in this way, or why should Zeus even remember h im ?16 Focke and Schadewaldt do not separate the two passages; they regard lines 2 8 -4 7 as inserted by the poet o f the Telemachy into the old prooemium o f the Odyssey. It is only possible to regard this passage as an interpolation or an incorporation if one disagrees with Kirchhoff, who would include only lines 2 9 - 3 1,17 but it is also difficult to see an incision after line 47, since Athena’s speech would then lose the necessary opening. Fewest difficulties arise if we agree with W ilam owitz and V on der Miihll and regard the whole o f Book 1 as displaying the same young’ stamp, and agree with Focke and Schadewaldt and recognize in the 'young spirit’ o f Book 1 the nature o f the Telemachy. About άμύμων there remains to be said that in line 29 it is completely justified by epic usage, but does not seem to fit the sentiments expressed in what follows. If one is consistent in one’s moral judgment, an evil-doer, even from a good family, can hardly be called 'blameless’ . 18 Zeus leaves no doubt that Aegisthus has acted υπέρ μόρον and has therefore suffered and must bear all the blame for his fall, since he knew the

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consequences o f his action. Aegisthus cannot even plead human ignorance o f the future (that would have brought the blame back onto the gods, who do know the future and should not have let the mortal rush blindly to his own destruction).19 But the text does not intend us to move away from this example and ask, how about Agamemnon’s death? Was that fated or was that ύπέρ μόρον? Did Agamemnon, too, bring his fate upon himself by his own misdeeds alone? For Agam em non’s fate is not intended to be seen in the new way. W hen A gam em non’s death is mentioned, it is presented as deadly fate, exactly as in the Iliad (24.28f.), which Zeus planned should happen at the hands o f Aegisthus and Clytemnestra (24.96k) Taken un­ awares by his doom , he is slaughtered as he eats, like an ox at the manger (4.534f., cf. 1 1.4 1 1).20 It may appear illogical that the action o f Aegisthus is presented as voluntary and independent o f divine governance or predestination, whereas Agamemnon’s death appears to have been desired both by Zeus and by fate. It is even more surprising that Clytemnestra, the accomplice, who faces the serious accusation o f having killed her husband, is not declared guilty in the same way as Aegisthus is. She is presented as the victim o f Aegisthus’ seduction. A t first she refused — she was not foolish - until ‘the fatal day came, appointed by the gods for her to yield’ . That is how Nestor tells it to Telemachus (Od. 3 .2 6 5 -7 2 ). However, when Agamemnon tells the same story to Odysseus in Hades, he blames Clytemnestra as much as Aegisthus. He does not mention what gave rise to the murder, only the deed itself, in which she took as great a part as Aegisthus (Od. 11.429fi cf. 24.96k , 199— 202). It is certain that Nestor does not wish to absolve her o f all the blame for killing her husband, nor does he wish to put all the blame onto the gods, but he is harking back to the situation familiar from the Iliad, the com bi­ nation o f inevitable fate, divine governance and human responsibility.21 In Od. Book 1, Aegisthus is presented as the evil-doer who brought his sufferings upon himself, in contrast to Odysseus and his undeserved suffer­ ing. In the Telemachy Aegisthus is compared with Penelope’s suitors: like him, they will perish purely through their own arrogance and stupidity.22 They do not heed the warnings o f the seer (2 .1 6 1 -7 6 , 2 0 .3 5 1 -6 7 ) and they disregard Telemachus’ express demand that they should leave his house (2 .1 3 8 -4 0 ); they fear neither gods nor men (22.39k). Schadewaldt emphasizes this connection, attributing both Zeus’ first speech and the Telemachy to Poet B ,23 and it is true that the idea o f the suitors’ responsibility and guilt, which justifies their killing, is only an extension o f the principles explained by Zeus in his speech. Less convincing in Schadewaldt’s argument is the idea that i f one removes the additions made by the poet o f the Telemachy (esp. Bk 1.88—Bk 4) the suitors are portrayed as aristocratic young men, full o f high spirits, who are enjoying the situation while the lady hesitates to decide between them, and wallow in arrogant and coarse amusements’ .24 The suitors do not appear like this

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anywhere in the Odyssey, and even in the traditional story o f Odysseus, which we have to presuppose, they will hardly have been portrayed as so free from

guilt. An 'older' Odysseus would not have killed such people; he would simply have sent them away. Schadewaldt does suggest that they may have had a more sinister intention: ‘They may be after the kingship as Antinoos was.' But that is only made clear in Schadewaldt’s Poet B, and can only be regarded as the motivation for killing them if, as with B, it leads to them murdering Telemachus.25 That the suitors bring positive harm to the house o f Odysseus and behave unjustly towards him is essential to the story and must have been part o f the ‘older' Odyssey which Schadewaldt claims to have identified. Wherever this is mentioned in the Odyssey, it is linked to the moral judgment that is regarded as characteristic o f the poet o f the Telemacby.2Ó Therefore it cannot be argued that a layer o f younger, moral thinking can be identified and creamed off the Odyssey, since the slaying o f the suitors would then be left without the motivation that is essential to it.27 Zeus' speech should not be taken out o f its context in the prooemium and prologue. It is standard practice in epic poetry to use the opening lines to explain the approach and to formulate the viewpoint from which the events will be narrated. The Iliad tells o f Zeus' decision and the consequent endless anguish; this sets the tone for the whole work. Hesiod, the Cypria and the Catalogues o f Women28 also use the prooemium to announce their particular approach. T o excise lines 6—9 and 2 8 -4 7 is to excise one o f the basic themes o f the Odyssey from the prooemium and prologue. The attitude expressed in Zeus' words is consistent with the portrayal o f the suitors' fate. This consistency only became possible because the story o f the suitors and their fate could be shaped to suit the new slant given to the Odyssey. This could not be done to the same extent everywhere, for example with the fate o f the companions. The suitors' fate and Odysseus’ own fate are presented as completely justified. The gods cannot be blamed, since Odysseus escapes harm, while the suitors die a well-deserved death. In contrast, the ‘stories within the story', ranging from the nostoi (return journeys) o f Agamemnon and Menelaus to the apologue (Odysseus’ own account o f his adventures) were clearly less easy to adapt to the new view­ point, but were self-contained enough not to clash with the attitudes that prevail in the main action. Does the suitors' behaviour really stem from nothing but their own immorality, or do the gods play a part here as they do with Clytemnestra? One could believe that they do: when Odysseus gives his well-meaning advice to Amphinomus the warning is heeded for a moment by this most sensible o f the suitors: ‘N ot that it saved him from his fate, for Athena had already marked him out to fall to a spear from Telemachus’ hand' (1 8 .1 5 5 f). And a little later it says that Athena takes care that the suitors’ behaviour will make them ever more hateful to Odysseus (1 8 .3 4 6 -8 ). But that is not to say that a goddess is leading them into evil-doing. The suitors

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have long been entangled in immorality. Athena is merely making the fact public and preventing any o f them from escaping their well-deserved punishment. In the case o f Clytemnestra it was said that she had remained sensible at first, but that then the gods allowed her to stray; it was only later, when it comes to murder, that there was no further talk o f guidance by the gods. The suitors’ case is different: it is their own foolishness that causes them to com m it their crimes and ignore every warning; in the end it is too late to avoid the punishment that is delivered with Athena’s cooperation. It is not only the fate o f the suitors that should be compared with the fate o f Aegisthus: the catastrophe that befalls the companions o f Odysseus is also presented as their own fault. But here the parallel is not drawn so closely. The difference from the case o f Aegisthus is that there we come up against the different viewpoint only later when we survey the wider context, but here we meet it in the story o f the companions itself. The prooemium already indicated that the catastrophe that befalls the companions will be portrayed as their own fault: line 34 echoes line 7 so closely that we may be sure that what Zeus says about human suffering should also be applied to the companions. But difficulties crop up straight away. Eleven o f Odysseus’ twelve ships had long been lost, together with their crews, before the men in the last ship com mitted their outrage against the cattle o f the sun-god. W hat is supposed to have caused the loss o f the eleven ships? One could suggest the adventure with the bag o f the winds which immediately precedes the sinking o f the fleet by the Laestrygoni ans. It is stated here precisely as in the prooemium that the catastrophe was caused purely by the foolishness o f the companions, but one could object that it can only have been the crew o f one o f Odysseus’ ships who were at fault (22.26fi; cf. 1 .7 ).29 The story o f sailors perishing as a result o f their own misdeed can really refer to only one ship. There are traces in Odysseus’ apologue that suggest that the wandering voyage, like the voyage o f the Argonauts, was perhaps originally the story o f just one ship, not a whole fleet. N ot only the Aeolus story; the nucleus o f the Cyclops adventure refers basically to a single crew: Tt is only because the old sailors’ tales were reshaped into the style o f the Iliad that Odysseus appears as an Iliad-type hero and army-leader, even in this very different world o f distant marvels, and therefore he had to be in charge o f a whole fleet. He is sailing, as we learn in passing (9.159), with twelve ships, the same small contingent which was allotted to him by the catalogue o f ships in the Iliad/50 But we cannot examine the question o f the companions’ guilt in this context. It surely plays no part in the stories that preceded our Odyssey. The question can have arisen only when the traditional stories were adapted in a new spirit. But could the story o f the cattle o f the sun-god not have been told in

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connection with the entire fleet? Unlike the story o f the bag o f the winds, all the crews could have taken part in this adventure. It is easy to see why this did not happen. The adventures can be divided into those in which the fleet is still all present (until the Laestrygonians) and those where Odysseus has only one ship left (up to the storm at Thrinacia); in the end, with Calypso and the Phaeacians, Odysseus is all alone. The most incisive catastrophe for Odysseus is the loss o f his ship and his crew; he alone survives this disaster, and the sailors’ crime, in which he alone did not participate, has to precede the catastrophe. The punishment has to follow immediately upon the crime. The story o f the cattle o f the sun-god cannot be put anywhere else in the series o f adventures; it has to be the last in which Odysseus still has companions. But the entire fleet cannot be kept going for so long; twelve ships are too many for Circe, the Sirens, Scylla and Charybdis. 31 The fact that the loss o f the eleven ships needed a different motivation from the loss o f the twelfth is passed over in the prooemium. In the Aeolus story the blame is laid expressly on the companions, ignoring the fact that most o f them were innocent. It is clear that the motivation could not be carried through consistently. Whereas it is possible to think o f a kind o f ‘collective gu ilt’ in the story o f the winds - the eleven ships o f the fleet are carried back into the ocean together with the ship o f their leader, Odysseus, that is, it affects the innocent sailors as well as the blameless Odysseus — yet the loss o f the eleven ships at the Laestrygonians seems to have no apparent cause, and it cannot be morally justified either by the preceding story with the winds nor by the much later crime committed by the surviving sailors. N or did the victims o f the Cyclops and Scylla deserve their fate. It is only in the first adventure with the Cicones that disaster befalls the sailors as a result o f their own stupidity, as on Thrinacia (9.44). However, there are other reasons, besides the guilt o f the companions, that explain both the loss o f the one ship and o f Odysseus’ entire fleet. W hen Odysseus, driven back by the winds that they had unleashed, returns to Aeolus and for the second time asks for directions - saying that his untrustworthy companions and an ill-fated slumber had been his downfall (10.68f.) - Aeolus replied: ‘Quickly, leave the island, most wretched o f all men. It is not my job to look after a man and send him home if he is detested by the blessed gods. Away with you! For you have come back here because the gods detest you!’ (1 0 .7 2 -5 ). Aeolus sees through the situation and perceives the action o f the gods behind the companions’ curiosity and Odysseus’ slumber. And it is not so much that the companions bring disaster upon Odysseus as that he him self is detested by the gods, and the companions have to pay the price with him. The Cicones story had already named two causes for the disaster that befell the fleet there: the stupidity o f the companions who refused to follow Odysseus (9*44) and

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Zeus' ill-will (9.52f.). Aeolus explains to Odysseus that it is he himself against whom this ill-w ill is directed. In the Iliad it is taken for granted that an army leader's punishment is to lose his men. A pollo punishes Agamemnon by killing his men with the plague - but only the infantry, none o f the great heroes, for whom it would not be an appropriate death. N obody regards this as unfair; the com m on people are not individual epic characters, they are o f interest only in as far as they demonstrate ,the power and importance o f the great men. If they perish, the damage is to the army leader, they themselves do not matter in any other way. It is true that many passages in the Odyssey do show the beginnings o f new ideas about the portrayal o f the com mon people; they show domestic scenes with servants and attendants. More attention is given to Euryclea and Eumaeus than the Iliad pays to any slaves. But even here the old survives alongside the new. Eumaeus is portrayed as the son o f a king who has fallen on bad times through no fault o f his own and is rescued by Laertes and Odysseus, until he finally retrieves his rank and honour (1 5 .3 6 3 -5 , 4 l3 f., 2 1 .2 1 2 -1 6 ). Euryclea, too, is o f noble descent (1.429). The idea that main characters should be persons o f rank survives alongside the new attention paid to servants. The loss o f the companions is often seen as it would be in the lliad^ as a disaster that affects only Odysseus. But other passages depict the compa­ nions as independent individuals each with his own fate. In each case a different picture o f their relationship to Odysseus is given. At one time he is the man who, thanks to his cleverness and self-control, does not perish together with his foolish companions. A t another time he is the great hero, punished by the gods with the loss o f his own men, without being destroyed himself, since simple drowning would not be a heroic enough death. However, these contrasting attitudes do not appear directly juxtaposed. The insignificance o f the companions is demonstrated by their foolishness. The greatness o f Odysseus shows itself in his cleverness and self-control, and it is because o f these virtues that he is allowed to escape. However, there is a contradiction between what different passages say about Odysseus’ responsibility for the loss o f his companions. The passage that says that he caused their loss by blinding Polyphemus is based on the same combination o f fate, divine governance and human action as is shown in the Iliad: Polyphemus’ blinding was foretold (9.507—12); on the other hand, it was foretold for Odysseus that he would come home late and alone (2 .1 7 1 -6 , cf. 9 .5 3 2 -5 , 1 1 .1 1 3 -1 5 , 1 2 .1 3 9 -4 1 , 13.340). The deed that brings Odysseus’ predestined fate upon him is the blinding o f Polyphemus. However, only the greatest figures have such predestined fates. It is not foretold to the companions that none o f them will arrive home; their loss is part o f Odysseus’ fate and punishment. Thus Odysseus perceives in the events o f the voyage the working o f a

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divine fateful power, which entangles him in disaster and causes his companions to perish (9-52f., 5 5 0 -5 , 1 2 .3 7 0 -9 0 , 1 9-273-6). In Ithaca, too, he is blamed for the loss o f the fleet and the crews. W hen he is accused o f sending his men to their death, and also o f killing the suitors, the answer is only that the suitors deserved it. The accusation about the companions is passed over because, strictly speaking, it cannot be refuted (24.426—9, 454—60). One might argue that the seer Halitherses, who tries to absolve Odysseus in Book 24, could not know anything o f the compa­ nions’ own guilt; but even if one should perhaps lay little weight on the last-named passage, it is still clear that it implies that the companions cannot be completely blamed for their own fate. In the other passages there is a tendency to emphasize the guilt o f the companions and to present Odysseus as free from guilt as far as possible. The companions, by their rashness and misdeeds, brought him into equal danger, while he was struggling in vain to save them. It is true that this throws up difficulties, for such a relationship between Odysseus and his companions does not match the traditional relationship between a captain and his crew. The new concept o f a well-deserved death can easily be applied to the story o f Ajax: when Ajax and his fleet suffer shipwreck, he saves himself initially; despite Athena’s anger it was not fated that he should drown. It is only when he is arrogant enough to boast that he has escaped from the sea despite the wish o f the gods that Poseidon causes him to perish. It is clear that Ajax is responsible for his own death (4 .4 9 9 -5 1 1 ). It is comparable with the case o f Odysseus: each is persecuted by a god, suffers shipwreck, but is not fated to perish then. Odysseus does survive, Ajax sins and dies a sinner. N o notice is taken o f the loss o f Ajax’ compa­ nions, all the focus is on him; otherwise the story would not serve as an example. In the case o f the companions o f Odysseus, on the other hand, the crew are not dragged down by the fate o f their leader, which would be normal. The reverse is true: Odysseus suffers because o f the companions’ misdeed. This new standpoint is directly opposed to traditional ideas. Together with the view that the death o f the companions is linked directly to their own misdeeds, it creates inconsistencies in the traditional stories that can hardly be smoothed over. Adm ittedly, we perceive such inconsistencies more sharply, and are more inclined to regard them as disturbing, than the people who first listened to the Odyssey, or the Greeks who read it later. In those days there would be no requirement for only one judgment to be given about one matter; there was no need to decide whether to portray Odysseus as responsible or not responsible here. The poet o f the Odyssey chose his theme, selected his material, in such a way that he could express his new approach. W hen he then added related material, he did not select it according to whether it would clash with his new approach. He was satisfied if he succeeded in making it connect with

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his approach at one point. Thus the example that he uses in the prologue, the return o f the Atrides, is a powerful support for his concept o f divine justice. He is not disturbed by the fact that not every element in this story supports his argument. It does not prevent him from telling other parts o f the story o f the Atrides in a different context, which deals with disaster, not the fault o f men but brought upon them by fate. The motivation o f the companions’ fate, which agrees at one point with the new tendencies o f the Odyssey, and at other points is still seen from an older viewpoint, is perhaps the clearest illustration o f the limits imposed upon the reshaping by the stories incorporated into it. The new viewpoint appears where it can — most obviously in the prooemium and prologue — while in close proximity the stories retain their traditional motivation unembarrassed by the inconsistency. It is easier to distinguish here between what is adopted and what is adapted than in many other places, but it is never possible to separate out the two elements. W e are not speaking o f a later addition imposed on an older work; this is an indication, such as may be found throughout the Odyssey, that the old tale is being told in a new way.

Notes 1. Scholion on line 33 points out that the view expressed here by Zeus appears to contradict the entire myth according to which Homer portrays the gods as the cause of many dreadful destinies. He offers the explanation that the contradiction is not total. Zeus is saying only that, in addition·, to misfortune caused by the gods, there is also misfortune brought upon mortals by their own actions. Similarly Heubeck, Der Odyssee-Dichter und die Ilias, Erlangen (1954) 8 If.: 'Zeus' words are thus directed against the common belief that the gods are "to blame for every misfortune" - his words almost seem to be directed against certain lines in the Iliad where this idea is expressed (e.g. 3.164£, 19.86E) - and seem intended to correct and extend what men believe: in addition to the misfortune which comes from the gods, there is all the misfortune for which the gods cannot be blamed, and this is caused by men's own misdeeds.’ 2. Heubeck, op. cit. 82: ‘In the Iliad . . . there is no mention of barren predestination.’ 3. Cf. A. Lesky, 'Göttliche und menschliche Motivation im Homerischen Epos', SHAW 4 (1961). He gives detailed references to the secondary literature (p. 5, n. 4). Lesky highlights the interaction of the two realms of gods and men in the motivation of mortal deeds, and rightly emphasizes that 'if a god gives the impetus for a mortal’s action, or aids in its performance, it does not remove a jot of the mortal’s responsibility’ (p. 38). He alone must bear the consequences of his action, that is for sure. But by mentioning the contribution of the gods the blame attached to the mortal is slightly moderated (cf 3-l64f.). The combination of divine and mortal motivation does not set limits to the responsibility of the mortal, but it means that he can be judged in a milder and fairer way, as can be seen in the passages that examine the contribution of the gods (e.g. 11. 22.104-7). 4. II. 16.431-61, 22.167-85.

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5 . IL 2.155fi, 6 .73 - 6, 16.780, 17.319-32, 20.30, 336. 6 . Cf. 1L 3.111£ 7 . K. Reinhardt, Tradition und Geiste Göttingen (I960) l 4 f , points out, among other things, the message in the speaking names’ of Eteocles and Polynekes. 8 . According to W . Schadewaldt, Von Homers Welt und Werk, Stuttgart (1959) 155—202, the Aithiopis was the model for the lliad\ according to K. Reinhardt, Die Ilias und ihr Dichter, Göttingen (1961) 349-90, it was a continuation. In any case it is an epic related to the Iliad. It may be older than the Odyssey, since the latter respects the version of Achilles’ funeral which is in the Aithiopis (24.63—92). It is true that the Odyssey does not mention that Achilles becomes immortal, but it is possible that it ignores this change from the original saga for the same sort of reasons as the Iliad ignores the apotheosis of Hercules (18.117): such an apotheosis would contradict the idea underlying the Iliad, that even the greatest heroes must die. 9. Lesky, op. cit. 35 is right to emphasize that in certain cases limits are put to the sole responsibility of mortals and the express withdrawal of responsibility by the gods. However, these extreme cases are now interpreted differently, and this changes the whole matter, however much the old ideas of the overlap and inter­ action of human and divine motivation still hold good otherwise. 10. M.H.A.L.H. Van der Valk, Textual Criticism of the Odyssey, Leiden (1949) 243f., does not believe that Zeus' speech (lines 32—43) applies to the whole Odyssey. He points out that there is no reflection on divine justice until Solon: ‘This moral accent, which we find in Solon, is wanting in Od. Book 1 . For here even the god tries to exculpate himself from the moral responsibility by accusing the other party.' According to van der Valk, in Zeus' speech it is a question of blinkered vision, which simply ignores the inseparable combination of divine governance and mortal action, without really arguing against it, as mortals did from time to time in the Iliad. An argument against this interpretation is that great emphasis falls on this line. It is the first direct speech in the Odyssey, and the speaker is Zeus himself. On the problem of theodicy cf. W. Jaeger, ‘Solons Eunomie’ in Scripta Minora, Rome (I960) 320-32 and M.P. Nilsson, Geschichte der griechischen Religion 1, 2nd ed., Munich (1955) 363. 11. Cf. Heubeck, op. cit. 83. 12 . The difference can also be seen in the fact that Achilles and Polydamas, and Nestor in 7/. 1 do not call upon divine authority. Their warnings are a vain attempt to avoid destruction brought about by the gods. In contrast, the warnings in the Odyssey are clearly sent by the gods (e.g. 2.146-56) and are attempts to prevent a disaster brought about by mortals. 7/. 1, where there is a parallel to Hermes giving a warning, when Athena appears to Achilles as he prepares to kill Agamemnon in anger, makes clear the difference between the Iliad and the Odyssey: the crime against which the goddess warns is not committed, and it is generally the case in the Iliad that events ύπέρ μ όρον do not become reality. 13. Here not only is the possibility expressed that someone can act without divine guidance, but for the audience who do know that Athena sent Telemachus on the journey this is an indication that the journey will end well. Thus Tele­ machus is able to tell Euryclea that she may rest assured that this plan was not conceived without a god (2.372). Lesky, op. cit. 35-8, lists a series of passages in which the combination of divine and mortal motivation, so inseparable in the Iliad, is looser in the Odyssey. Then he looks at II. 6.428 and comes to the conclusion that this loosening can also be found here and there in the Iliad; however, it is carried so much further in the Odyssey ‘that one cannot fail to recognize a shift in approach between the two works’ (p. 37).

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14. Jaeger, op. cit. and then above all R. Pfeiffer (‘Gottheit und Individuum in der frühgriechischen Lyrik’, Philologus 84 (1929) 137-52 = Ausgewählte Schriften, Munich (I960) 42—54) have pointed out how the particular ideas in Zeus’ speech are taken up and carried on further in Solon. 15. A. Kirchhoff, Die Homerische Odyssee, Berlin (1879) l66f., believes that the lines in Book 1 are a later interpolation from the relatively late Book 4, also that the lines are superfluous in 1, since they only tell us what, we shall soon learn in any case from Zeus. On the other hand, U. Hölscher, Untersuchungen zur Porrn der Odyssee: Szenenwechsel und gleichzeitige Handlungen, Berlin (1939) 6, points out that it is not common in the epic for matters that are important for the action to be mentioned only in the words of a speaker. He therefore believes that the lines are indispensable in Book 1. 16. One should certainly not believe that the lines were simply transferred from 4 to 1. The lines seem to be formulaic, coined for the possibly not infrequent situation in many epics, when someone remembers a fallen hero and begins to speak of him. The formula will have been coined for a human narrator, not for Zeus, which is why it seems to be more original in 4 and to have been transferred to 1. 17. U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Homerische Untersuchungen, Berlin (1884) 13, already established that 1.29-31 is part of the complete context. 18. W.B. Stanford, The Odyssey of Homer 1—2 , 2nd ed., London (1958-9), notes ‘a careless use of a formula’. His suggestion that the epithet refers here to ‘physical beauty’ and not character is a little far-fetched. More accurate is his remark else­ where: ‘The epithet fits the metre better than the sense’ (Introduction XIX). The composer of the lines was all the more likely to use the formula that fitted the metre if his source showed Aegisthus as ‘blameless’ in the fullest sense: that is how the audience knows him. The moral judgment on his action is peculiar to Book 1, and conflicts with the traditional view and the traditional epithet. 19. Several critics, particularly Jaeger, have pointed out the significance of the warning of the gods: it transfers all the responsibility onto the mortal. 20. Aeschylus says that Agamemnon was slain in his bath (Ag. 1128L). The Odyssey gives a different version which runs exactly parallel to the return of Odysseus —in both cases there is a fight at thé feast, a great number of opponents and a great number of dead (11.4l9fi, 22.307-9) —and also contrasts with it: it is not Odysseus but the suitors who are surprised and go unawares to their deaths (22.31—3). Athena had saved Odysseus from Agamemnon’s fate (13.383—5). Aga­ memnon falls victim to his opponents, Odysseus holds fast. Agamemnon’s fate is narrated only to contrast with that of Odysseus. The question of guilt plays no part here. 21. It was appointed by the gods that Clytemnestra should yield to Aegisthus (3.269) but she proceeds to follow him voluntarily (3.272). Clytemnestra is pre­ sented here as a counterpart to Penelope: the latter could have yielded to the wooing of one of the suitors, but she did not; she remained resolute, rational and single-minded (11.444—6). Orestes is presented here only as an example for Tele­ machus; the fact that he killed his mother is not emphasized, and her death is mentioned only in passing (3.306-10). The narrative is consistently geared to the Odyssey itself and given the appropriate slant. 22. Cf. 3.193-238 where (just as in 1.298-302) a comparison is drawn between Orestes and Telemachus. 23. W . Schadewaldt, ‘Der Prolog der Odyssee’, HSCPh, 63 (1958) 18f. 24. Ibid. 20. 25. Lines 1.383-401 concern the kingship; the decision to kill is made 4.663-73Without the latter passage, the lines 22.48—53, which Schadewaldt attributes to

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Poet A, would be unconvincing. Nor is it enough to agree with Focke and Von der Miihil in attributing 22.53 to the poet of the Telemachy or the reviser, because the murder plan in Book 4 is presupposed there. Just as 22.53 cannot be separated from the preceding lines, the whole section 22.48-53 cannot be separated from Books 1 and 4. Cf. E. Seitz, Die Telemachie im Aufbau der homerischen Odyssee, Marburg (1951), 134, η.2. 26. Cf. 22.47 ατάσθαλα, but above all l4.83f. Neither Schadewaldt nor anyone else attributes these two passages to the poet of the Telemachy or to the reviser, yet the moral standpoint in judging the suitors' behaviour is strongly emphasized. 27. In this connection it should be emphasized that the plan to murder Telemachus merely clarifies the moral aspect of the suitors’ behaviour; there is to be no possibility that their behaviour might appear justified. Odysseus bases his act of vengeance only on their actions (2 2.3 5-^11). The suitors are killed for what they have done, not for what they wanted to do. It is not the case that the Telemachy gives a previously lacking justification for killing the suitors, it merely makes clear that it was justified. K. Matthiessen, Elektra, Taurische Iphigenie und Helena, Göttingen (1964) 98, n. 1, argues against Schadewaldt’s supposition that the earlier Odyssey knew nothing of the consequences of the suitors’ murder and that sections 23.117-22 and 23.344-Bk 24 should therefore be attributed to the poet of the Telemachy (.Kriterien 22). He expresses doubt that Schadewaldt is going down the right road in seeking to reconstruct the original form of the Odyssey, he has separated the action from its political, legal and social context and reduced it to its ‘purely human core’. The same argument could be used against Schadewaldt’s belief that the legal reasons for killing the suitors did not interest the older Odyssey, and the Telemachy is therefore a later addition. 28. Cf. K. Stiewe, Philologus 106 (1962) 294-7. 29. The scholiast on line 8 already poses the question of why the situation is presented here in a way that suggests that all companions took part in the crime committed on Thrinacia. He tries to explain it by distinguishing between the ‘actual’ companions, i.e. Odysseus’ own crew, and the others. Odysseus’ own fate is bound up only with that of the men in his ship. This explanation is not convincing, for the reference in lines 6 -9 is doubtless to all the sailors, even if later it becomes dear that only one of the ships was there. 30. Reinhardt, op. cit. 53. 31. Ibid. 54.

51 T he M otif o f the Godsent Mist in the I lia d *

J. Kakridis ^Source: Homer Revisited, C .W .K . Gleerup, Lund, 197 1 , pp. 8 9 -1 0 3 .

1 In the heat o f the battle over the corpse o f Patroclus, at a crucial moment o f the fighting, Zeus causes a thick mist to fall around the helmets o f the Achaeans who are defending their comrade-in-arms (P 266 f f ):

Αύταρ Αχαιοί έσχασαν άμφι Μενοιτιάδη ένα θυμόν εχοντες, φραχθέντες σάκεσιν χαλκήρεσιν* άμφι δ5άρα σφι λαμπρήσιν κορύθεσσι Κρονίων ήέρα πολλήν 270 χεύ3, έπει ουδέ Μενοιτιάδην ήχθαιρε πάρος γε, οφρα ζωός έών θεράπων ήν ΑΙακίδαο* μίσησεV δ" άρα μιν δήων κυσι κύρμα γενέσθαι Τρφησιν τώ καί οι άμυνέμεν ώρσεν εταίρους. It is made obvious by 270 f. that the god shows sympathy towards Patroclus by means o f the mist he sends; and from what follows (μίσησεν δ’ άρα μιν δήων κυσι κύρμα γενέσθαι / Τρωήσιν) one is inclined at first to believe that with this mist he intends to make it difficult for the Trojans to attack. But one sees presently that Zeus, in his desire not to let Patroclus' body be devoured by the dogs of the Trojans, proceeds to another action: 1 He rouses the comradesin-arms of the hero to defend him. But the first step he took was also intended to favour Patroclus. W hat we would like to know is how the dead body o f the hero and the Achaeans in general profit from this divine action. The mist reappears in P on two more occasions, which shows how significant the m otif is for the poet:

366 'Ώς οι μέν μάρναντο δέμας πυρός, ουδέ κε φαίης ούτε ποτ'ήέλιον σόον εμμεναι ούτε σελήνην

j. 64

Literary Interpretation

ήέρι γάρ κατέχοντο μάχης επί θ 3οσσον άριστοι εστασαν άμφί Μενοιτιάδη κατατεθνηώτι. 370 Οι δ3άλλοι Τρώες καί έυκνήμιδες Αχαιοί εϋκηλοι πολέμιζον ύπ3ανθέρι, πέπτατο δ3αύγή ήελίου οξεία, νέφος δ3ού φαίνετο πάσης γαίης ούδ’ όρέων* μεταπαυόμενοι δέ μάχοντο, άλλήλων άλεείνοντες βέλεα στονόεντα, 375 πολλόν άφεσταότες. Τοί δ3εν μ έ σ ω άλγε3επασχον ήέρι καί πολέμψ, τείροντο δέ νηλέι χαλκώ οσσοι αριστοι έσαν . . . W e see that the mist continues to cover the region, and it is so thick that one would think the sun and the m oon had disappeared from the sky.2 It is, however, significant to note that the mist is limited to the region where the combatants fight for the corpse o f Patroclus. On the rest o f the plain the two armies fight unhindered in the bright light o f the sun, under a perfectly clear sky, while τοί έν μέσω, those Trojans who are struggling to drag away the body o f Patroclus and the Achaeans who endeavour to hinder them, are harassed ήέρι καί πολέμφ. W hat is the significance o f this local mist, and why does the poet insist on pointing out twice, and at such length, the contrast between the central area o f struggle and the rest o f the plain (366 οι μέν . . 370 o í δ3άλλοι . . 375 τοί δ3έν μέσω)? The mist appears again in Aias’ famous prayer (629 f f) : W hen the hero is looking for a fellow-fighter to bring the news o f Patroclus' death to Achilles, and the fog prevents him from distinguishing the Achaeans fight­ ing around him— 644 ήέρι γάρ κατέχονται όμως αύτοί τε καί ίπποι— he appeals to Zeus (645 f f) :

Ζευ πάτερ, άλλα σύ ρυσαι ύπ3ήέρος υίας Αχαιών, ποίησον δ3αϊθρην, δός δ3όφθαλμοΐσιν Ιδέσθαν έν δέ φάει καί ολεσσον, έπεί νυ τοι εΰαδεν ούτως. Zeus does take pity on him (649 f.):

αύτίκα δ3ήέρα μέν σκέδασεν καί άπώσεν ομίχλην, ήέλιος δ3έπέλαμψε, μάχη δ3έπί πάσα φαάνθη. The theory that Zeus does not send the mist in order to make matters more difficult for the Trojans proves to be valid, for it is now one o f the Achaeans who protests that the darkness impedes his actions. W h y did the poet devise the mist? The older critics, as a rule, resort to the convenient solution o f interpola­ tion, and, in addition, to a naturalistic explanation. Thus Leaf (2, 217; 235 f. ; 241; 259) maintains that o f the three passages in P which speak o f the

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mist, only the last (643 ff.) is genuine. He argues, too, that the poet meant the thick cloud o f dust which had risen under the feet o f the combatants and their horses, while on the rest o f the ground the dust had settled down because the fighting there was carried out at a slackened pace.3 W e have to deal, then, with a natural phenomenon which appears often in the Iliad.4 In the middle passage (366 fif.), too, Leaf says, nothing would prevent us from accepting that Homer meant clouds o f dust, if the whole context were not so weak, that we are obliged anyhow to reject it. Only in the first passage (268 ff.) does the mist appear as an unmistakably supernatural phenomenon, and it is exactly for this reason, Leaf claims, that we must consider these lines an interpolation by some later poet, who had misunderstood 643 ff. But Leaf s main argument for the rejection o f the first passage is that Zeus' action appears to be in favour o f the Achaeans, while later on it seems to annoy precisely the Achaeans. A second argument o f his is that it can be removed without disturbing the context. On the contrary, he says, the narrative gains with the direct transition from 267 to 274. This second argument can be refuted straight away: In what respect is the passage improved? Undoubtedly, in brevity. W ith this same excuse the oldline Analysts cut several thousands o f lines from the Homeric epics. W e must, however, decidedly refuse to a critic o f today the right to stigmatize as spurious, in the name o f the genuine H om er’, every passage he considers superfluous, so that he may later have the satisfaction o f praising the terse style o f his arbitrary creation. W h o w ill assure him that Homer, as an epic poet, sought to achieve a terse style, in accordance with the aesthetic ideas o f critics about three thousand years younger than he? W e must remember that the m otif o f the, supernatural fog does not appear only in P. W e also find it several times elsewhere in the Iliad: E 506 f.; O 668 ff.; Π 567 f.; Φ 6 ff. One would think that the evidence o f so many examples would lead critics to the conclusion that the m otif is genuinely Homeric. But such a hope proves to be vain, for the Analysts have preferred to athetize all the relevant passages. Thus, besides the case o f Patroclus, Leaf rejects from the Iliad the passages in O and Π , arguing that they have been introduced 'mechanically’ into the text and can at once be cut out. He also thinks that Φ 6 fif. is interpolated, for he asserts that the cloud which Hera appears to spread is ignored in the rest o f the narrative, 'the usual fate o f supernatural darkness in a well-marked class o f interpolations.’ Only the passage in E escaped Leaf s attention, but v, d. Mühll has taken care o f that. He attributes it to poet B ’ as superfluous and having no sequel.5 The same scholar, following Leaf, eliminates from Ο , Π , P and Φ all the relevant passages, with the excuse that the presence o f the mist is either not indispensable or disturbing. A m ong the older Analysts, too, the m otif o f the supernatural darkness finds no favour, although it is not always the m otif itself, but the whole context which for various reasons is condemned.

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Literary Interpretation

Leaf 2 147; 217; 386.— I believe that Leaf does not athetize this m otif in E, because he connects it with the preceding lines (499 i f ) and includes it among the cases o f natural darkness caused by dust. But in that case, o f what use is Ares’ presence? Leaf 1, 193, anyway, suspects that the whole duel between Sarpedon and Tlepolemus (from 471) is not genuine.— V. d. Mühll: (II) 99 n. 33; 235 f.; 248;

260; 263 £; 311. Older Analysts: E 506 f f : See Ameis-Hentze, Anh. II. 2, 64; 74 f£; 102.— O 668 ff: The lines have been questioned by the ancient Grammarians too (Schob ABT). See further Ameis-Hentze, Anh. II. 5, 115 £; C. Robert (I) 476; Wilamowitz (I) 158 n. 1; Cauer 505; Dahms 53.— Π 567 £: Athetized by Jacob; Diintzer (Ameis-Hentze, Anh. If 6, 27; 58); C. Robert (I) 395 £; Wilamowitz (I) 132; Cauer 679 f ; Dahms 56 f.— P 268 ff.; 366 ff.; 643 f f : The older Separatists were also puzzled by the mist in P. In addition to the arguments in Leaf, they noticed that the spreading of the darkness, certainly meant to aid the Achaeans, is not compatible with 593 ff. and 626 f f , where Zeus himself gives victory to the Trojans. Thus they thought it right to reject all three passages which speak of the mist. See Ameis-Hentze, Anh. I f 6, 70; 77 f f ; 86 ff; C. Robert (I) 82 ff (he eliminates from the ‘Urilias’ 366-383 and Aias’ prayer, 645 ff); Wilamowitz (I) 147 f f; 514 (P 1-592 is the work of the poet o f l T f but 366—369 are genuinely Homeric; in Aias’ prayer the lines 634—644 are interpolated).— Φ 6 £ : Athetized by Diintzer (Ameis-Hentze, Anh. If 7, 98).

2 Let us not hasten to accept the condemnation o f so many Homeric passages; let us rather study systematically the scenes o f the Iliad in which the m otif o f the godsent mist appears. The gods envelop themselves in mist, when they want to interfere in the affairs o f mortals invisibly. They can also cover with mist the mortals they protect, in order to save them from immediate danger. These examples, though numerous in H om er,6 we shall not include in our research, for it is obvious that the mist is here used for purely practical reasons. W e shall only deal with those cases where the practical element, although it is there, does not seem to exhaust the dynamism implied by the darkness. (I)

E 506 ff.

Άμφι δ έ νύκτα Λούρος Άρης έκάλυψε μάχη Τρώεσσιν άρήγων, π ά ν τ ο σ εποιχόμενος . . . The dative μάχη most probably belongs to the first part of the clause rather than to the participle άρήγων. Cf. Leaf 1, 229.— The god covers the battlefield with night because he wants to help the Trojans. The poet does not think it necessary to explain why the darkness would hamper the actions of the Achaeans alone; nor is he concerned in the following scenes to tell at what moment the night has been dispersed.

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(II) O 668 ff. After a brief appeal by Nestor,

τοΐσι δ9απ οφθαλμών νέφος άχλύος ώσεν Άθήνη θεσπέσιον* μάλα δέ σφι φόως γένετ3αμφοτέρωθεν, 670 ήμέν προς νηών καί όμοιίου πολέμοιο. "Εκτορα δέ φράσσαντο βοήν αγαθόν καί εταίρους, ήμέν ρσοι μετόπισθεν άφέστασαν ουδέ μάκοντο, ήδ3οσθοι παρά νηυσί μάχην έμάχοντο θοήσιν. The mist is mentioned here only because we are told that Athena disperses it. W e understand that we are witnessing a moment of the battle which is very crucial for the Achaeans, and that the dispersing of the mist is done for their benefit, so they can now discern their opponents. Cf. E 127 fi, where the goddess lifts the mist from the eyes of Diomedes, so that he may discern gods from mortals. (III) Π 567 f. Zeus, while the lifeless body o f his son Sarpedon lies between the two armies and each tries to take it away to its own side,

επί νύκτ όλοήν τάνυσε κρατερή ύσμίνη, οφρα φίλω περί παιδί μάχης ολοός πόνος εϊη. It is worth noting that the poet, although he had the chance to return to the theme of darkness (e.g. when in 638 ff. he mentions that Sarpedon had become unrecog­ nizable, έπεί β ε λ έ ε σ σ ι καί αιματι καί κονίησιν / έκ κεφαλής ειλυτο διαμ­ π ερές ές πόδας άκρους), does not say a word more about the supernatural night, or when it was dispersed. He seems unwilling to exploit the motif exhaustively; at any rate, here too he introduces it at a crucial moment of the battle. (IV)

P 266 ff.; 366 ff.; 645 ff. (See the text on p. 163 f ) .

Here the motif of supernatural darkness during the day is fully developed; it has a beginning, a middle and an end. (V)

Φ 6 ff.

ήέρα δ9 Ηρη πίτνα πρόσθε βαθεΐαν έρυκέμεν* ήμίσεες δέ ές ποταμόν είλευντο . . . In the beginning o f the battle by the river, when Achilles starts chasing half o f the enemy troops towards the walls o f Troy, while he drives the other half to the banks o f Xanthus, Hera throws upon the first half a thick fog, so as to check them, and thus she delivers them all into the hands o f Achilles. However, this fog does not reappear during the rest o f Achilles’ exploits, nor are we told when it is removed.

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Literary Interpretation

(VI) υ 350 ff. A miraculous hiding o f the sun is told of, a little before the destruction o f the suitors. The only difference from the passages in the Iliad is that the poet presents it as the vision o f the soothsayer Theoclymenus:

350 Τοΐσι δέ και μετέειπε Θεοκλύμενος θεοειδής: “Ύ Α δειλοί, τί κακόν τόδε πάσχετε; νυκτί μέν ύμέων είλύαται κεφαλαί τε πρόσωπά τε νέρθε τε γούνα, οιμωγή δέ δέδηε, δεδάκρυνται δέ παρειαί, αϊματι δ’ έρράδαται τοίχοι καλαί τε μεσόδμαι, 355 ειδώλων δέ πλέον πρόθυρον, πλείη δέ και αυλή, ίεμένων Έ ρεβόσδε υπό ζόφον4ήέλιος δέ ουρανού έξαπόλωλε, κακή δ5έπιδέδρομεν άχλύς.” From the ironical answer of Eurymachus (360 f£), we must conclude that the terrible omens of 3 51 ff. are seen by Theoclymenus only; but that does not mean that they are any less real to the poet. The signs of ill omen in 347-349 are given in his objective narrative. Kammer and Rhode do not accept the scene as Homeric (Ameis-Hentze, Anh. Od. 4, 46). Wilamowitz believes ([IIJ 86; 97 f.) that the 20th book of the Odyssey is a later Tlickstiick’, but that 350-383 is an older passage.— It is to ‘p°et B', not to Homer, that v. d. Mühll (I) 750, 50 ff. attributes these lines, together with almost the whole of υ.

3 The analysis o f the m otif o f supernatural mist leads to the following conclusions: 1) The mist is, as a rule, spread by a specific god: by Zeus (III, IV); by Hera (V); by Ares (I). In (II) it is Athene who disperses the mist, and in (VI) the κ α κ ή ά χ λ ύ ς is a divine sign, but the god who sends it is not named; most probably the poet has Athene in mind. 2) The poet uses indiscriminately the expressions ά χ λ ύ ς ( V I ), νέ φ ο ς ά χ λ ύ ο ς (II), αήρ ( I V 1 -3 , V ) , ο μ ίχ λ η ( I V 3), ν ύ ξ (I, I I I , V I ) ; for what is o f chief interest to him is the darkness itself, not what causes it. 3) That darkness symbolizes all evil— grief, peril, disaster, defeat, death— just as, in contrast, light symbolizes joy, salvation, victory, life, is so natural that we do not wonder when we find the same symbolism in the poetry o f all epochs and all peoples. It is not necessary to give examples.7 Therefore we are not surprised when Homer speaks o f the ό λ ο ή ν ύ ξ (III) and the κ α κ ή ά χ λ ύ ς ( V I). And when he omits such characterization, he knows that his listeners undoubtedly feel darkness as a sign o f evil. 4) As a rule, the poet likes to combine the ominous element, which always exists in darkness, with a clearly practical purpose: [For the Trojans to profit by it (I)]; for the Achaeans to be able to discern their opponents

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better (II; in this case Athene removes the mist); to intensify the όλοός πόνος around the corpse o f Sarpedon (III); to make the combatants suffer even more acutely (IV); to hinder the retreat o f the Trojans (V). Only in the special case o f (VI) has the presence o f the darkness no practical purpose at all. 5) One cannot overlook the fact that in all the cases the supernatural mist is connected with some threat or woe. W hen the poet makes Ares cover the battlefield with night Τρώεσσίν άρήγων (I), he clearly believes that the darkness hinders the actions o f the Achaeans merely because it is an evil omen. Similarly, when he has Hera throw a thick mist before the Trojans (V), it is not only to prevent them from escaping; she, at the same time, paralyses them mentally. On the contrary, when Athene lifts the mist (II), she does not only help the Achaeans see better; simultaneously she gives them moral strength and encourages them— simply by restoring ligh t.8 The goddess had some similar intention when Achilles was chasing Aeneas on Ida ( Y 94 ffi): κα ι Ά θ ή νη ς , ή ο! πρ όσ θεν ίοϋσα τίθ ε ι φάος ήδ3έκέλευεν ε γχ ε ϊ χ α λκ είφ Λ έ λ ε γ α ς κα ί Τρώ ας ένα ίρ ε ιν.9 W e are made perfectly aware o f the sad nature o f the. darkness in example (III), where Zeus covers the battle around Sarpedon’s dead body with night. W hen in the lines that follow it is stated that the object o f this action was to cause a still more terrible battle, it is obvious, too, that it is the g o d ’s wish to honour his son in this way. The fact that the most valiant fighters in the two opposing camps are ready to fight in the dark around the body o f a hero, his own party in order to retrieve it and give it an honourable burial, their opponents in order to throw the body to the dogs or at least to plunder his armour (see 499 f ; 545 f.; 559 f.)> is a most conclusive sign o f the honour the hero enjoyed while he was alive. Besides, the very presence o f the supernatural darkness— quite apart from the intensification o f the fighting it provokes— is an expression o f honour and mourning for the Lycian hero, as was the shower o f bloody raindrops a little before he was killed (Π 459 f.). Such miracles do not happen every time a warrior is killed on the battlefield o f Troy. Apollo’s action in Ψ 188 ff. seems to have a purely practical aim, not to let the skin of Hector’s dead body dry:

190

Τ φ δ’ έπί κυάνεον νέφος ή γα γε Φ οίβος Α π ό λ λ ω ν ούρα νόθεν π εδίονδε, κάλυψε δέ χώ ρον απανχα, ο σ σ ο ν έπεΐχε νέκυς, μή π ρ ιν μένος ή ε λ ίο ιο σ κ ή λ ε ι’ άμφί π ερ ί χρόα ιν ε σ ιν ήδέ μ έ λε σ σ ιν .

170

Literary Interpretation

Yet it is certain that in this way the gods pay special tribute to Hector, as they did to the two other great dead of the Iliad, Sarpedon and Patroclus.— W e should not wonder that modern critics find in this scene awkward and contradictory elements— for instance, how does it happen that in Ω 15 ff. the miraculous cloud is not mentioned?— and for this reason attribute it, often with the whole of Ψ, to a supposedly later redactor. See Leaf 484 f.; Theiler (I) 133; v. d. Mühll (II) 350 ff. See also Ameis-Hentze, Anh. II. 8, 41. 6) W hether or not in reality darkness can ever cover so limited a space as mentioned in P 366 ff., is a question we have no right to put with regard to a poetic fiction; nor should we, in case o f a clash between a poetic invention and reality, doubt the genuineness o f the passage, just as we should not question whether an eel eats human fat, or if fifty thousand Trojans can stand on a small space by the river.10 W e have to do with a π α ρ ά δ ο ξ ο ν , a π ο ιη τ ικ ή τ ε ρ α τ ε ία , which does not allow logical objections.11 W e likewise have no right to ask i f the night that Ares spreads (I) would have hampered not only the Achaeans but also the Trojans, whom he wanted to protect; or if the νέφ ο ς ά χ λ ύ ο ς which Athene removes (II) does not help the Trojans, too, to see better; or if the darkness that Hera spreads in order to impede the fleeing Trojans (V) may not impede Achilles as well. The mere statement for whose benefit or disadvantage a god wants to spread or disperse the darkness is sufficient for Homer. And his listeners must have been satisfied, because after such a statement they could follow the sequence without difficulty. Homer could not have anticipated the reactions o f critics after thousands o f years; but even if he had, I doubt whether he would have taken them into consideration. 7) Homer, from his poetic standpoint, does not consider it necessary to declare at what future moment the darkness is to be dispersed (I, I I I , V). On the other hand, in (II) Athene disperses the mist without any previous mention as to when it was spread. This omission may again annoy the modern critics; but the poet uses the mist when he needs it, either for a positive reason— to throw darkness on a place— or, negatively, to lighten it— without bothering about what happened afterward to the mist, or— in case (II)— how darkness suddenly fell. Our poet is beyond such trivial concessions to verisimilitude.

4 Only once has Homer given, and in a striking way too, the hour both o f the descending cloud and o f its dispersion: in the case o f Patroclus. H ow shall we explain this exception? W e must not forget that in his description o f the battle in P, the poet not only makes it a point to signify the beginning and the end o f the mist (268 f f ; 649 £), but feels the necessity o f interposing between these passages a

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third, impressively extensive description (3 6 6 -3 7 7 ). His obvious desire is to keep the presence o f the darkness vivid in the imagination o f his listeners. This particular treatment shows, I think, his determination to develop to the full, for the only time in his work, the m otif o f the mist. The main hero in ΠΡ was Patroclus, and it was Homer who invented this hero's exploits and death,12 so nothing would have stopped him from formulating his narrative freely and in whatever detail desired. It is also clear, I believe, that H om er mentioned the clearing away o f the darkness not because he wanted to satisfy any prosaic demand o f some listener, that there should be no logical gap in his narrative, but because he wanted to com bine this m otif with Aias' prayer. The removal o f the mist here is an organic and indispensable element in the narrative, as, when light is restored, Menelaus, authorized by Aias, is able to find Antilochus and send him to Achilles. But how can we explain the contradiction between Zeus’ spreading the cloud to help the Achaeans and the fact that in this phase o f the battle he appears to be on the side o f the Trojans? And how can we explain the second contradiction, that Zeus’ gesture, which is a sign o f favour granted, is misunderstood by one o f the most eminent Achaean heroes? W e have first to clear up a misunderstanding: The notion that Zeus throws darkness over the m iddle o f the battlefield for the benefit o f the Achaeans is not based on the Homeric text at all. The poet makes it quite clear (269 ff.)‘ The god spreads ήέρα πολλήν because ουδέ Patroclus was hateful to him. This ουδέ (270) proves, as other interpreters have also, observed, that H om er refers to the monologue o f Zeus a little earlier in the text (201 ff.), where the god shows his sympathy toward Hector. Zeus feels a liking for the Trojan hero, but he also does so for Patroclus. The object o f his action is clear: He wishes to express his grief for the death o f the valiant friend o f Achilles, and he honours him in the same way as he honoured his son in Π, although he is on the point o f temporarily conferring the victory on the Trojans. Έπι τιμή του Πατρόκλου τούτο φαίνεται πράττων, as the ancient Scholiasts rightly assert.13 Then, because he does not want the dogs to devour his body, he strengthens his comrades, so that they may protect him. A t the same time, darkness naturally increases the ολοός πόνος, and in this way, too, the honour paid to the dead here is enhanced. The darkness, therefore, has nothing to do with the Greeks as a whole. N or is it o f any importance that Aias will afterwards ask for the dispersion o f the mist. For in the meantime Patroclus has been honoured according to his worth. Besides, had the poet used a Trojan to ask for the dispersion o f the darkness, he would have lost the excellent effect o f Aias asking the god at least to let the Achaeans die in daylight, as befits free men, once he had decided on their destruction.14 Zeus expresses his grief for the loss o f Sarpedon by sending down a shower o f bloody raindrops a little before he is to be killed (Π 459 ff.)>

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and by spreading the night over him as soon as he is slain (Π 567 f.). The sinister symbolism o f the dense fog becomes still more intensely felt in the case o f Patroclus, not only because the m otif is developed in three con­ secutive passages and takes up many more lines, but also because, in the middle passage (P 366 ff.), the darkness around the dead body stands in striking contrast to the rest o f the sunlit plain. The background o f the picture is flooded with sunlight; it is only the center that stands out like a black spot, where the heat o f the fighting is greatest and the prize the dead body o f a valiant hero. W e would very much like to know if this meaningful contrast between the darkness, that mournfully covers a limited area, and the light that spreads relaxation everywhere else, is an invention o f Homer himself, or a m otif formulated earlier. Let us see if we can find in the modern Greek folk­ songs anything to help us solve the problem.

5 I shall give some songs from various parts o f Greece:

(I)

From the Peloponnese:

5

Σ’ ολον τον κόσμο ξαστεριά, σ δλον τον κόσμο ήλιος· στο ριζοβούνι του Λαλιού όλο καπνός κΤ αντάρακαν απ’ τα χιόνια τα πολλά, καν άπ3τα κουρκουσάλια. “ Μηδ’ άπ’ τά χιόνια τα πολλά, μηδ3άπ9τα κουρκουσάλιατον Ντεληγιώργη κλείσανε οί άπιστοι Λαλιώτες. Λαλιώτες ήταν μετρητοί χίλιοι πεντακόσιοι. κι3ό Ντεληγιώργς μόνος του με δώδεκα νομάτους.” Over all the world clear sky, over all the world the sun shines;/ but at the foot o f Lalio’s hill it is all smoke and darkness;/ maybe because o f so much snow, maybe because o f so much hail./ “ Neither is it because o f so much snow nor is it because o f so much hail./ (5) They have closed in round Deligiorgis, those infidels, the Lahors./ The Laliots, they were numerous, a thousand and five hundred,/ Deligiorgis was alone, and with a band o f twelve."— As the song goes on we are told that Deligiorgis— the story is about the famous klepht George Yannias, who was killed in 1 8 2 1 15— refuses to submit and is taken prisoner by the Laliots.

Petropoulos 1, 209-— 2 Lala is a village in Elis, at that time inhabited by Mohammedans of Albanian origin.— Other variants of the song with the same introductory motif: Π ανδώ ρα 14, 1864, 484; Ε λλη ν ικ ά Δημοτικά Τραγούδια

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(Ε κ λ ο γ ή ), A'. Α κ αδη μ ία Α θ η ν ώ ν , Δ ημ οσιεύμ ατα του Λ αογραφικοϋ Α ρ χ είου , Nr. 7 (1962) 231; Λ αογρα φ ία 17, 1957, 79 f Everywhere the sky is clear and the sun shines, and only the foot of Lala hill— in other variants, o f Erymanthus— is covered with smoke and dark­ ness. W hy? N ot as a result o f much rifle-fire, for the ‘mistaken explana­ tion’ 16 (‘maybe because o f so much snow, maybe because o f so much hail') proves that the only naturalistic explanation would be snow or hail. But here we do not have a natural phenomenon; darkness has fallen, because, at the foot o f the hill, something significant is taking place: The Laliots have surrounded Deligiorgis and they w ill soon capture him alive and kill him. The bard feels so grieved at the loss o f the famous klepht, that he isolates the region where the tragic scene is taking place from the rest o f the world— he isolates it by throwing over it not light, but darkness, as if nature too were lamenting for the disaster, (II)

5

10

Ό λες ox μάνες θλίβονται κ ι όλες παρηγοριώνταν του Γιώργη ή μάνα θλίβεται, παρηγοριά δεν έχει. Στο παλεθύρι κάθεται, τούς κάμπους αγναντεύεν βλέπει τούς κάμπους, ξαστεριά, βλέπει τούς κάμπους, ηλιο, τά ριζοβούνια τού Όλονοϋ πολύ σκοτιδιασμένα* καν απ’ τά χιόνια τά πολλά, καν από τό χειμώνα. “Μηδ’ απ' τά χιόνια τά πολλά, μηδ5από το χειμώνα* τον Ντεληγιώργη κλείσανε οι σκύλοι οί Λαλαϊοι. Τρεις ή μερούλες πόλεμο και τρία μερονύχτια χωρίς ψωμί, χωρίς νερό, χωρίς κάνα μεντάτι.” A ll mothers may at times be grieved, yet all do find some com fort;/ Giorgis’ mother is also grieved, yet she can find no com fort./ There by the window does she sit, she looks out on the plain./ She sees clear sky over the plains, she sees the plains sunlit,/ (5) but the foot o f Olonos Mountain she sees in deep darkness;/ maybe because o f so much snow, maybe because o f winter weather./ ‘Neither because o f so much snow, nor because o f winter weather;/ they have closed upon Deligiorgis, the Laliots, those wild dogs./ For three days long the fight goes on, for three days and nights/; (10) nor bread nor water have they got, nor any assistance com in g.’— The song ends with the refusal o f the klepht to surrender and the vain hope that someone w ill send word to the army o f Kolokotronis to come to his assistance.

M.S. Lelekos, Δημοτική Α ν θ ο λ ο γ ία (1868) 33 f — This song is a variant of (I); here the hero's mother appears, testifying to the contrast between the darkened battlefield and the rest of the countryside which is sunlit.— 5 Olonos - Erymanthus.— Cf. Passow, Popularia Carmina Graeciae recentioris Nr. 189;

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Λαογραφία 1, 1909, 589 f- (from Sozopolis). In a variant from Chios (Λαογραφία 5, 1915, 369 f.) the contrast is given in another way (6 £):

Β λέπει τούς κάμπους π ράσινους και τά βουνά α νθισμ ένα, καί το Λ ενάκ ι του βουνου(?) μαύρο, σκ οτεινιασμ ένο. She sees the plains all green, the mountains all in blossom,/ and the Lenaki of the heights(?) she sees black and dark. (The mountain Olonos was unknown to the bard of Chios, and therefore he misunderstood the clause.) In other variants the motif becomes weaker still, in as much as the line which speaks of the rest of the world as brightly lit is left out. See Passow l.c., Nr. 228; Ph. Photakos, Βίοι Π ελοπ ονν η σίω ν άνδρών (1888) 8 f.; Ε λλη νικ ά Δ ημοτικά Τ ραγούδια (Ε κ λογή), Λ. Α κ αδη μ ία Α θ η ν ώ ν , Δ η μ οσιεύμ ατα του Λ αογραφ ικ οϋ Λ ρ χ είου , Nr. 7 (1962) 232. (III)

5

From Epirus:

Σ’ όλο τον κόσμο ξαστεριά, σ ’ ολο τον κόσμο ήλιος* στήν έρημη την Πράμαντη ένα βαρύ σκοτάδι. Μήνα ό ήλιος χάθηκε, μήνα καί τό φεγγάρι; “Ν-ούδέ ό ήλιος χάθηκε, ν-ούδέ και το φεγγάρι* τον Γιακωβάκη σκότωσαν στήν Πράμαντα άποκάτω.” Over all the world clear sky, over all the world the sun shines;/ but on ill-fated Pramanta there falls a heavy darkness./ Is it the sun that has disappeared, and has the moon disappeared too?/ 'Neither the sun has disappeared, nor has the moon disappeared either;/ (5) it is Jacovakis they have slain down there below Pramata.’

Petropoulos 1, 187.— 2, 5 Pramanta: a village in the province of Dodona— 5 Jacovakis: a klepht, whose exploits are not known from any other source. (IV)

5

From Epirus:

Σ’ ολο τον κόσμο ξαστεριά, σ’ ολο τον κόσμον ήλιος, και στά καημένα Γιάννενα μαύρο, παχύ σκοτάδι* τί φέτο έκαμαν βουλή οχτώ βασίλεια άνθρωποι, κι’ έβάλανε τά σύνορα στής ’Άρτας τό ποτάμι, κι’ άφήκανε τα Γιάννενα και πήρανε τήν Πούντα, κΓ άφήκανε τά Γιάννενα καί πήρανε τήν ’Άρτα, κι’ άφήκανε τό Μέτσοβο μέ τά χωριά του γύρα. Over all the world clear sky, over all the world the sun shines;/ but over ill-fated Joannina there is a dense black darkness;/ a council there this year was held o f men from eight kingdom s,/ and they did fix the boundaries at Arta’s riverbanks,/ (5) and Joannina they did leave out, yet they did Pounta take,/ and Joannina they did leave

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out, yet they did Arta take,/ and Metsovo they did leave out with all the hamlets round. Politis, Nr. 19.— This song was made in 1881, when, according to the terms of the Treaty of Berlin, the north-western boundaries of Greece were fixed at the Ara­ chthus river, and Epirus remained in the hands of the Turks.— 3 The men from eight kingdoms: The representatives of the six Great Powers, Greece and Turkey.— 5 Pounta, 7 Metsovo: place-names.— Variants of the song: See Petropoulos 1, 172 f ; Λ α ογρα φ ία 5, 1915, 63. Darkness covers Joannina, the capital town o f the enslaved region. The appearance o f the m otif in a comparatively recent historic song proves that it has remained alive up to modern times. (V)

From the mountainous mainland o f Greece:

Δεν είναι κρίμα κι3άδικο, δεν είναι αμαρτία; Σ’ ολο τον κόσμο ξαστεριά, σ ολο τον κόσμο ήλιος, καί στην καημέν5Τσαρίτσανη καημός κι’ άντάρα βγαίνει. Isn’t it a pity, and isn’t it wrong, and isn’t it a sin?/ Over all the world clear sky, over all the world the sun shines,/ but in ill-fated Tsaritsani woe and mist prevails. Λ αογρα φ ία 20, 1962, 238.— The rest of the song, which did mention the reason for the mist, is not given in the collection.— Tsaritsani lies near the town Elassona in North Thessaly; during the Turkish occupation the production of yarn and homespun material was a thriving industry there. Most probably the song was made in the 18th century, when the Turko-albanians under Ali-Pasha looted Tsaritsani, or in 1813, when a pestilence broke out. (VI)

5

From Epirus:

Σ3όλον τον κόσμο ξαστεριά, σ ’ όλον τον τόπον ήλιος, καί στοΰ Ζαμπόν τό βραχωριό καπνός κι αντάρα βγαίνεικαπταναραϊοι έκαιγαν τα τούρκικα σαράγια. Μια Τουρκοπούλα φώναξεν από τό παραθύρι: “Κάψτε, νισάφι, Χριστιανοί, καμήτε κύριελέησον εμείς αντάμα ζήσαμε, αντάμα θά χαθούμε.” Over all the world clear sky, over all the place the sun shines;/ from the rugged Zamban village darkness and smoke arises;/ it was the captains o f the Greeks that burned the Turkish seraglios./ A Turk­ ish maiden gave a cry, she called out from her window: / (5) 'Burn, blit have pity, Christians, you, have mercy and compassion;/ together we have lived so long, together we shall die.’

Folklore Collection of Prof. Demetrius Loukatos, Joannina. Recorded from

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Thesproticon in Preveza.— A variant of the song in P. Aravantinos, Συλλογή Δ η μ ω δώ ν "Ασμάτων τής Η π είρου (1880) 73 Nr. 82.— The darkness and the smoke are due to materialistic reasons in this case: the Turkish seraglios are burning. But the darkness itself is playing its part in the sad incident. (VII)

5

The same m otif is expressed as a wish in a Cretan song:

'Ήλιε, πού βγαίνεις τό ταχύ, σ οΰλον τον κόσμο δούδεις, σ’ ουλον τον κόσμο άνάτειλε, a ούλον την έκουμένη* στώ Μπαρμπαρέσω τις αυλές, 'Ήλιε, μην άνατείλεις, γιατί έχουν σκλάβους όμορφους, πολλά παραπονιάρους, και θά γραθου οι-γι-άχτίδες σου πού των σκλαβώ τα δάκρυα. Ο pray, you early rising sun, shining over all the world,/ you may well shine on all the world, on all the universe,/ but not on the Barbarians' yards, do not shine on those yards;/ for they keep handsome slaves therein, who have great grief and weep,/ (5) and all your rays they will get wet with all those captives' tears.

A. Jeannarakis, Α σ μ α τ α Κ ρητικά (1876) 172 (= Petropoulos 1, 157). Here too, as in the Iliady the popular bard has proceeded to a supplementary practical reason for his entreaty: Apart from the fact that darkness suits better the feelings of the captives, there is danger of the sun’s rays getting wet with the prisoners’ tears.17

6 The striking contrast between a limited area, darkened by mist— equivalent motifs to which in this instance are: smoke, darkness— and the rest o f the world, where fine weather and sunshine prevails, is found, as we see, in a number o f modern Greek songs as a typical theme, usually introductory. The miraculous appearance o f darkness in the light o f day is an expression o f sorrow and mourning for the loss o f a hero, or for the disaster that befalls a region.18 There is no doubt that the m otif is an invention o f popular poetry. The m otif functions in the same way in the Iliad (P 366 ff.). W e also notice certain similar details: The contrast between αιθήρ, αυγή ήελίοιο and αήρ o f the Homeric text (368 ff.) corresponds exactly to the contrast between ξαστεριά (= clear sky), ήλιος and αντάρα (= mist) in the modern Greek songs. The clause ουδέ κε φαίης / ούτε ποτ3 ήέλιον σόον έμμεναι ούτε σελήνην corresponds to the mistaken question', μήνα ó ήλιος χάθηκε, μήνα και τό φεγγάρι; (is it the sun that has disappeared, and has the moon disappeared too?) in (III) 3. In what way is the Homeric m otif related to the modern Greek motif? W e should certainly not exclude the possibility that Homer's m otif is a

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personal inspiration, in which case the matter is clearly a mere coincidence. Yet, I must confess that when I consider how often H om er’s poetry draws motifs from popular poetry,19 I am rather inclined to think that the poet has here too followed a popular pattern, and that the m otif o f the local mist has been kept alive in oral tradition from Homeric times to the present day. Yet, even for him who hesitates to accept this opinion, the presence o f the m otif in modern folk poetry cannot be considered o f no importance; for no one can, after the above, have any doubt as to the meaning o f the contrast between a clear sky and darkness in H om er’s text, or speak o f clouds o f dust, or, for that matter, athetize the lines in P with the excuse that they are weak. I have not been able to ascertain if this m otif appears in the folklore o f other countries, too; m y researches on the subject were cursory. In any event, I believe that the modern Greek folk-songs are the best scholium for the interpretation o f the passages in P where the m otif o f the godsent mist is developed.

Notes 1. Notice the conjunctions: Κ ρονίω ν ή έρα π ολλήv / χεΰ’, έπεί ούδέ Μ ενοιτιάδην ήχθαιρε. . . . Μ ίσ η σ ε ν δ5άρα μιν . , . κυσί κύρμα γενέσθαι / . . . τώ καί οί άμυνέμεν ώ ρ σ ε ν εταίρους. If the god were to appear as using the mist merely to save Patroclus, the last verse would be differently composed (for instance: τώ καί o í άθέσφατον ή έρα χεϋεν). 2. The moon is introduced merely to complete the cycle of day and night; for as they were fighting during the day, it was only the sun whose light had gone out. 3. The naturalistic interpretation of darkness is to be found already in Eustathius 1075, 61 (in Π 567: νύκτα λέγει τό περί τον αέρα πολύ πάχος εκ τής κονίης); 1107, 5 (in Ρ 269; ϊσ ω ς μέν και διά τήν έγ ερ θ εΐσ α ν κόνιν καί έπικαταπεσουσαν . . . , [16] τής εξ άέρος σ κ ο τώ σ εω ς, οΐα πολλής έγ ερ θ είσ η ς κ όνεω ς); 1110, 13 (in Ρ 371: καί εστι πν&ανός ο λ ό γ ο ς διά τε τήν κόνιν τήν ώ ς είκός παχυνομένην εκεί . . .). 4. Γ 10 ff; Ε 502 ff; Λ 151 f.; Ψ 365 f Cf. also N 336 (κονίης μεγάλην ομίχλην). 5. To our question as to what instigated this poet, among his other failings, to introduce here the motif of the night so inadvertently we have, of course, no answer. 6. The god hides himself: e.g. E 185 f.; Ξ 282; 350 f. See P. Chantraine, ‘Le divin et les dieux chez Homère’, in La notion du Divin, Entretiens sur l’Antiquité Classique I, Vandoeuvres-Geneva, 1954, 61. The comparisons of Apollo and Heracles with night (A 47; λ 606) are ominous, but not that of Hermes (Horn. Hymn. Herrn. 358 εν λίκνφ κατέκειτο μελαίνη νυκτί έοικώς).— In order to hide a mortal: e.g. Γ 381; É 23; 344 f.— Other functions: E 356; 776; © 50; V 189. 7. For Homer see H. Frankel, Dichtung und Philosophie des frühen Griechentums. Eine Geschichte der griechischen Epik, Lyrik und Prosa bis zur Mitte des fünften Jahrhunderts, Munich, 1969, 180; C.H. Whitman, Homer and the Heroic Tradition, Cambridge Mass., 1963, 123; C M . Bowra, Heroic Poetry, London, 1952, 139 f ; A. Amory, ‘The Reunion of Odysseus and Penelope’, in Essays on the Odyssey. Selected

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Modern Criticism, ed. by Charles H. Taylor, Jr., Bloomington, 1963, 109; M. Treu 'Licht und Leuchtendes in der archaischen griechischen Poesie', Studium G enerale 18, 1965, 91 f.— For modern Greek examples see D. Petropoulos, Λ αογραφ ία 17, 1957, 454 ff. 8. Cf. W. Schadewaldt, Iliasstudien, Leipzig, 1938, 93 n. 2. 9. See Frankel Le.; H. Erbse, 'lieber die sogenannte Aeneis im 20. Buch der Ilias’, RhM 110, 1967, 8 f. 10. For the eels, Φ 203 f.; for the Trojans, Θ 562 f., in combination with 490 f. See P. von der Mühll, Kritisches Hypomnema zur Ilias, Basel, 1952, 317 and 157, and J. Kakridis, ‘Review of P. v. d. Mühll’s Kritisches Hypomnema zur Ilias’, Gnomon 28, 1956, 409 ff. 11. Π αράδοξον: Schol. A in P 368; ποιητική ιερατεία: Eustath. 1107, 7 (in P 269). 12. Cf. J. Kakridis, Homeric Researches, Lund, 1949, 87 ff. 13. Schob A in 268. Cf. also in 368; also Schob B (268), T (269). 14. The darkness makes it difficult for him to find a companion to send word to Achilles (640 ff ). It is therefore the material presence of the mist which is made manifest in Aias’ words. Is it possible, however, that the listeners of the poet were not aware of the oxymoron in the hero’s cry έν 6έ φάει και ο λ ε σ σ ο ν — in the light which symbolizes salvation and victory? (Cf. Z 6 φ όω ς δ’ έτάροΐσιν &&ηκεν; Θ 282; Λ 797; Ρ 615 and others.):—F. Robert’s opinion (Homère, Paris, 1950, 56) that after Aias’ prayer the sky becomes clear only for a short while has no support from the Homeric text. 15. See N . Politis, Λ α ογρ α φ ία 5, 1915, 370. 16. The mistaken explanation is a variant of the ‘mistaken questions’. Cf. (Ill) line 3. For the motif see J. Kakridis, Homeric Researches, 108 ff. Cf., now, Bowra (Heroic Poetry) 269 f.; J. Kakridis, Gnomon 40, 1968, 116; M. Kravar, ‘Homer und die serbokroatische Volksepik\Jahrbuch des Marburger Oniversitätsbundes, 1962, 4317. Cf. Ά νακ άλημ α τής Κ ω νσταντινού π ολης, ed. by E. Kriaras (Thessaloniki 21965), 1. 57 ff. 18. See also P. Aravan tinos, Συλλογή Δημωδών ’Ασμάτων τής Ηπείρου (1880) ρ. 24, Nr. 29 (for the capture of Metsovo in 1854), and p. 90, Nr. 104 (for the death of the Greek klepht Souleimanis in Sumbeno in the province of Grevena). 19* See J. Kakridis, Homeric Researches, 106 £; 152 ff.

52__________________________________________________ T he Shield o f Achilles within the I lia d *

O. Taplin * Source: Greece & Rome, vol. 27, 1980, pp. 1 -2 1 .

I W h y is the shield o f Achilles, instrument o f war in a poem o f war, covered with scenes o f delightful peace, o f agriculture, festival, song, and dance? I shall try to approach an answer to this question by looking at the scenes on the shield in relation to the rest o f Homer, I mean the Iliad and Odyssey.1 The 130-line set-piece comes as the calm before the storm at a turning point in the epic. The long central day o f battle, which dawned with the first line o f book 11, has just ended (1 8 .2 3 9 -4 1 ). Achilles has without a second thought determined to return to the battlefield even though he knows his death is bound to follow (1 8 .7 8 -1 2 6 , esp. 95—8). Hector has made the no less lethal decision to stay outside the city and fight, though he on the contrary does not realize that it seals his fate (18.243—314).2 This is the shield that Achilles will carry through the massacre o f books 20 and 21 and which will avert Hector's last throw (2 2 .2 9 0 -1 ; cf. 3 1 3 -1 4 ). It is the defiant front presented to the foe by the most terrible killer in the Iliad. W hat would the audience have expected the poet to put on the shield o f such a warrior? Consider first the shield which Agamemnon takes up before his gruesome ‘aristeia’:3 A nd he took up the man-enclosing elaborate stark shield, a thing o f splendour. There were ten circles o f bronze upon it, and set about it were twenty knobs o f tin, pale-shining, and in the very centre another knob o f dark cobalt. A nd circled in the midst o f all was the blank-eyed face o f the Gorgon with her stare o f horror, and Fear was inscribed on it, and Terror. (1 1 .3 2 -7 ) The demons are designed to inspire terror in the enemy. Compare also the

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aegis o f Zeus donned by Athena (5.736—42: Panic, Strife, and their crew surround the G orgon’s head), and the baldrick which Odysseus sees on the ghost o f Heracles at Od. 11.609 ff., covered with beasts and carnage. 'May he who artfully designed them . . . never again do any designing’, com ­ ments Odysseus. Looking outside Homer (and leaving aside the shield o f Aeneas in Aeneid 8), the ready comparison is the description in lines 141— 317 o f the fragment o f epic narrative usually known as ‘The Shield o f Heracles’ and associated (undeservedly) with the name o f H esiod.4 This too is a shield made by Hephaestus for a great fighter, and it is moreover obviously under the influence o f the shield in the Iliad. Yet it is dominated by terror and slaughter. Here is a typical extract: ‘By them stood Darkness o f Death, mournful and fearful, pale, shrivelled, shrunk with hunger, swollen kneed. Long nails tipped her hands, and she dribbled at the nose, and from her cheeks blood dripped down to the ground. She stood leering hideously, and much dust sodden with tears lay upon her shoulders’ ([Hes.] Aspis 264—70, tr. Evelyn-White). So the joys o f civilization and fertility on our shield are peculiar. W h y all this and not the usual horrors? The question is reinforced by the representa­ tions o f Achilles’ shield in later visual art, which do not try to reproduce H om er’s scenes but simply show the Gorgon and other standard devices.5 More tellingly, Euripides actually protests against the Iliadic shield. The chorus o f his Electra (442-86) make it clear that they are singing o f the celebrated shield (κλεΐνας, 455); but it is designed to terrify the Trojans (456-7). In the centre it has the sun and constellations, as in Homer, but they are there to panic H ector (468-9), and round the edge skims Perseus with the G orgon’s head (458 ff., a m otif from the 'Shield o f Heracles’). A more recent poet, reacting like Euripides to a brutal and all-consuming war, has also reforged the Homeric shield to suit its fell recipient. W . H. Auden’s fine poem T h e Shield o f Achilles’ begins6

She looked over his shoulder For vines and olive trees, Marble well-governed cities And ships upon untamed seas, But there on the shining metal His hands had put instead An artificial wilderness A nd a sky like lead.

Three times Thetis looks to see the scenes which she expects because she knows them— or rather we know them— from Homer, and each time she is presented with a scene from a world o f militaristic and totalitarian inhumanity. A t the end even the child is corrupted and knows no better:

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A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, Loitered about that vacancy, a bird Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone: That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third, W ere axioms to him, w ho’d never heard O f any world where promises were kept, Or one could weep because another wept. The thin-lipped armourer, Hephaestos, hobbled away, Thetis o f the shining breasts Cried out in dismay At what the god had wrought To please her son, the strong Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles W h o would not live lon g .7

It appears that Auden sees Achilles as the prototype o f the Aryan superman and makes his shield prefigure accordingly. In the same way Euripides presents the events o f his Electra as the aftermath o f the inhumanity o f Agamemnon and his chiefs o f staff. W h y, then, does Homer fill his shield with scenes which he repeatedly insists are beautiful and with people who delight in their innocent activ­ ities? M y question does not seem to have concerned English-speaking critics, in our times: at least, I cannot find it raised in any o f the standard books on Homer, by which I mean the ten or so books by Lord, Bowra, Page, Finley, and K irk.8 I can, however, offer three explanations which would be in keeping with the attitudes to be found in these books. One would be that the shield is based on some actual artefact, perhaps some heirloom fossilized by the oral tradition (this is the standard explanation of, for instance, the boars-tusk helmet at 10.257 ff.). This must be mistaken.9 N othing really like this shield has ever been found nor ever will be, no more than the exemplars o f Hephaestus’ automata at 18.417 ff. That is the whole point: the shield— like those golden gynaikoids— is a wonder o f divine craftsmanship unlike anything known in our age. The decoration o f the shield is derived from poetic invention not from history. Next it m ight be answered that the shield affords relief from the pro­ tracted battle narratives. It is orthodox to claim this as a function o f Homeric similes (though most similes are in fact placed to intensify rather than relieve). It is true that the shield takes us far from the Trojan war, but that is hardly enough to explain its detail. After all, the rest o f books 18 and 19 are relief from battle scenes.10 W e are still left with the question, why this particular, sort o f relief? Thirdly the explanation which is, I suspect, most in keeping with the

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dominant school o f what might be called primitive oral poetics', namely that the oral poet has simply wandered on from one thing to another as the improvisatory Muse has taken him. Once he had decided to elaborate the shield at appropriate length for its maker and recipient he has added and added inorganically. The reason why I think this would be the orthodox account is that the standard view o f the elaborated similes is that after starting o ff from a point o f comparison they develop parataetically at the poet’s pleasure. £The poet follows his fancy and develops the picture without much care for his reason for using it.’ 11 According to this view the poet would have settled on the subject-matter o f the shield, not because it was relevant— or come to that irrelevant— to the Iliad as a whole, but because that is what happened to come into his mind as he went along. I can only ask anyone who reckons this is obviously the right answer to bear with me while I look at an alternative. But I am more likely to make headway with someone who finds it hard to believe that a poet who worked in that way could have so consistently commanded the attention, indeed adulation, o f our civilization.

II M y starting-point is that the shield is not the only place in Homer where we encounter peace and prosperity and people delighting in their lives. I shall survey the shield scene by scene relating each to similar pictures elsewhere, and looking for similarities o f tone and feeling as well as o f subject-matter. There will be three main sources. First, the settled societies o f the Odyssey; that is, N estors Pylos and Menelaus’ Sparta, visited by Telemachus in books 3 and 4 and showing him, and us, a proper re-established oikos to contrast with Ithaca and Mycenae; and even more the Phaeacia o f Alcinous which serves for Odysseus as the transition and model between the remote disordered worlds o f his wanderings and his disrupted home. Indeed the description o f the palace o f Alcinous at Od. 7.81 ff., especially the gardens (1 1 2 -3 3 ), is the set-piece closest o f all to the shield o f Achilles. Secondly there is the peacetime world o f many o f the similes, especially in the Iliad. And lastly Troy, at least Troy were it not for the war, as it was in the days o f peace before the Achaeans came. W hen these three elements are put together we arrive at an easy hedo­ nistic existence spent in feasting with the pastimes o f conversation, song and dance, making love— in fact a life such as the gods lead. This is the life that humans aspire to, even if they only achieve it in brief snatches. OWe live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows’, 11. 24.526.) Witness Menelaus’ odd homily on satiety at 11. 13.620—39: he contrasts war with life’s pleasures, 'sleep and love-making, the sweetness o f song and the stately dancing’ (6 3 6 -7 , υπνου και φιλότητος |μολπής τε γλυκερής

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και αμύμονος ορχηθμοίο). Thus when at last Odysseus’ house is cleared of the suitors there are celebrations: First they went and washed, and put their tunics upon them, and the women arrayed themselves in their finery, while the inspired singer took up his hollowed lyre and stirred within them the impulse for the sweetness o f song and the stately dancing. N ow the great house resounded aloud to the thud o f their footsteps, as the men celebrated there, and the fair girdled women, (iOd. 2 3 .1 4 1 -7 ) But the Homeric good life is most memorably summed up by A lcinous’ couplet on the pursuits o f the blessed Phaeacians (iOd. 8 .2 4 8 -9 ): Always the feast is dear to us, and the lyre and dances and changes o f clothing and hot baths and beds.

(αίεί 5sήμίν δαίς τε φίλη κίθαρίς τε χοροί τε εϊματά τ5έξημοιβα λοετρά τε θερμά καί εύναί.) The precise plan o f the shield is not made so clear by the poem that it is beyond doubt; and we should bear in mind Lessing’s point that we are told o f the making o f the shield not given a map o f the finished produ ct.12 It is not even clear that the shield is to be envisaged as decorated with five concentric circles. Moreover it is not likely that our text is exactly as it left. Homer; some lines have probably been added and possibly others have been omitted (see further below). The division^ and arrangement which I shall adopt are widely accepted and make, I think, a coherent whole; but they are not essential to my argument. I The First (Inmost) Circle (4 8 3 -9 ): The Earth, Heavens, and Sea13 After the first all-inclusive line it is only the heavens which are given any detail. It is enough for now to remark that the sun, m oon, and constellations are the cosmic constants and the markers o f the passage o f time, reflected in Homer by recurrent formulae whatever the human vicissitudes they may accompany. II The Second Circle: City Life The two cities are clearly set out as a pair— see 490 —1, 509. Each in turn provides two scenes. (a) The City at Peace (i) 4 91 —6: Marriage Celebrations O f all the pleasant occasions o f civil life, especially in a-highly kin-conscious world, a wedding m ight be singled out as the most unifying and optimistic. It is also a time for everyone to indulge

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in the ‘good life'. Compare with the shield the wedding celebrations for Hermione which greet Telemachus on his arrival at Sparta:

So these neighbours and townsmen o f glorious Menelaus were at their feasting all about the great house with the high roof, and taking their ease, and among them stepped an inspired singer playing his lyre, while among the dancers two acrobats led the measure o f song and dance revolving among them. (iOd. 4 .1 5 -1 9 ; see further p. 188 below) A nd at such times thoughts turn in due course to bed. W e have in fact most o f the delights enumerated by Alcinous. The accomplishments o f singing and dancing, which are o f course useless and even despised in time o f w ar,14 epitomize the pleasures o f peace. The Phaeacians are, as appropriate, especially good at dancing (see Od. 8 .2 5 0 65). The wives at their doors represent 'hom e’ no less tellingly. The marital home is what the Achaeans have had to leave behind. ‘N ine years have gone by, and the timbers o f our ships have rotted away and the cables are broken, and far away our wives and our young children are sitting within our halls and wait for us’ {II. 2 .1 3 4 -7 ). A nd the meeting o f H ector and Andromache in Troy suggests poignantly what m ight be if it were not disrupted by war.15 (it) 4 9 7 -5 0 8 : The Law Case There has been much discussion o f the precise legal problem and procedure here.16 W hat matters for present purposes is that we have the stable justice o f a civilized city, δίκη (508) is used here in a sense similar to that in the famous ‘H esiodic’ simile at 16.384 ff. Here is no vendetta or the perilous exile which Homer and his audience associated with a murderer in the age o f heroes. W e have, rather, arbitrators, speeches on both sides, and considered judgements. The sceptre (505) is the symbol o f a well-ordered hierarchy (though within the Iliad it has been somewhat mishandled in the first two books). N ote also the well-shaped or polished stones that the elders sit on (επί ξεστοΐσΐ λίθοίς, 504). This is the epithet used to describe the masonry o f the marvellous palace o f Priam (6.242 ff.), and even o f the palace o f Zeus (20.11); but compare above all the council-stones o f well-ordered Pylos where Nestor sits and Neleus sat before him. ‘Nestor went outside and took his seat upon the polished stones which were there in place for him in front o f the towering doorway, white stones, with a shine on them that glistened’ {0d. 3 .4 0 6 -8 ; cf. also Phaeacia at Od. 8.6 f.). (b) The City at W ar (i) 5 0 9 -1 9 : The Siege W e do not have to seek far for parallels to this scene. Here— somewhat altered, for we are dealing with a subtle poet not a crude

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emblematist— here we have the Iliad and its belligerent deities.17 On the shield there are two besieging armies (their relation to each other is obscure), but like the Achaeans they are not agreed among themselves. The besieged are making a foray, not to drive the invaders back and burn their ships, but to make an ambush for provisions. Yet we are unmistakably put in mind o f Troy by the old men, women, and children on the walls (rather than in their doorways or in the agora as in the city at peace). Closest o f all probably are Hector's instructions at 8 .5 1 8 -2 2 : Let the boys who are in their first youth and the grey-browed elders take stations on the god-founded bastions that circle the city; and as for the women, have our wives each one in her own house, kindle a great fire; let there be a watch kept steadily lest a sudden attack get into the town when the fighters have left it. But we think also o f Helen with Priam and the chattering elders on the walls above the Scaean gates (3.146 ffi), and o f Priam watching and plead­ ing with his son (21.526 ff., 22.25 ff.). W e remember that H ector did not find Andromache and the child at home, but on the Great Tower (6.386 ff.); and that is where she rushes maenad-like when she hears o f Hector's death (22.462; cf. 447). The city on the shield stands for every threatened home­ land: within the Iliad Troy is such a city. (it) 5 20 —34: The Ambush of the Herd This violent devastation o f the pastoral world takes us away from Troy itself to the countryside o f the Troad and the neighbouring cities, which, as we are often reminded, the Achaeans, and above all Achilles, have beeri looting for nine years. Compare the seven brothers o f Andromache, sons o f Eetion king o f Thebe: ‘Achilles slaughtered all o f them as they were tending their white sheep and their lumbering oxen' (6 .4 2 3 -4 ). He was kinder to Isus and Antiphus, sons o f Priam: ‘Achilles had caught these two at the knees o f Ida and bound them in pliant willows as they watched by their sheep, and released them for ransom' (11.105—6 ) .18 The pathos o f the ruthless warrior cutting down the innocent pastoral world is quintessentially Homeric, and is wonderfully conveyed here by the two herdsmen. One moment they are going along with the flock ‘playing happily on pipes, and they took no thought o f treachery’ (526), the next they lie k illed.19 (Hi) 535—40: The Ensuing Mêlée Here we have the kind o f scene which m ight have been expected on a shield, monstrous ghouls fighting over the dying and the dead. A nd, indeed, four o f the six lines (535—8) also occur on the Shield of Heracles (156-9)* This primitive conception o f battle is not typical o f the ./A W . On this and other good grounds Solmsen has con­ demned lines 5 3 5 -4 0 as an interpolation (or plus verses’) derived from the

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Shield of Heracles.20 W e can see exactly the same phenomenon a little later, though this time the plus-verses never became canonical. In P. Berol. 9774 (first century B.c.) after line 608 at the end o f the shield are four more verses describing a harbour full o f fishes: the lines are almost the same as Shield of Heracles, 2 0 7 -1 3 ·21 III The Third Circle: Rural Life There follows a series o f scenes o f people going about agricultural tasks. Seeing that the first three clearly represent spring, summer, and autumn, I take it that 573 ff. shows winter.22 (a) 5 4 1 -9 : Spring N ote the emphasis on the fertility o f the soil: it is a dark, deep tilth, and enough for many ploughmen. For pictures o f ploughing in similes see 10.351 f f , 13-703 ff. (also Od. 13.31 f f) . The cup o f wine at the end o f each furlong is a civilized touch. Hecuba offered wine to Hector in book 6 (258 f f ) ; but bloody war is not the time for such ceremony and relief (6 .2 6 4 -8 ). (b) 5 5 0 -6 : Summer W e also find reapers in a striking simile: A nd the men, like two lines o f reapers who, facing each other, drive their course all down the field o f wheat or barley for a man blessed in substance, and the cut swathes drop showering, so Trojans and Achaeans driving in against one another cut men down . . . (1 1 .6 7 -9 ) On the shield the children helping, their arms full o f golden swathes, is the kind o f touch for which Homer used to be justly famous. The harvest is hot, hungry work, and for the scene to be complete there has to be a good meal o f meat being prepared, beneath, o f course, thick leafy shade— ύ π ό Ôpül (5 5 8 ).23 But the most telling figure o f all in this vignette is the lord with his sceptre standing by, silently joyful. This is his temenos (550), an especially desirable estate granted to him, the kind o f privilege which any great basileus might hope to return to after the war, the kind which Achilles m ight have had if he had chosen long life instead o f glorious death.24 This is the life which Odysseus is striving to win back to in the Odyssey, and he gives a memorable account o f it: As o f some king, a fine man and god-fearing, who, ruling as lord over many powerful people, upholds the way o f good government, and the black earth yields him

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barley and wheat, his trees are heavy with fruit, his sheepfiocks continue to bear young, the sea gives him fish, because o f his good leadership, and his people prosper under him. (Od. 1 9 .1 0 9 -1 4 ) The prosperity and good government go hand in hand (see further p. 191 below). (c) 5 6 1 -7 : Autumn The grape harvest with its heavy fruit and promise o f next year's wine inspires song and dance (on which see above). The pickers are 'young girls and young men, in all their light-hearted innocence' (παρθενίκαι (δέ) και ήΐθεοι άταλά φρονέοντες, 567). Elsewhere in the Iliad only the infant Astyanax is graced with this quality (άταλάφρονα, 6.400). But these boys and girls on the shield are older, and there is another passage where that age o f ingenuous first love is most poignantly evoked: as his death approaches Hector realizes that it is no good trying to talk gently to Achilles 'talking love like a young man and a young girl, in the way a young man and a young maiden talk love together’ (2 2 .1 2 7 -8 ). The phrase conjures up a world o f youth and delight which could not be further from the confronta­ tion o f Achilles and H ector.25 (d) 5 7 3 -8 9 : W inter The cattle are kept in the midden-yard (κ ό π ρ ο υ , 575) during the winter, nights; but as the herdsmen set o ff for the water meadows we seem to be entering another pastoral idyll. The lions break in on this as though to prevent the world o f the shield from being1too perfect. W e are, o f course, in the realm o f the similes still, in fact we are bound to be reminded by this o f the similes. In the peacetime agricultural world man's worst enemy is the lion, not other men. (I must confess that I am not clear how the last three lines, 587—9, fit in. The scene is different from all the others, not only because much briefer, but also because it contains no human figures. Yet it is clearly marked off from the scene o f the winter herding and the lions. The lines may be interpolated: see Leaf ad loc.) IV The Fourth Circle (590—606): The Dance It appears that the dance goes all the way round without subdivision. A lthough they sometimes move in lines (602) the emphasis is put on the circular dance by the one simile within the ekphrasis, the potter testing his wheel. The length and unity o f this scene make it appear the climax o f the whole shield. 2(^ A s in the scene o f the vintage we see ήΐθεοι καί παρθένοι (593); but in-several respects this section forms a 'ring' with the wedding scene at the beginning. As before there is singing and dancing, and again

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the onlookers delight in the festive spectacle. There are in addition a pair o f tumblers, and, if we are prepared to import a line from the otherwise identical formulae at Od. 4.17—19 (quoted on p. 184 above), we would have a poet, the one and only άοΐδός to appear in the Iliad. W e might feel that the shield would not be complete without him .27 Homer dwells on the clothing and appearance o f the young men and women: These wore, the maidens long light robes, but the men wore tunics o f finespun work and shining softly, touched with olive oil.

(των δ* ai μέν λεπτάς όθόνας εχον, οι δέ χιτώνας ειατ έϋννήτους, ήκα στίλβοντας έλαίω.) A nd the girls wore fair garlands on their heads, while the young men carried golden knives that hung from sword-belts o f silver. (595—8) Fine clothing is, one m ight say, the hallmark o f a prosperous civilized society in Homer, and its making and care the distinction o f its women. Alcinous singled out changes o f clothing as a delight o f the Phaeacians, and fine weaving is stressed in the utopian picture o f his palace {Od. 7.105—11). A nd it is, o f course, in order to wash the clothing o f Alcinous’ household that Nausicaa goes to the shore {Od. 6 .1 3 -1 1 2 ). Her unmarried brothers, for instance, are always wanting newly laundered clothes when they go dancing (6 4 -5 ). In the Iliad this kind o f raiment comes almost exclusively from two places— Troy and Olympus. W hen Diomedes wounds Aphrodite his spear rips ‘through the immortal robe that the very Graces had woven for her carefully’ (5.338; cf. 5.315, and the veil o f Artemis at 21.507). Athene, more used to battle, takes off her ‘elaborate robe which she herself had wrought with her hands’ patience’ (5.735 = 8.386). And o f course when Hera prepares herself to seduce Zeus she has an especially seductive toilette (14.169 if., esp. 1 71 -8 1). Turning to Troy, the fine quality o f Helen’s dress in book 3 is reiter­ ated,28 and when Aphrodite fetches her to Paris she says: He is in his chamber now, in the bed with its circled pattern, shining in his raiment and beauty (κάλλεΐ τε στίλβων, και ειμασιν). Y ou would not think he came from fighting a man, but was going rather to a dance or rested from dancing lately. (3 9 1 -4 ) In book 6 Hecuba goes to the palace treasure-chamber to find a robe to dedicate to Athene. There lay the elaborately wrought robes, the work o f Sidonian women, whom Alexandros himself, the god-like, had brought home

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from the land o f Sidon, crossing the wide sea, on that journey when he brought back also gloriously descended Helen, Hecuba lifted out one and took it as a gift to Athena, that which was the loveliest in design and the largest, and shone like a star. It lay beneath the others. (6 .2 8 9 -9 5 ) That offering fails, o f course, and its inevitable failure is woven into its guilty history. But it is that same treasure-chamber which Priam goes to in book 24 to fetch the ransom for Achilles: H e lifted back the fair covering o f his clothes-chest and from inside took out twelve robes surpassingly lovely and twelve mantles to be worn single, as many blankets, as many great white cloaks, also the same number o f tunics

(χιτώνας).

(2 4 .2 2 8 -3 1 ) This supplication succeeds, and Achilles carefully leaves for wrapping the corpse o f Hector Two great cloaks and a fine-spun tunic’ (δύο φάρε" έυννητόν τε χιτώνα, 580; cf. 588). The fine clothing o f Troy, and above all o f the household o f Priam, is dispersed as ransom or used for wrapping corpses— and what is left is due to be looted or burned. So the washing-troughs in book 22 are no gratuitous detail (let alone a quaint record o f real-life hydrography). Three times Hector is pursued by Achilles round the walls o f Troy, past the springs o f Scamander, the river of. Troy: Beside these in this place, and close to them, are the washing-hollows o f stone, and magnificent, where the wives o f the Trojans and their lovely daughters washed the clothes to shining, in the old days when there was peace, before the com ing o f the sons o f the Achaeans. (2 2 .1 5 3 -6 ) So H ector’s heroism and his death are closely associated with the place that epitomizes the former prosperity and delight o f Troy, Troy which once Hector falls is doom ed to burn. The m otif is continued in Andromache’s lament at the end o f the book. She mourns H ector’s corpse . . . naked, though in your house there is clothing laid up that is fine-textured (λ επ τά ) and pleasant, wrought by the hands o f women. But all o f these I will burn up in the fire’s blazing, no use to you, since you will never be laid away in them. (22.510—1 3 )29 But she is wrong. Achilles himself has the corpse o f Hector wrapped in the

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fine raiment o f Troy (2 4 .5 8 8 -9 0 ). And at the very end o f the epic the ashes o f H ector are buried in a casket wrapped about with soft robes o f purple5 (24.796). The dance on the shield o f Achilles shows, then, how fine raiment should be put to use, how it was used at Troy in the old days before the Achaeans came: the rest o f the Uiad shows the uses they have to put it to in wartime. V The Fifth (Outmost) Circle (606—7): Ocean He made on it the great strength o f the Ocean River which ran around the uttermost rim o f the shield’s strong structure. The inmost circle showed the heavens which are above the earth, the outmost the stream o f Ocean which runs round the earth. The shield presents, that is, a kind o f microcosm or epitome o f the world. I hope by now that this is clear: it would, I believe, have been clear to the original audience from the first line (483),

εν μέν γαιαν ετευξΛ , εν δ3ουρανόν, έν δέ θάλασσαν . . .

III The shield is a microcosm. This elementary observation is a commonplace, indeed the starting-point, for critics like Schadewaldt and Reinhardt; but it is not to be found in the standard handbooks read in England, only in some less orthodox works o f the kind that students are often warned o ff.30 The shield is a microcosm; but that does not mean it includes in miniature every single thing to be found in the world— that would be impossible, and is not in any case the way that poetry and art work. They select and emphasize in order to impart meaning. The shield omits, for instance, poverty and misery; it omits trade and seafaring; it does not figure religion or cult, and it does not figure mythology or named heroes and places. The omissions m ight prove instructive, but I wish to concentrate on what is there. I hope I have shown that on the whole the scenes are those o f prosperous settled societies at peace, representing the Homeric picture o f the good life. But the shield is a microcosm, not a utopia, and death and destruction are also there, though in inverse proportion to the rest o f the Iliad. Rural life is invaded by the lions, and one o f the two cities is surrounded by armies and carnage. I argued (pp. 1 8 4 -5 above) that the city and its besiegers are meant to put us in mind o f Troy and the Achaeans, in fact o f the rest o f the Iliad. W hat I now wish to suggest is that the city on the shield puts the Iliad itself into perspective; it puts war and prowess into perspective within the world as a whole. On the shield the Iliad takes up, so to speak, one half o f one o f the five circles. It is as though Homer has allowed us temporarily to stand

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back from the poem and see it in its place— like a ‘detail’ from the reproduction o f a painting— within a larger landscape, a landscape which is usually blotted from sight by the all-consuming narrative in the foreground. This interpretation is close to that o f Schadewaldt (op. cit. in n .l, esp. p. 368), and o f Owen in The Story of the Iliad (pp. 1 86 -9 ). He lifts our eyes from their concentration upon the battlefield to the contemplation o f other scenes which remind us o f the fullness and variety o f life; it is a breathing-space in the battle, in which we have time to look around us and remember that this is only an incident in the busy world o f human activities, that though Troy may fall and Achilles’ life be wrecked, the world goes on as before; and in that remembrance there is at the same time relief o f emotional tension and yet a heightening o f expectation through the holding back o f the long-awaited crisis, and also a deepening o f the poignancy o f the tragedy by seeing it thus against the large indifferent background o f the wider life o f the world. (Owen, pp. 1 8 7 -8 ) But I hear the protest that this kind o f interpretation is the product o f sentimental pacifism and is contradicted by the whole spirit o f the Iliad. The Iliad^ it is claimed, is a poem o f heroic war; it glorifies war and glorifies those who kill most successfully. ‘The Iliad is saturated in blood, a fact which cannot be hidden or argued away, twist the evidence as we may in a vain attempt to fit archaic Greek values to a more gentle code o f ethics. The poet and his audience lingered lovingly over every act o f slaughter’ (Finley, WO p. 118). But not even Professor Finley can believe that this is the only attitude to be found in Homer. W e do not have to go to the ‘unheroic’ Hesiod to find O n e kind o f Strife fosters evil war and battle, being cruel: her no man loves’ . 31 Odysseus him self speaks o f ‘the wars, and throwing spears with polished hafts, and the arrows, gloom y things, which to other men are terrible’ (Od. 14.225—6), and Menelaus sitting at home in Sparta among the spoils o f Troy laments, I wish I lived in my house with only a third part o f all these goods, and that the men were alive who died in those days in wide Troy land far away from horse-pasturing Argos. {Od. 4 .9 7 -9 ) But our standard authorities feel that such attitudes are alien to the heroic ethos and to Homer proper. They write them o ff as later, anachro­ nistic, and incongruous. Take, for instance, Finley (WO p. 97) on the good king at Od. 19.107 if. (quoted on pp. 1 8 6 -7 above): ‘Everything that Homer tells us demonstrates that here he permitted a contemporary note to enter, carefully restricting it, however, to a harmless simile and thus avoiding any possible contradiction in the narrative itse lf’ The professor o f History

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abhors ‘contradiction', and he sifts the poem for the history and discards the contemporary or anachronistic accretions. For a historian this may be legitimate method, but it has also been applied by a professor o f Literature. This same strategy is even more fully worked out for the Iliad by G. S. Kirk in his essay ‘Homer: the meaning o f an oral tradition'.32 He implies (pp. 11—12) that the unwarlike tone o f the similes and the shield o f Achilles are foreign and somehow inessential: ‘These intrusions are morally and aesthe­ tically permissible; they do not break the heroic mood that must predom i­ nate before Troy because they are formally enclosed in similes or in a digression about armour.’ But he is well aware that such attitudes are not only found on the shield and in the similes. On p. 11 he nips through the greatest scenes in the Iliad— H ector and Andromache, Achilles’ rejection o f the embassy, Priam and Achilles (‘more unnerving'33)— and concludes ‘what is happening here is that the subsequent poetical tradition [K.'s italics] has allowed these occasional flashes o f humanity to illuminate the severer architecture o f the heroic soul’ . The metaphors are rather obscure, but presumably the ‘heroic soul' is what the Iliad is really about and ‘heroic soul' is free from all contaminations o f ‘humanity'. These authorities, then, see anything that is not really ‘heroic’ and does not glorify war as ‘subse­ quent’ and detachable. Chronologically speaking these divisions m ight be right, but as literary criticism they are invalid. W ith in a work o f literature tensions, even contra­ dictions, are inseparable parts o f a com plex whole. The strategy o f Professors Finley and Kirk is in fact left over from the good old days o f the m ulti­ layered analysts: in these days o f ‘the monumental poet' we cannot split Homer into consistent layers so easily. I shall try to maintain that the shield o f Achilles is much more than just ‘a digression about armour’ by looking at other ways in which in the Iliad war is set against a larger world view, other elements which confirm and give context to the striking effect created by the shield. It is, I suggest, as though there lay behind the Iliad the whole world o f peace and ordinary life, but only glimpsed occasionally through gaps or windows in the martial canvas which fills the foreground. This other world is seen most directly in Troy itself, since the Trojans still have to live in the setting o f their former prosperity and joy. Troy as it was, as it m ight be were it not for the war, is envisaged most clearly in the scenes o f book 6— the palace o f Priam (p. 184 above), its treasure-chamber (pp. 1 8 8 -9 above), the whole scene between H ector and Andromache. But the peacetime Troy is glimpsed, subliminally almost, throughout the poem in the formulaic epithets: the city is spacious, well built, with fertile lands; it has fine horses and lovely women. The m otif o f the former wealth o f Troy and o f its royal house runs right through,34 and it reaches its fulfil­ ment, like so many o f the motifs o f the Iliad, in the scene between Achilles and Priam:

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And you, old sir, we are told that you prospered once .· . . . . . o f all these you were lord once in your wealth and your children. But now the Uranian gods have brought me, an affliction upon you, for ever there is fighting about your city, and men killed. (2 4 .5 4 3 -8 ) W e also glimpse the world that the Achaeans and the Trojan allies have left behind, the world they hope to win back to when the war is over (cf. the Odyssey). Again and again we are given fleeting glances o f wives and families, native ' rivers, fertile estates, and beautiful treasures. They have left these to go to war, and many shall never return. These lost delights are evoked above all to emphasize the pathos o f slaughter. Such passages are discussed in an essay o f great insight by Jasper Griffin (see n. 19): But in the Iliad the lesser heroes are shown in all the pathos o f their death, the change from the brightness o f life to a dark and meaningless existence, the grief o f their friends and families; but the style preserves the poem from sentimentality on the one hand and sadism on the other. Stripped o f the sort o f passages here discussed, it would lose not merely an ornament, but a vital part o f its nature, (p. 186) Thirdly, there are the similes. Many are drawn, o f course, from the world o f peace, o f rural life, from the everyday life o f ordinary people, the audience. W hat has to be further appreciated is that some o f the similepictures derive their power from an actual contrast with the world o f w a r. which they are compared t o .35 W hat this contrast does is to oblige the audience to reconsider the context through the comparison, to look at it again in the light o f the difference as well· as the similarity. I hope to make the point simply by four illustrations. The tranquillity o f the snowscape at 12.278—86, spanning from mountain-top across the lowlands and out to sea, muffling all disturbance, throws us back with all the more shock into the din and violence o f the Trojan attack on the wall. W hen the fire o f Hephaestus sweeps through the vegetation on the banks o f Scamander and even the fish are tortured, it is likened to a breeze that dries a newly irrigated plot and so delights the gardener (2 1 .3 4 6 -7 ). Agam em non’s wound hurts like a woman’s labour pains (11.269—72), and when Gorgythion is killed his head droops like a poppy-head heavy with seed (8 .3 0 6 7). Again and again pain and destruction and violent death are compared to fertile agriculture, creative craftsmanship, useful objects and tasks, scenes o f peace and innocent delight. I quote the conclusion o f a valuable article by D. H. Porter:30 The grimness and bloodiness o f the battlefield are inevitably rendered darker and more tragic by the constant brief glimpses we get in the similes o f a world where milk flows, flowers and crops grow in the fields,

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shepherds tend their flocks, and small children play. Conversely, these momentary glimpses o f the world o f peace are made more idyllic and poignant by the panorama o f violence and destruction which surround them. The similes thus let us— indeed make us— look through the war to the peace that lies behind it, to the peace that the warriors have abandoned and which many o f them w ill never know again. The similes make us see war as wasteful and destructive, the blight o f peace and pleasure. And this is, I suggest, what the shield o f Achilles does, but on a far larger scale. It makes us think about war and see it in relation to peace. Achilles has just made the decision which w ill lead to Hector’s death and then to his own; Hector has just made the decision which will lead to his death and then to the sack o f Troy. At this point we are made to contemplate the life that Achilles has renounced and the civilization that Troy will never regain. The two finest things in the Iliad— Achilles and Troy— will never again enjoy the exis­ tence portrayed on the shield: that is the price o f war and o f heroic glory. The shield o f Achilles brings home the loss, the cost o f the events o f the Iliad. I trust I do not seem to be maintaining that the Iliad is an anti-war epic, a pacifist tract— that would be almost as much o f a distortion as the opposite extreme which I am attacking. The Iliad does not explicitly condemn war nor does it try to sweeten it: indeed its equity is essential to its greatness. It presents both sides, victory and defeat, the destroyer and the destroyed; and it does not judge between them. The gain and the loss are put side by side without prejudice. In terms o f quantity, o f course, much more o f the poem is taken up with war and killing, but the glimpses o f peace and loss stand out all the more by contrast, as a simile stands out in a battle-scene, or the shield o f Achilles in the poem as a whole. The Iliad is a poem o f war in which valiant heroes win glory in battle and prove their worth by killing the enemy. The poem is the product o f a tradition o f martial epic, songs o f the κ λ έ α άνδρών; and it does not deny— let alone condemn— the fundamental premiss o f its own tradition, that mighty deeds o f battle are fit matter for the immortality o f song. Many early Greek epics may have consisted solely o f narrative o f the glorious exploits o f Greek warriors,37 but the Iliad is much, much more than that. The poem itself is the primary and incontrovertible source for what Homer regards as important, and it outweighs any amount o f comparative material from other cultures or o f synthesized versions o f the 'Heroic W o rld ’ . Homer shows what is important by conferring on it the immortality o f song. Con­ sider, after all, what it is that wins the major characters their immortality in the poem as it is. Hector may win glory by his victories in battle during the central books, but he is remembered above all for his scene with Andromache and for his failure and death in battle defending his fatherland.38 Achilles is

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not immortalized for his massacre o f Trojans in books 20 and 21 so much as for his impending death before his time, for his rejection o f the embassy in book 9, and for his treatment o f Priam.39 Certainly some o f the lesser heroes win their place in the poem for their deeds in battle, but there are others who are immortalized for what they do and say off the field, not only Thersites, Paris or Nestor, but Helen, Hecuba, and Priam. In fact, to cut a long story short, the great figures o f the Iliad are great not because o f the outstanding slaughter they inflict, but because o f the quality o f their suffering and the way that they bear it. The Iliad owes its tragic greatness to H om er’s ability to appreciate and sympathize with both aspects o f heroic war. He shows how for every victory there is a defeat, how for every triumphant killing there is another human killed. Glorious deeds are done, m ighty prowess displayed: at the same time fine cities are burned, fathers lose their sons, women lose their families and freedom. This is im plicit in Achilles’ own decision: N ow I must win excellent glory, and drive someone o f the women o f Troy, or some deep-girdled Dardanian woman, lifting up to her soft cheeks both hands to wipe away the close bursts o f tears in her lamentation, and learn that I stayed too long out o f the fighting (1 8 .1 2 1 -5 ) — and explicit in his words to Priam in book 24. He does not look after his old father Peleus ‘since far from the land o f my fathers I sit here in Troy, and bring nothing but sorrow to you and yóur children’ (24.541—2). Homer gives victory and prowess their due recognition, but he never loses sight o f the human cost, o f the waste o f what m ight have flourished and brought joy. Human beings protect their dependants and win glory, and thus war is important: human beings also suffer and endure, and war is a great cause o f this. The scope o f H om er’s sympathy has perhaps never been more deeply expressed than in Simone W e il’s essay, The Iliad\ or The Poem o f Force, 0 It was not written for scholars and is not argued in the academic mode: it none the less conveys a fundamental understanding o f the Iliad. A single quota­ tion will have to serve: A nd yet such an accumulation o f violences would be cold without that accent o f incurable bitterness which continually makes itself felt, although often indicated only by a single word, sometimes only by a play o f verse, by a run over line. It is this which makes the Iliad a unique poem, this bitterness, issuing from its tenderness, and which extends, as the light o f the sun, equally over all men. Never does the tone o f the poem cease to be impregnated by this bitterness, nor does it ever descend to the level o f a complaint . . . N othing precious is despised, whether or

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not destined to perish. The destitution and misery o f all men is shown without dissimulation or disdain . . . and whatever is destroyed is regretted. The person who found this dimension in the Iliad was not some complacent pedant, but a young woman who renounced pacifism in 1939 and died in 1943, consumed by regret for man’s inhumanity to man. Simone W eil understood the Iliad more fully than W . H . Auden. Auden was disturbed that the great poem o f war should include the shield o f Achilles, and insisted that art must present war in all its brutal inhumanity without such loopholes. But the Iliad is not only a poem o f war, it is also a poem o f peace. It is a tragic poem, and in it war prevails over peace— but that has been the tragic history o f so much o f mankind. The extent o f A uden’s partiality is brought out by his ragged urchin ‘w ho’d never heard o f any world where promises were kept, / or one could weep because another w ept’ . Let me end by quoting in full the passage which in many ways the whole Iliad has been leading up to. Priam has come to the tent o f Achilles, and ends his plea for the ransom o f Hector: 'Honour then the gods, Achilles, and take pity on me remembering your father, yet I am still more pitiful; I have gone through what no other mortal on earth has gone through; I put my lips to the hands o f the man who has killed my children.’ So he spoke, and stirred in the other a passion o f grieving for his own father. He took the old man’s hand and pushed him gently away, and the two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet o f Achilles and wept close for manslaughtering Hector and Achilles wept now for his own father, now again for Patroclus. The sound o f their mourning moved in the house. Then when great Achilles had taken full satisfaction in sorrow and the passion o f it had gone from his mind and body, thereafter he rose from his chair, and took the old man by the hand, and set him on his feet again, in pity for the grey head and the grey beard, and spoke to him and addressed him in winged words: ‘Ah, unlucky, surely you have had much evil to endure in your spirit. H ow could you dare to come alone to the ships o f the Achaeans and before my eyes, when I am one who have killed in such numbers such brave sons o f yours? The heart in you is iron. Come, then, and sit down upon this chair, and you and I will even let our sorrows lie still in the heart for all our grieving. There is not any advantage to be won from grim lamentation. Such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals, that we live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows.’ (2 4 .5 0 3 -2 6 )

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N otes 1. Little in this essay is new, though much may be unfamiliar to those brought up on the kind of Homeric studies which have prevailed in Britain and America for some half a century now. I have been especially helped by three essays on the shield: W . Schadewaldt, Von Homers Weh und Werk (Stuttgart, 4th edn. 1965) [hereafter HWW\y pp. 352-74 (first published in 1938), K. Reinhardt, Die Ilias und ihr Dichter (Göttingen, 1961), pp. 401-11 (first published in 1956), and W . Marg, Homer über die Dichtung (Münster, 1st edn. 1957, 2nd edn. 1971). Their influence has been pervasive and I shall not try to single out every concurrence. For a list of those renegades who have taken the shield seriously in English see n. 30 below. I am indebted to Colin Macleod and Malcolm Willcock for some helpful suggestions and corrections. 2. For the contrasts between these two crucial decisions to fight see Schadewaldt's superb essay O ie Entscheidung des Achilleus1 in H W W , pp. 234-67. 3. See J. Armstrong's excellent article on arming scenes, AJP 79(195 8), 337 ff., esp. 344—5. All the translations are Lattimore’s, with slight alterations where necessary. 4. The useful introduction and commentary by C. F. Russo (Florence, 2nd edn. 1965), esp. pp. 29—35 date the poem to the sixth century. Anyone who has read the Shield of Heracles can hardly continue to believe that the Iliad and Odyssey were merely typical products of a tradition in which the author submerged his individual genius. I am not sure why Jasper Griffin does not make more use of this third-rate cyclic-type blustering in his excellent article The Epic Cycle and the Uniqueness of Homer' J H S 97 (1977), 39 ff 5. See the useful pamphlet on the shield of Achilles by K. Fittschen in the series Archaeologia Homerica: Kapitel N, Bildkunst, Teil 1 (Gottingen, 1973), esp. p. 2; and compare the plates to be found on pp. 93-109. and 181-3 of K. Friis Johansen, The Iliad in Early Greek Art (Copenhagen, 1967). 6. First published in Poetry for Oct. 1952. I;can find no external reason to think the poem was written earlier than 1952. 7. ’W ho would not live long’: ώ κ ύ μ ορος; μινυνθάδιος. The motif is intro­ duced in book 1 (352, 4l6f.) and recurs throughout: see Schadewaldt, HWW, pp. 260 f. ‘Iron-hearted': the metaphor is rare in the Iliad, but is used by Hector of Achilles as he dies at 22.357 (otherwise only of Priam at 24.205,521). ‘Man-slaying’: is it not likely that Auden derived the epithet from the phrase χείρα ς εκ ανδροφ όνους at 18.317? The only other times the epithet is used of hands are also about Achilles: 23.18 and 24.479— the latter at the greatest moment of the entire Iliad. I shall return to the subject of Auden and Iliad 24 at the end (p. 196). 8. For the less orthodox scholars see n. 30 below. 9. See Fittschen, op. cit., passim. For a bibliography of such views see Fittschen, pp. 4 -5 . 10. 18.148—238 is the only fighting between 18.1 and 20.156 ff. 11. Quoted from C.M. Bowra, Tradition and Design in the Iliad (Oxford, 1930), p. 126. I have found the most thoroughgoing and readable assertion of the paratactic approach the article by J. A. Notopoulos, TAPA 80 (1949), 1 ff. The notion has been adapted and updated by G. S. Kirk under the term ‘cumulation’, particularly in his paper ‘Verse-structure and Sentence-structure’ in Homer and the Oral Tradition (Cambridge, 1976) [hereafter HOT], pp. 146 ff., esp. pp. 167 ff. (originally in YCS 20 (1966), 73 ff). Note this on p. 171: ‘Arming scenes, descriptions of pieces of armour, developed similes, the description of minor figures

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and their genealogy whether or not in a catalogue— these are the typical loci for cumulation.’ 12. Lessing, Laocoon, chs. 17—19- This point has been stressed by H. A. Gaertner, ‘Beobachtungen zum Schild des A / in Studien zum antiken Epos, hsgb. H. Görgemanns and E. A. Schmidt (Meisenheim, 1976), pp. 46 ff. 13It would undoubtedly make most sense if line 483 (land, heaven, sea’) were a summary of the entire shield, and 484-9 the details of the first circle, showing only the heavens; this is maintained by Fittschen, op. cit., p. 10. But there are difficulties, above all the construction of line 484; this interpretation is impossible without emendation. 14. Cf. in various circumstances the rebukes and taunts at II. 3.54, 15.508, 16.617, 16.745-50, 24.261. 15- Those who are inclined to fall for the stuff about women and wives in M. I. Finley, The World of Odysseus (London, 2nd edn. 1977) [hereafter WO], pp. 126 ff., should read Iliad book 6 as an antidote. They might also take note of Od. 6.180-5 (overlooked by Finley). 16. See notably H. Hommel in Palingenesia iv (Festschr. für R. Stark, Wiesbaden, 1969), Π ff., and φ. Andersen, SO 51 (1976), 5 ff., esp. 11-16. 17. Cf. Andersen, op. cit. 918. Achilles had once come upon Aeneas herding on the slopes of Ida, but Aeneas ran and escaped (20.187 if.). Achilles would often spare the Trojans he captured, like Lycaon whom he caught in Priam’s garden cutting fig branches to malee a chariot rail: but the death of Patroclus changes all that— see 21.99-113. 19. On pathos in the Iliad see the exceptionally perceptive and well-argued article by J. Griffin, CQ 26 (1976), I 6 I ff. 20. F. Solmsen, Hermes 93 (1965), 1-6. Further points against 535-8 are added by J. M. Lynn-George, Hermes 106 (1978), 396-405; Lynn-George defends 539-40 as Homeric, but unconvincingly to my mind. On the primitive notion of Κήρες see J. Redfield, Nature and Culture in the Iliad (Chicago, 1975), pp. 184 f. 21. For full details see S. West, The Ptolemaic Papyri of Homer (Cologne, 1967), pp. 132-6. 22. It is often said that the division of the year into four seasons is not to be found before Aleman (fr.20). But all four of Aleman’s seasons— έαρ, θ έρος, οπώρη, and χείμα— are to be found in Homer. 23. Kirk, HOTy p. 12 asserts that the king is going to eat ail the roast beef while the workers will have barley mash. I cannot see any reason for preferring this to the interpretation well argued for by Leaf. The heralds have performed the slaughter and jointing; the women are actually cooking it, and this involves sprinkling the meat with barley, exactly as at Od. 14.77. 24. Cf. Gaertner, op. cit., pp. 61-3. For some examples of such temene in the Iliad compare 6.194 (Bellerophon), 9 576 (Meleager), 12.313 (Glaucus and Sarpedon), 20.184 (Aeneas). 25. W ho is to say that it is pure coincidence that the unusual verb όαρίζειν also occurs at 6.516 used of the conversation of Hector and Andromache? See the good remarks of E. T. Owen, The Story of the Iliad {set n. 30 below), pp. 121-2; cf. C. Segal, The Theme of the Mutilation of the Corpse in the Iliad (Mnem. Supp. 17, Leiden, 1971), p. 36. 26. J. Kakridis has produced comparative material which confirms that the main scene of an ‘imagined eephrasis’ should come last: see Homer Revisited (Lund, 1971), pp. 108 ff, esp. 123 (originally in WSt 76 (1963), 7 ff). Gaertner (op. cit., p. 53 n. 18) argues that the king’s temenos is the climactic scene of the shield, but he does not refute Kakridis.

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27. Most editors since W olf have included the line and believed that it was wrongly ejected by Aristarchus. This rests on a long stretch of fictional pedantry in Athenaeus book 4 (180a-181c). But all the experts on Aristarchus are quite clear that Athenaeus cannot have got his facts right— perhaps he did not try to. For full bibliography see Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem IV, ed. H. Erbse (Berlin, 1975), p509· The case for the line must stand or fall without Athenaeus. 28. 141, α ρ γ ε ν ν ή σ ι ό θ ό ν η σ ιν ; 385, νεκτα ρέου έανοϋ; 419, έανφ ά ρ γή τι φαεινφ. 3.385 surely gives extra point to Athena’s taunt at 5.421-5: but at the time in book 3 Aphrodite’s treatment of Helen is no joke. 29- See Schadewaldt’s brilliant essay on the death of Hector in HWW, pp. 268 ffi, esp. 331-2; álso Segal, op. cit., pp. 46-7. 30. Pride of place must go to E. T. Owen, The Story of the Iliad (Toronto, 1946, repr. Ann Arbor, 1966), pp. 186-9; there is a quotation on p. 191. This admirable book is directed to students rather than research scholars, but that does not explain the unjust neglect of it. I suspect that it has been axiomatic that any Homeric study which does not take due account of oral composition must be totally valueless: I see no justification for this attitude. Other works in English which say things worth saying about the shield of Achilles are J. T. Sheppard, The Pattern of the Iliad (London, 1922), pp. 1-10, esp. 8, C. H. Whitman, Homer and the Heroic Tradition (Harvard, 1958), pp. 205f, G. A. Duethorn, Achilles' Shield and the Structure of the Iliad (Amhurst, 1962), C. R. Beye, The Iliad, the Odyssey and the Epic Tradition (Garden City, 1966), pp. 143-4, Redfield (see n. 20), pp. 187-8. I find K. J. Atchity, Homer's Iliad, the Shield of Memory (Southern Illinois, 1978) disappointingly diffuse and fanciful. 31. Works and Days 14-15; see West’s note on 15. 32. HOT, pp. 1 ff. (first published in 1972); compare also HOT, pp. 5Ó-2 (first published in 1968). 33- ‘Achilles’ temporary compassion for Priam . . . is more unnerving . . . but then Achilles sees his own father in Priam, and in any case he rapidly suppresses the unheroic emotion and threatens a renewal of anger, the proper heroic reaction to an enemy.’ This is not the place to explain why I take this to be a fundamental misconstruction of book 24 and of the whole Iliad. It will have to serve for now to observe that what lines 560—70 do is to show what an effort of willpower it is for Achilles to overcome the ‘proper heroic reaction’; but the whole point is that, unlike Agamemnon in book I, he succeeds. The lines do not mark the end of his compassion but its continuation (see especially 633 f , 671 fi). 34. See notably 2.796 f.; 18.288 ff.; 9.403, τό π ρ ιν επ’ ειρ ήνης, π ρ ιν έ λθ ε ΐν υϊας Α χ α ιώ ν = 22.156 (see ρ. 189 above). 35. Only some similes, not all. I consider it a great mistake to try to isolate a single function for ail Homeric similes: on the contrary Homer seems to expect his audience to be alert to a wide variety. Far from providing relaxation the similes are especially taxing because of the very unpredictability of the relation o f each to its context. 36. See in general Porter’s excellent article ‘Violent Juxtaposition in the Similes of the Iliad\ CJ 68 (1972), 11—21 (the quotation is from p. 19); also Redfield (see n. 20), pp. 186 ff. On the Agamemnon simile see also C. Moulton, Smiles in the Homeric Poems (Göttingen, 1977), pp. 98-9, on Gorgythion M. Silk, Interaction in Poetic Imagery (Cambridge, 1974), p. 537. It is clear that the construction of battle narratives was highly traditional. This is one of many important points which receive interesting confirmation in B. Fenik, Typical- Battle Scenes in the Iliad (Wiesbaden, 1968). The tradition was evidently chauvinisticaliy pro-Greek: on Homer’s departure from this see the fine

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essay ‘Ά ε ΐ φ ίλ έ λ λ η ν Ô π ο ιη τή ς? ’ in Kakridis (see n. 26), pp. 54 ff. (originally in WSt 69 (1956), 26 ff.). 38. See the brief but telling remarks by J. Griffin (see n. 19), 186 f. 39. Note especially 24.110, spoken by Zeus to Thetis, αύτάρ έγώ τόδε κυδος Ά χ ι λ λ ή ι προτιάπτω . The κυδος is to pity Priam and accept the ransom, thus proving Zeus' estimate of him in 24.157-8 right rather than Apollo's in 24.39 ff. 40. Originally in Cahiers du Sud 1940—1, and reprinted in La Source grecque (Paris, 1952); translated into English as a pamphlet by M. McCarthy (New York, 1945, repr. 1967), and in the collection Intimations of Christianity among the Ancient Greeks (London, 1957) by E. C. Geissbuhler.

B. Speeches

53 D ie M onologe in den homerischen Epen*

C. Hentze *Source: Philologus, vol.

63, 1904, pp. 12-30.

Den Gebrauch der verschiedenen Arten der Rede, in denen die epischen Dichter je nach den Umständen die handelnden Personen des Epos sich aussprechen lassen— Dialog, M onolog, Chorrede1 und die Rede im engeren Sinne— in den homerischen Epen genauer zu untersuchen, die für eine jede entwickelte Kunstform festzustellen, ihre Steile in der epischen Technik zu bestimmen und ihre Handhabung durch beide Epen und in den einzelnen Theilen derselben zu verfolgen, ist eine noch zu lösende, bis jetzt kaum ernstlich in A n griff genommene A ufgabe.2 Und doch bedarf es solcher Untersuchungen dringend, um für den allmählichen Aufbau einer hom e­ rischen Poetik einen sicheren Grund zu legen. Hier sind nach den angegebenen Gesichtspunkten zunächst die M ono­ loge in den homerischen Epen einer genaueren Untersuchung unterzogen, deren Ergebnisse ich in den folgenden Blättern mittheile. Der M onolog theilt mit den übrigen im Epos verwendeten Arten der Rede die direkte Ausdrucksform. Die W ahl dieser Form, welche wir im Dialog bereits in den ältesten Epen der verschiedensten Völker angewendet finden, war ursprünglich wohl nur die Folge der noch mangelhaften Aus­ bildung der Syntax, da die Formen der erzählten Rede noch nicht so allseitig entwickelt oder doch noch nicht so geläufig waren, daß größere Gedankenreihen sich darin ohne Schwierigkeiten wiedergeben ließen. W as aber ursprünglich nur ein N othbehelf war, wurde bei weiterer Entwicklung der epischen Kunst zu einem besonderen Kunstmittel ausgebildet, welches in hervorragender W eise dem Zweck diente, das Vergangene lebhaft zu vergegenwärtigen, und daher auch in allen andern Arten der Rede ange­ wendet. So auch im M onolog, obwohl dieser meistens nicht wirklich gesprochene Rede enthält, sondern nur die Empfindungen und Erwägungen des Subjekts so wiedergiebt, als ob sie ausgesprochen seien. Diese Fiktion wird in den homerischen Gedichten durchweg festgehalten, dergestalt, daß alle zur Einführung der M onologe gebrauchten W endungen ein Verbum

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des Sagens enthalten, mit einziger Ausnahme von ζ 118 (ώρμαΐνε κατά φρένα και κατά 'θυμόν), während im altdeutschen Epos M onologe gewöhnlich mit einem ‘er dachte (in seinem Sinne)' eingefuhrt werden. W eiter ist für die homerische Auffassung charakteristisch, daß der M onolog als eine Art Dialog zwischen dem Redenden und seiner Seele aufgefaßt wird, indem diese der Person des Redenden wie eine zweite Person gegeniiberstehend gedacht wird, oder wie v. d. Gabelentz Sprachwissenschaft S. 308 f. sagt, der Redende im Selbstgespräch sich wie im Spiegelbilde sich selbst gegenüberstellt. Daher einerseits die beiden Einführungsformeln όχθήσας δ3 αρα είπε προς ον μεγαλήτορα θυμόν und κινήσας ρα κάρη προτι δν μυθήσατο θυμόν3 und die vereinzelten W endungen κραδίην ήνίπαπε μύθφ υ 17 und έφ συμφράσσατο θυμω ο 202, andererseits die in den M onologen selbst verwendete Formel άλλα τί ή μοι ταυτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός; Λ 407, Ρ 97, Φ 562, X 122, womit zu vergleichen Soph. Ant. ψυχή γαρ ηυδα πολλά μοι μυθουμένη. Die homerischen Epen enthalten nun im Ganzen 21 M onologe, welche sich ziemlich gleichmäßig auf beide Epen vertheilen (II. 11, Od. 10).4 Innerhalb beider Epen aber ist diese Form sehr ungleichmäßig verwendet. In der Ilias entbehren die ersten zehn Gesänge derselben gänzlich. Den ersten M onolog bietet Λ (403), die übrigen gehören den Gesängen P - X an, und zwar enthält P drei (V. 90. 200. 442), Σ einen (V. 5), Y zwei (V. 343. 424), Φ zwei (V. 53. 552), X zwei (V. 98. 296). In der Odyssee sind die vier ersten Gesänge, sowie die A pologe (l- μ ) , ohne Beispiel; der fünfte Gesang aber enthält allein sechs (V. 285. 298. 355. 376. 407. 464), die übrigen 4 vertheilen sich auf ζ (V. 118). v (V. 199). CJ (V. 200). υ (V. 17). W as die Personen betrifft, denen M onologe in den Mund gelegt werden, so entfällt die Mehrzahl auf die Hauptpersonen beider Epen: auf Achill vier (Σ 5. Y 343. 424. Φ 53), auf Odysseus sieben (ε 298. 355. 407. 464. ζ 118. V 199. υ 17); von den Göttern sind je mit zwei M onologen betheiligt: in der Ilias Zeus (P 200. 442), in der Odyssee Poseidon (ε 285. 376); die übrigen sind zugetheilt: in der Ilias zwei dem Hektor (X 98. 296), je einer dem Odysseus (Λ 403), dem Menelaos (P 90), dem Agenor (Φ 552), in der Odyssee einer der Penelope ( σ 200). Den Anlaß zum Selbstgespräch bildet fast überall eine Wahrnehmung, die das wahrnehmende Subjekt irgendwie lebhaft erregt, meistens eine solche, die in seiner Seele Unmuth oder Unwillen, Schrecken oder Sorge, Ueberraschung und Staunen hervorruft. Daher beginnen die M onologe theils mit den Ausrufen ώ μοι εγώ P 91. Σ 6. Φ 553. X 99· ε 356. ζ 119. ν 200, ώ μοι εγώ δειλός ε 298, ώ μοι εγώ, τί πάθω Λ 404. ε 465, ώ μοι ε 408, theils mit der Formel ώ πόποι, ή μέγα θαύμα τόδ’ όφθαλμοισιν ορώμαι Υ 344. Φ 53, oder nur m it ώ πόποι (ή μάλα δή) X 297. ε 286, ή σ 201. Ohne solche Partikeln sind Y 425. ε 377. υ 18. Die Selbstgespräche beschäftigen sich regelmäßig mit der eigenen Person

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des Sprechenden; eine Ausnahme machen die den Göttern zugetheilten, denn diese betreffen das Schicksal von Sterblichen (P 443 das von Rossen), der G ott bezeichnet diese aber nicht als dritte Personen (ausgenommen ε 286), sondern richtet an sie, als ob sie ihm gegenüberständen, Anreden in der zweiten Person: & δείλ'(Hektor) P 201, & δειλώ (Achills Rosse) P 443; vergl. ε 377 £ Dem Inhalt nach lassen sich die M onologe in zwei Hauptklassen eintheilen: in erwägende und betrachtende; eine besondere Gruppe bilden die Göttermonologe. Die erste Hauptklasse umfaßt die M onologe, welche auf Grund einer eben eingerretenen schwierigen und gefährlichen Situation oder einer den Sprechenden beunruhigenden W ahrnehmung die verschie­ denen Möglichkeiten des Handelns in Erwägung ziehen und gewöhnlich mit einer Entschließung endigen. In den meisten hieher gehörigen M ono­ logen der Ilias handelt es sich um die Frage, ob der Sprechende dem ihm nahenden Gegner zum K am pf sich stellen oder sich dem K am pf entziehen soll. Die Gedankenfolge ist dabei die, daß nach einem W ehruf, ohne Darlegung der Situation sofort die verschiedenen M öglichkeiten des Handelns, verbunden mit einem Urtheil darüber oder mit Angabe der voraussichtlichen Folgen einander gegenübergestellt werden, worauf einge­ leitet mit der Formel άλλα τί ή μοι ταυτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός; die Verwerfung der einen und die Entscheidung für die andere erfolgt. Diesen Typus stellt am einfachsten und reinsten der M onolog des Odysseus Λ 404 ff. dar:

ώμοι εγώ, τί πάθω; μέγα μέν κακόν, αϊ κε φέβωμαι πληθύν ταρβήσας, το δε ρίγιον, άϊ κεν άλώω μοϋνος· τούς δ’ άλλους Δαναούς έφόβησε Κρονίων. άλλα τί ή μοι ταυτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός; οίδα γάρ, οττι κακοί μεν άποίχονται πολέμοιο. ος δέ κ άριστεύησι μάχη ένι, τον δέ μάλα χρεώ έστάμεναι κρατερώς, ή τ' εβλητ' ή τ' εβαλ' άλλον. Nahe verwandt sind die M onologe P 91 ff. Φ 553 ff. X 99 ff., auch ε 465 f£, der aber nicht die Entscheidung enthält, welche erst in der Erzählung ohne Angabe von Gründen nachgebracht wird. In den andern M onologen dieser Gruppe wird die W ahrnehmung, welche den Sprechenden in Erre­ gung versetzt hat, selbst dargelegt, entweder sofort nach einem vorausge­ henden Ausruf, worauf die Gedanken in ähnlicher Weise entwickelt werden, wie in der ersten Reihe, ohne Entscheidung ε 408 ff., mit Entschei­ dung T 344 ff.,— oder in umgekehrter Anordnung, so daß den Erwägungen die W ahrnehmung nachgebracht wird, wie Φ 54 ff. ζ 119 f£ In V 201 ff. drängen sich auf Grund der gemachten Wahrnehmung eine Reihe von Fragen, W ünschen, Betrachtungen in rascher Folge, bis diese abgebrochen werden und ein Entschluß erfolgt. Von besonderer Art ist der M onolog des

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Odysseus ε 355 ff., der durch den eben ertheilten Rath der Leukothea veranlaßt, mit Zweifeln an ihrer guten Absicht beginnt und mit dem Entschluß endigt, diesen Rath zunächst nicht zu befolgen, sondern nach eigener Einsicht zu handeln. Auch die M onologe der zweiten Gruppe gehen von Wahrnehmungen aus, welche den Sprechenden in lebhafte Erregung versetzen, aber sie verfolgen nicht den Zweck, auf Grund der daraus gezogenen Folgerungen einen Entschluß zu fassen, sondern geben nur die in dem Sprechenden hervorgerufenen Empfindungen und Gedanken wieder. So vor allen der M onolog Achills Σ 6 ff., der auf Grund der eben beobachteten Flucht der Achaeer zunächst die unbestimmte Ahnung eines drohenden Unheils aus­ spricht und m it der sicheren Ueberzeugung, daß Patroklos gefallen, endigt:

ώ μοι εγώ, τί τ αρ’ αδτε κάρη κομόωντες Αχαιοί νηυσίν επι κλονέονται άτυζόμενοι πεδίοιο; μή δή μοι τελέσωσι θεοί κακά κήδεα θυμω, ώς ποτέ μοι μήτηρ διεπέφραδε καί μοι έειπεν Μυρμιδόνων τον άριστον ετι ζώοντος έμεΐο χερσίν υπο Τρώων λείψειν φάος ήελίοιο. ή μάλα δή τέθνηκε Μενοιτίου αλκιμος υιός, σχέτλιος· ή τ5έκέλευον άπωσάμενον δήιον πυρ αψ επί νήας ϊμεν, μηδ?'Έκτορι ίφι μάχεσθαι. Ferner das Selbstgespräch des Odysseus ε 299 f f , in welchem er die drohenden Anzeichen des von Poseidon erregten Sturmes verfolgend.zu der Ueberzeugung gelangt, daß er im Meere seinen Tod finden werde, und daran schmerzliche Betrachtungen knüpft. Sodann das Selbstgespräch R e k ­ tors X 297 f f , in welchem er nach der Entdeckung des ihm von Athene gespielten Betrugs von Todesahnung ergriffen sich schmerzlichen Betrach­ tungen hingiebt, aus denen er sich zuletzt aber zu dem männlichen Entschluß aufrafft ‘wenigstens nicht ohne ernstlichen K am pf und rühmlos unterzugehen\— Ihre gewöhnliche Seelenstimmung, den verzweifelnden Schmerz der treuen Gattin über den Verlust des herrlichen Gemahls, spricht Penelope in dem Selbstgespräch σ 201 f f aus, wo sie aus kurzem sanftem Schlummer erwachend daran den W unsch knüpft, daß Artemis ihr sofort einen gleich sanften Tod senden möge. Achills W orte beim A nblick des lange sehnlichst gesuchten Hektor T 425 ff., eingeführt mit der W endung ευχόμενος έπος ηυδα, enthalten nur einen leidenschaftlichen Ausruf der Befriedigung, endlich den ihm in den Tod verhaßten Feind gefunden zu haben, mit der Ankündigung des nun sofort zu beginnenden Kampfes.— Ganz eigenartig ist das Gespräch des Odysseus mit seinem ‘bellenden’ Herzen, υ 18 f f , dessen Zorn er durch die Erinnerung an ein früheres Erlebniß beschwichtigt. Auch die vier Göttermonologe werden durch Wahrnehmungen veranlaßt,

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die in Zeus (in den Beispielen der Ilias) eine aus Mitleid und Unwillen gemischte Stimmung, in Poseidon (in den Beispielen der Odyssee) Unmuth und Unwillen hervorrufen. Die daran geknüpften Betrachtungen, bezw. Folgerungen, gehen aber in einen Entschluß oder eine W illenserk­ lärung des Gottes aus, mit Ausnahme von ε 377 ff., wo Poseidon den Abschluß seiner Aktion gegen Odysseus mit einer kurzen Betrachtung begleitet. Hienach sind die M onologe der überwiegenden Mehrzahl nach dem Dichter ein Mittel, die Handlungsweise seiner Helden nach ihren Motiven zu erklären, ähnlich den M onologen des Dramas, weiche im kritischen Augenblick die innere Entscheidung der handelnden Person zur That darlegen. Seltener geben sie Stimmungsbilder von mehr lyrischem Charakter. Die den Haupthelden beider Epen zugetheilten M onologe bilden aber, abgesehen von der unmittelbaren Bedeutung, welche sie für den Fortgang der epischen Handlung haben, zum Theil auch ein werthvolles Mittel zur Charakteristik. Dies ist in hervorragendem Maße der Fall bei den dem Odysseus in den Mund gelegten M onologen. Gleich der erste Gesang, in welchem er selbst handelnd eingeführt wird (ε), enthält vier auf die Hauptmomente seiner gefahrvollen Fahrt nach dem Phäakeniande vertheilte Selbstgespräche, welche sofort die Haupteigenschaften des H el­ den, die er überall in schwierigen Lagen bewährt, hervortreten lassen. Der Charakteristik dient auch der letzte der ihm zugetheilten M onologe υ 18 ff., der seine kluge Selbstbeherrschung in das Licht stellt. Keine Rolle spielen M onologe bei der Einführung des Haupthelden der Ilias. Die Achill zugetheilten Selbstgespräche setzen erst da ein, wo die Katastrophe über ihn hereinbricht, und bringen von dem A ugenblick an, wo er die Ahnung vom Tode des Patroklos ausspricht (Σ 6 ff.), die ihn beherrschende Seelenstimmung und besonders sein leidenschaftliches Ver­ langen den Freund zu rächen zu lebendigem Ausdruck (T 425 ff., Φ 53 ff.)' N ur der M onolog Y 344 ff. verräth nichts von dieser Stimmung. W ie die den Haupthelden beider Epen zugetheilten M onologe in einem gewissen Zusammenhänge m it einander stehen, so zeigen einen solchen auch die Göttermonologe unter sich. Die gegen Odysseus gerichtete Aktion des Poseidon in ε wird mit einem M onologe des Gottes eingeleitet (285 ff.) und wieder beschlossen (376 ff.), und beide stehen inhaltlich in enger Beziehung zu einander. Ein gegensätzlicher Zusammenhang besteht zwischen den beiden M onologen des Zeus in P (200 ff., 442 ff.). Beide betreffen Hektor: im ersten gewährt ihm Zeus aus Mitleid zunächst den Sieg, im zweiten aber versagt er ihm die Erfüllung des Wunsches, sich der Rosse Achills zu bemächtigen. V on den verschiedenen Personen zugetheilten, nach Inhalt und Form aber unter sich verwandten M onologen scheinen der des Menelaos P 90 ff. und der des Odysseus Λ 403 ff. nicht ohne bewußte Beziehung auf einander

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gedichtet zu sein. Die Situation ist in beiden Steilen ziemlich gleich. Beide Helden finden sich, von den Ihrigen verlassen, Odysseus einer Ueberzahl von Feinden, Menelaos dem heranstürmenden Hektor gegenüber. Odysseus, für den sein Leben in Frage steht, verwirft ohne Zaudern den Gedanken an Flucht, Menelaos dagegen, für den es sich vor allem um die Pflicht handelt, die Leiche des im Kampfe für ihn gefallenen Patroklos und die Waffen Achills zu schützen, beschwichtigt seine Sorge um die üble Nachrede der Achaeer, wenn er fliehe, mit der Ausrede, daß der, welcher gegen einen von der Gottheit geschützten Feind ankämpfe, dem sicheren Untergange ver­ fallen sei, und entschließt sich zur Flucht. Der Parallelismus scheint unver­ kennbar. H . Grim m Homers Ilias, Π p. 199 sagt geradezu: ‘Homer wußte, als er Menelaos‘ M onolog dichtete, genau, wie er Odysseus früher m it sich selbst hatte verhandeln lassen’— und Odysseus steht auf der Höhe tragischer Empfindung, Menelaos’ M onolog gehört in die Komödie: Homer liefert in ihm ein Muster stück unfreiwillig komischer Selbstcharakteristik. Die Absichtlichkeit seines Verfahrens ist nicht zu verkennen’ . W ir kommen auf das Verhältniß dieser beiden M onologe, sowie der verwandten des Agenor Φ 552 ff. und des Hektor X 98 ff. zu einander noch zurück. W ie mannigfach die seelischen Vorgänge und Stimmungen sind, die in den M onologen zum Ausdruck kommen, ergiebt sich aus dem Dargelegten. Versuchen wir noch zu zeigen, mit welchem Kunstverständniß Homer und die homerischen Dichter dies Kunstmittel gehandhabt haben. Der M onolog wird bei Homer, wie oben bemerkt, als eine Art Zw ie­ gespräch des Sprechenden m it seiner Seele oder nach der Bezeichnung von H . Grimm als ein inneres Fragen und Antwortgeben angesehen und behan­ delt. Diese Aehnlichkeit mit dem Dialog tritt ganz besonders in den erwägenden M onologen hervor, wenn der Sprechende nach Gegenüberstel­ lung verschiedener Möglichkeiten des Handelns mit der Formel άλλα τί ή μοι ταυτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός; (nur in der Ilias: Λ 407. P 97. Φ 562. X 122, auch X 385) die Erwägung abspricht, um entweder den für ihn entscheidenden Gedanken festzustellen, wie Λ 408 ff. P 98 f., oder die zuletzt aufgestellte M öglichkeit durch einen entscheidenden Grund zu­ rückzuweisen, wie Φ 563 ff. X 123 f f . 5 So ergiebt sich für diese Gruppe von M onologen dieses Grundschema: einleitender Ausruf, Aufstellung und Erwägung der sich bietenden Möglichkeiten des Handelns, Uebergangsformel, Entscheidung— , eine natürliche Gedankenfolge und Gliederung, wie sie in der einfachsten und kürzesten Gestalt vorliegt in dem M onologe des Odysseus Λ 403 ff., w o die Uebergangsformel αλλά τί ή μοι ταυτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός; gerade die Mitte des Ganzen einnimmt, komplicierter und in weiterer Ausführung in den übrigen M onologen dieser Gruppe. In den M onologen, welche die durch eine Wahrnehmung in dem Spre­ chenden hervorgerufenen Empfindungen und Gedanken wiedergeben, wird zum Theil die W ahrnehmung selbst so, wie sie in der Seele des Beobach­ tenden in das Bewußtsein tritt, zu lebendigem Ausdruck gebracht, auch

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wenn sie in der Erzählung bereits berichtet ist. So im Eingänge des Monologs Σ 6 ff. in der sorgenvollen Frage: τί τ άρ’ αδτε κά ρη κομόωντες ’Αχαιοί νηυσιν επι κλονέονται άτυζόμενοι πεδίοιο; in andern M onologen nachgebracht, wie ε 303 ff. vgl. 291 ff. ε 411 ff. vgl. 404 f. Ganz besonders aber bewährt sich die psychologische Kunst des Dichters in der Entwicklung der Gedanken. Als Muster kann Σ 6 ff. gelten. Achill sieht die Achaeer durch die Ebene dem Schiffslager zu flüchten (6 f.). Bei diesem Anblick ergreift ihn eine unbestimmte Ahnung drohenden Unheils (8); diese bringt ihm eine Verkündigung der Thetis in Erinnerung, daß der beste der Myrmidonen noch bei seinen Lebzeiten im K am pf mit den Troern fallen werde (9 -1 1 ), und nun ist ihm sicher, daß das U nglück bereits geschehen, Patroklos todt sei (12): 'Kein Zweifel, der Verwegene hat trotz meines bestimmten Verbots den K am pf mit Hektor gewagt’ . (13 f.). In anderer Folge sind die Gedanken entwickelt in dem M onologe des Odysseus ε 299 ff. Erschreckt durch die drohenden Anzeichen des Sturmes bricht er zunächst in einen W eh ru f und die angstvolle Frage aus: Was wird aus mir endlich noch werden? Sofort kom m t ihm die Erinnerung an die Andeutung der Kalypso, daß er auf der Fahrt noch viele Leiden zu bestehen haben werde, und er schließt: jetzt geht sicher alles in Erfüllung, was sie mir verkündete. Und indem er nun das drohende Gewölk, das sich am H im m el zusammenzieht, den Aufruhr des Meeres, das Durcheinanderfahren der W in de mit Auge und Ohr aufmerksam verfolgt, steigert sich ihm seine Besorgniß zu der Gewißheit: 'jetzt ist mir sicher das jähe Verderben’ , woran sich der schmerzliche W unsch schließt: Hätte ich doch, wie andere Danaer, vor Troja einen ruhmvollen Tod gefunden, statt hier schmählich unterzugehen. Die gleiche Kunst der Gedankenentwicklung zeigen die M onologe, in denen die durch eine W ahr- . nehmung angeregten Betrachtungen in eine Willenserklärung ausgehen. Ich hebe unter diesen drei hervor, in denen die den Sprecher beherrschende Seelenstimmung einen besonders prägnanten Ausdruck findet: das tieftrau­ rige Selbstgespräch Hektors X 296 ff., das von grim m igem Hum or erfüllte Achills Φ 54 f f und das ironisch gefärbte Poseidons ε 286 ff. W ie treffend aber der jedesmaligen Situation und der Stimmung des Sprechers Inhalt und Ausführung angepaßt sind, können namentlich die M onologe Y 4 24 f f und V 199 f f zeigen: der erstere, Achill in den Mund gelegt, als er H ektor in der Schlacht zum ersten Maie erblickt, der kürzeste von allen, in nur drei Versen, und ohne alle Einleitung, nur zwei in leidenschaftlicher Hast herausge­ stoßene Gedanken enthaltend; der andere über 17 Verse sich verbreitend, eine lange Reihe von Befürchtungen, Sorgen, W ünschen, Betrachtungen, die sich in Odysseus Seele drängen, als er die Entdeckung gemacht zu haben glaubt, daß ihn die Phäaken nicht in die Heimath gebracht. 6 Es ist schon oben die so ungleiche Verthei lung der M onologe innerhalb beider Epen hervorgehoben. In der Ilias entbehren die ersten zehn Gesänge, die Gesänge M - Π , sowie Ψ Ω diese Kunstform gänzlich; der Gebrauch beschränkt sich auf Λ und P - X . In der Odyssee sind die Gesänge α~ δ,

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η —μ, ξ ~ ρ ohne Beispiel, während 8 allein sechs aufweist und die übrigen vier sich auf die Gesänge ζ V συ vertheilen. W elche Gründe nun den oder die Dichter der Ilias bestimmt haben, die M onologe besonders in den Gesängen P—X , den Dichter der Odyssee sie in dem Gesänge 8 zusammen­ zuhäufen, ist aus der obigen Darlegung genügend ersichtlich; versuchen wir jetzt noch zu erklären, wie es gekommen ist, daß die Dichter in den übrigen Th eilen beider Epen von der Form des M onologs einen so geringen Gebrauch gemacht haben. Fassen wir zunächst die erwägenden M onologe in das Auge, so steht dieser dramatischen Form der erzählende Bericht gegenüber, welcher nach einem μερμήριξε in indirekter Doppelfrage zwei Möglichkeiten des Handelns folgen läßt, z. B. A 189 ff. Hinsichtlich der Art, wie die Entscheidung herbeigeführt wird, ergeben sich aber zwei Fälle. Erfolgt diese aus dem eignen W illen des Erwägenden, so wird sie mit der Formel ώδε δέ οχ φρονέοντι δοάσσατο κέρδιον είναι mit abhängigem Infi­ nitiv berichtet, und zwar regelmäßig ohne Angabe der ihn bestimmenden Gründe: N 455. Ξ 20. Π 647. χ 333. ö) 235; Motive werden nur ange­ deutet: ζ l 4 l ff. in einem Befürchtungssatze, σ 90 in einem Absichtssätze (von besonderer Art sind die Beispiele υ 10-21 und ψ 86 ff.). In andern Fällen aber entscheidet der sich Berathende nicht aus eigner W ahl, sondern die Entscheidung kom m t ihm von außen, meistens durch das Eingreifen einer Gottheit, die entweder durch eine Ansprache den Schwankenden bestimmt, wie A 194 ff., K 507 f., Π 715 ff., oder durch innere Einwir­ kung: E 671; einmal durch das Eingreifen eines andern Menschen: δ 120 ff. Die erzählende Form ist nun die gebräuchlichere. Beabsichtigte der Dichter eben nicht die Persönlichkeit des Erwägenden genauer zu charakterisieren oder die Motive des Handelns näher darzulegen, so genügte es, das Schwan­ ken des Helden zwischen zwei Möglichkeiten und seine Entscheidung für die eine oder andere zu berichten. A m wenigsten Anlaß zur Anwendung der dramatischen Form des M onologs aber hatte der Dichter, wenn die Entscheidung nicht das Ergebniß der eignen Erwägung war, sondern durch die Einwirkung der Gottheit herbeigeführt wurde. Es ist bemerkenswerth, daß die vier Beispiele dieser Art nur der Ilias und zwar den Gesängen A E K Π angehören, in denen die Form des M onologs sich nicht findet. Das Beispiel A 194 ff. führt aber zu einem weiteren Moment. Es ist das, was Fr. Th. Vischer Aesthetik III, 2, 5 S. 1268 in Anknüpfung an diese Stelle über die epische W eise, innere Processe darzustellen, bemerkt: ‘Die inneren Motive werden selbst zu Begebnissen’ und ‘Es kom m t über die Helden wie eine fremde Macht; den Achilles warnt eine innere Stimme, seinen Zorn gegen Agamemnon mitten im Ausbruch zurückzuhalten: es ist Athene, die ihn an der blonden Locke faßt’, oder wie Carrière das Wesen und die Formen der Poesie S. 150 sagt: ‘Die weise Mäßigung der eignen Brust erscheint zugleich als die Pallas Athene, welche den Peleussohn mahnend am blonden Haupthaar faßt’ . 7 Diese Einwirkung der Gottheit

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beschränkt sich aber nicht auf Fälle, wo der sich Berathende zwischen verschiedenen M öglichkeiten des Handelns schwankt; es geschieht auch sonst, daß die eignen Erwägungen, welche den Handelnden bestimmen, nicht als solche, sondern als durch die Gottheit suggeriert dargestellt werden. Ein besonders merkwürdiges Beispiel ist B 173 ff. D ie Achaeer sind infolge der versuchenden Rede Agamemnons, welche in ihnen die Sehnsucht nach der Heimath mächtig erregt hat, in ungestümer Hast aus der Versammlung aufgebrochen, zu den Schiffen geeilt und legen schon Hand an, um sie in das Meer zu ziehen. V on Schmerz ergriffen, steht Odysseus da, und wir könnten erwarten, daß der Dichter ihn die Gedanken, die in diesem kritischen Augenblick in seiner Seele aufsteigen und ihn zu dem Entschluß treiben, der Flucht der Achaeer Einhalt zu thun, in einem M onologe aussprechen ließe, aber sie werden ihm von Athene suggeriert, die aber auch nicht ihre eignen Erwägungen mittheilt, sondern Erwägun­ gen, die sie soeben aus Heres Munde vernommen hat, eine seltsam umständ­ liche Veranstaltung, wodurch der innere Vorgang in Odysseus Seele zu einem äußeren Begebniß umgestaltet w ird.8 Anderwärts sind es Traum­ erscheinungen, die in der Seele des Träumenden Erwägungen hervorrufen, die ihn zu einem Entschluß treiben, wie ζ 20 ff. O 9 f f , die auch in der Form eines Selbstgesprächs hätten zur Darstellung gebracht werden kön­ nen. So wird, w o es sich um die Darlegung der Motive zu einem Entschluß handelt, das Selbstgespräch öfter in eine Unterredung mit einer Gottheit umgewandelt oder die innere Stimme durch die Stimme der Gottheit ersetzt. Für manche Theile der Ilias mag indeß die Nichtanwendung der Form des Monologs sich auch aus der geringeren Befähigung der Dichter erklären, namentlich dem Unvermögen innere Vorgänge sich lebhaft zu vergegen­ wärtigen und zu gestalten. Dies dürfte namentlich für den oder die Dichter von Μ N Ξ O nach Kämmers Untersuchungen über diese Gesänge Geltung haben. In der Odyssee boten die Telemachie α - δ und die Selbsterzählung des Odysseus (l-μ) am wenigsten die M öglichkeit die Form des M onologs zu verwenden. Erstere nicht, weil Telemach in diesen Gesängen meist so völlig unter der Leitung der Athene steht, daß für eigne Erwägung und Entschließung wenig Raum bleibt; daher er auch in einer Situation, wie ß 260 ff., die sonst zu einem Selbstgespräch Gelegenheit gegeben hätte, seine Sorgen vielmehr der Gottheit ausspricht, die ihm Tags zuvor in Mentes Gestalt erschienen war. W enn der Dichter aber auch in der Selbsterzählung des Odysseus die Form des M onologs anzuwenden vermie­ den hat, so mag ihn dazu der Umstand bestimmt haben, daß hier die Person, der vorzugsweise Selbstgespräche hätten in den Mund gelegt wer­ den können, m it der Person des Erzählers zusammenfiel. Auch die betrachtenden M onologe können durch eine andere Form ersetzt werden. Als Achill von dem Skamander auf das äußerste bedrängt

212

Literary Interpretation

Φ 273 f f eine leidenschaftliche Klage an Zeus richtet, geht diese alsbald in schmerzliche Betrachtungen über, wie sie in ganz ähnlicher Weise Odysseus ε 306 f f in einem M onologe ausspricht. Aehnlicher Art sind die Klagen, welche Menelaos Γ 365 ff. und Odysseus μ 371 ff. an Zeus richten: in beiden Fällen lag diese Form statt eines Selbstgesprächs deshalb näher, weil beide Helden vorher an denselben Gott eine Bitte gerichtet hatten (Γ 351 f f μ 333 f f ) , die nicht erhört war. Auch Asios spricht M 164 ff. in der an Zeus gerichteten Klage Betrachtungen aus, die auch in einem M onologe hätten angestellt werden können. W ie nahe auch Gebet und Selbstgespräch sich berühren, zeigt das Beispiel Ό 6 1 ff., wo Penelope beim Erwachen mit einem an Artemis gerichteten Gebete beginnt, aber alsbald die Gebetsform verläßt und sich in Betrachtungen über ihr trauriges Geschick ergeht. Es erübrigt noch den Ergebnissen der an den vorhandenen Monologen geübten Kritik nachzugehen und sie auf ihre Berechtigung zu prüfen. Sehen wir zunächst, welche M onologe bei den Versuchen der Neueren, das alte Lied vom Zorne Achills oder die Urilias herzustellen, als dazu gehörig anerkannt sind. Nach Fick gehörten der alten Menis die sechs M onologe an: Λ 404 f f Σ 6 f f Φ 54 f f , 553 ff. X 99 f f , 297 f f Dagegen hat J. Schultz in seinem Liede vom Zorn Achills (Berlin 1901) nur den dreien Λ 404 ff. Φ 54 ff. und X 297 ff. Aufnahme gewährt, und Robert Studien zur Ilias S. 360 gar nur die beiden Λ 404 ff. und Σ 6 ff. seiner Urilias zugewiesen, während er Φ 54 ff. und X 98 ff. als Nachahmungen von Λ 404 f f dem Verfasser einer ion isch eff'E K top oç άναίρεσις zutheilt. Nun ist der dichterische W ert von Λ 4θ4 f f und Σ 6 ff., sowie ihre Angemessenheit an der Stelle, wo sie stehen, kaum bestritten; auch Φ 54 f f und X 297 f f bieten nicht den geringsten Anstoß; dagegen sind die beiden M onologe Φ 553 ff. und X 98 ff. von der Kritik nicht ohne Grund beanstandet. Es kom m t zunächst das Verhältniß beider zu den verwandten Λ 404 ff. und P 91 f f in Betracht. Ueber die beiden letzten ist S. 18 f. gesprochen und zunächst angenommen, daß der M onolog des Menelaos in P mit direkter Beziehung auf den des Odysseus in Λ gedichtet sei. Daß er nun, wie H. Grim m annahm, von demselben Dichter, der Λ verfaßte, d. i. von Homer selbst, verfaßt sei, ist bei den zahlreichen und schwerwiegenden Bedenken gegen die Euphorbosscene (vgl. Hentze Anhang zur Ilias V I 2 S. 33 f. 71 f.) sehr zweifelhaft. Andrerseits zeigt dieser M onolog in dem ganzen Aufbau die allernächste Verwandtschaft mit denen des Agenor Φ 553 ff- und des Hektor X 98 ff. Gemeinsam ist allen dreien: der einleitende W eh ru f ώ μοί έγών, unmittelbar darangeschlossen die Gegenüberstellung zweier Fallsetzungen mit El μέν κε— εΐ δέ KE (in Φ 556 f f zwischen beide eingeschoben noch eine mit El δ" αν eingeleitete, der ersten untergeordnete) mit ihren Nachsätzen; dann, eingeleitet m it der Formel άλλα τί ή μοί ταυτα φίλος διελέξατο ffu p o ç; die Zurückweisung des zweiten gesetzten Falles (in Φ 562 des mit El δ9άν eingeleiteten) und endgültige Entschei­ dung. Alle drei M onologe entfernen sich ferner mehr und mehr von der

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knappen, energischen Kürze des dem Odysseus zugetheilten in Λ , der in 7 Versen alles N öthige sagt, während Menelaos 15 Verse, Agenor 17, Hektor gar 32 gebraucht, um zum Entschluß zu kommen.9 Dagegen besteht zwischen den drei M onologen eine Differenz hinsichtlich der Art, wie die Formel άλλα τί ή μοι ταυτα φίλος διελέξατο θυμός; verwendet ist. In Ρ folgt den beiden Fallsetzungen mit 8t μέν K8 - εί δέ κε je ein selbständiger Befürchtungssatz m it μή im Conj. als Nachsatz, worauf die Formel einen Gedanken einleitet, der die erste Befürchtung als nichtig erweist. Dagegen wird in Φ und X mit der Formel eine an die zweite Fallsetzung sich knüpfende Befürchtung eingeleitet, worauf in anderer Form die Entscheidung mit ihren Gründen gegeben wird. Diese abwei­ chende Anwendung der Formel hat aber in beiden M onologen ihren Grund darin, daß die vorhergehende (zweite) Fallsetzung im Einzelnen weit ausgeführt und zuletzt noch in einem selbständigen Satze fortgesponnen wird, sodaß ein Nachsatz, wie in P 95 der Befürchtungssatz, nicht mehr angeschiossen werden konnte, daher nun die Formel dazu verwendet wurde, die vorhergehende Betrachtung abzubrechen. Diese Eigenthümlichkeit erweist eine nähere Verwandtschaft zwischen den beiden M onologen in Φ und X . Beiden ist ferner gemeinsam, daß es sich hier in den Fallsetzungen nicht, wie in Λ und P, um den Gegensatz von Flucht und Standhalten handelt, sondern um verschiedene Möglichkeiten, sich dem Kampfe zu entziehen. Nun erheben sich aber gegen den Inhalt des M onologs in X die schwer­ sten Bedenken, welche im Anhänge zur Ilias VIII S. 8 ff. dargelegt sind. Von ganz besonderem Gewicht ist dabei, daß dies Selbstgespräch, in dem Hektor die verschiedenen Möglichkeiten,· sich dem K am pf mit Achill zu entziehen, eingehend erwägt, unmittelbar auf das Gleichniß vom Drachen 93—97 folgt, durch welches sein unauslöschlicher Kampfmuth’ veranschau­ licht wird, der ihn auch gegen die rührenden Bitten der greisen Eltern taub macht, und οχθήσας, welches in Λ und P durch den Zusammenhang wohl motiviert ist, hier ganz unvermittelt eintritt, da ein plötzlicher Umschlag der Stimmung, wie er vorauszusetzen wäre, durch nichts m oti­ viert ist.10 Die Ursprünglichkeit der Schlußpartie von Φ ferner unterliegt überhaupt Zweifeln, vgl. den Anhang zur Ilias VII S. 97. Gegen das Selbstgespräch des Agenor insbesondere macht Kammer ästh. Kommentar S. 315 geltend, daß es nicht bloß für jene Situation überflüssig, sondern auch durch das Breitspurige des Gedankens, durch den befremdenden Hinweis auf Achills Geschick höchst unpassend sei. W ichtiger ist, daß zwischen dem M onologe und der vorhergehenden Erzählung eine ähnliche Differenz besteht, wie die, welche wir bei Hektors M onolog in X gefunden haben. Unmittelbar vorher ist erzählt, daß bei Achills Herannahen A pollo Agenor anregte und ihm Muth in das Herz gab (5 4 3 -5 4 9 ). Man muß danach annehmen, daß das 551 Berichtete (εστη und μένοντί) die Folge der Einwirkung des Gottes gewesen. N un folgt aber (mit οχθήσας, wie X 98) der mit den Möglichkeiten der Flucht sich eingehend beschäftigende

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L iterary Interpretation

M onolog, nach dessen Abschluß wir hören: ά λ ε ίς μ έ ν ε , so daß sein muthiges Standhalten nun vielmehr als die Folge seiner Erwägung erscheint.11 H. Grimm a. O. S. 284 glaubte, die drei M onologe des Odysseus, Menelaos und Agenor unter sich vergleichend, daß es derselbe Dichter sein müsse, der diese Form wiederholte, während er Hektors M onolog, wie überhaupt den Eingang von X ungünstiger beurtheilte. Nach unserer Darlegung ist der M onolog des Agenor von denen des Odysseus und des Menelaos zu sondern und vielmehr mit dem des Hektor zusammenzustel­ len. Auch nach dem Urtheil von J. Schultz a. O. S. LUI steht Hektors Selbstgespräch zu dem Agenors inhaltlich und formal als Parallele da. Es fragt sich, ob beide demselben Dichter angehören. Dies wird die Ansicht Roberts sein, der a. O. p. 237 ff. die ganze Partie Φ 526—X 515 aus der Urilias ausscheidet und einer ionischen " Ε κ τ ο ρ ο ς ά ν α ί ρ ε σ ί ς zutheilt, während J. Schultz die beiden M onologe verschiedenen Verfassern zuweist. Ich selbst habe im Anhänge zur II. VII S. 97 mit Jacob und Kayser angenommen, daß der M onolog des Agenor dem des Hektor nachgebildet sei; jetzt ist mir das Verhältniß beider zu einander zweifelhaft, dagegen sehe ich in Hektors M onologe jedenfalls eine an die dem Epos ursprünglich fremde Partie Σ 243—315 (vgl. d. Anhang zur II. V I 2 S. 130 ff.) anknüp­ fende, ungehörige Eindichtung. V on den übrigen M onologen gehören die beiden dem Zeus zugetheilten in P (200 ff. 442 ff.) Partien an, welche nach dem Urtheil zahlreicher Kritiker der ursprünglichen Dichtung fremd waren, vgl. d. Anhang z. II. V I2 S. 74 ff. 81 ff.12 Vergleicht man diese beiden M onologe des Zeus mit denen des Poseidon in ε (286 ff. 377 ff.), so kann dieser Vergleich nur zu Gunsten der letzteren ausfallen. Denn diese sind mit der für den Fortgang des Epos durchaus noth wendigen Aktion des Poseidon in der W eise ver­ bunden, daß der erste sie einleitet, der zweite sie abschließt, während die Zeusm onologe Episoden angehören, die den Waffentausch voraussetzen, der in dem ursprünglichen Epos aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach keine Stelle hatte. Man beachte auch, wie seltsam ungeschickt es ist, daß Zeus in dem aus A 528 herübergenommenen Verse 209 seiner eignen Entschließung mit seinen Brauen Gewährung winkt! Ueber andere Anstöße, welche der Schluß des zweiten M onologs giebt, vgl. den Anhang zur II. V I2 S. 102. V on den beiden Achill in Y zugetheilten M onologen gehört der erste (344 ff.) der Erzählung des Kampfes zwischen Aeneas und Achill an, in der wir nach Kämmers überzeugender Untersuchung ein mit den vorher gege­ benen Voraussetzungen, wie mit der Ilias überhaupt unvereinbares Einzel­ lied zu sehen haben: vgl. den Anhang zur II. VII S. 52 ff. Während in diesem nichts von der Seelenstimmung zu finden ist, welche seit Patroklos Tode Achill allein beherrscht, bringt der andere, die höchste Leidenschaft athmende (425 f f ) diese Stimmung zu wirksamem Ausdruck; auch ist kein Grund zu sehen, warum die diesen M onolog enthaltende Partie nicht ein Stück der alten Ilias sein sollte.

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Hienach sind von den elf M onologen der Ilias von der Kritik nicht zu beanstanden die fünf: A 4θ4 ff. Σ 6 f f T 425 ff. Φ 54 ff. X 297 ff., von welchen drei dem Haupthelden A chill, je einer Odysseus und Hektor in den Mund gelegt sind. Dagegen werden als der alten Ilias nicht angehörig gelten dürfen: Φ 553 f f X 98 f f , wahrscheinlich auch P 91 ff., ferner die beiden M onologe des Zeus in P (200 f f 442 ff.) und T 344 f f Es ist also nur eine geringe Anzahl, die wir mit Sicherheit dem ursprünglichen Be­ stände der Ilias zuweisen können. Dagegen haben die M onologe der Odyssee größtentheils ihre sichere, auch von der Kritik nicht angefochtene Stelle im Epos. Sehr bestritten ist die Einheitlichkeit des Monologes des Odysseus v 199 ff·, dessen erster Theil (V. 2 0 0 -2 0 8 ) gewöhnlich verworfen wird; vgl. den Anhang zur Od. 3 3 S. 17 f.13). Der an sich keinen Anstoß bietende M onolog σ 200 f f gehört einer von Vielen verworfenen Partie an, vgl. den Anhang 3 3 S. 135; auch υ 6 -3 0 oder 4 -2 7 m it der Ansprache an das Herz (18—21) sind beanstandet, vgl. den Anhang 4 3 S. 31. Gehörten diese beiden Partien dem Gedicht ursprünglich nicht an, so hat der Dichter der Odyssee nur dem Haupthelden (6) und dem ihm feindlichen Poseidon (2) M onologe zugetheilt.

A n m e rk u n g e n 1. Diese Bezeichnung ist Scherers Poetik S. 242 entnommen, wo die Arten der Rede in folgender Weise geordnet sind: 1) einsame Rede, in der Poesie zuweilenfiktive Vertretung einsamen Denkens— Monolog; 2) Rede zu Andern oder zu einem Andern: a) Vortrag, sofern der oder die Andern bloß Zuhörer sind und selbst schweigen, b) Gespräch, Dialog, sofern Antwort erfolgt; 3) Chorrede, auf der Fiktion beruhend, daß mehrere Personen gleichzeitig dasselbe sagen. Unter die letztere Kategorie fallen in den homerischen Gedichten die einer Mehrheit von Personen zugetheilten Aussprüche, besonders die mit der Formel