No More Learning

There also Tantalus in anguish stood,
Plunged in the stream of a translucent lake ;
And to his chin welled ever the cold flood.
But when he rushed, in fierce desire to break His torment, not one drop could he partake.
For as the old man stooping seems to meet That water with his fiery lips, and slake The frenzy of wild thirst, around his feet,
Leaving the dark earth dry, the shuddering waves retreat.
Also the thick-leaved arches overhead Fruit of all savor in profusion flung,
And in his clasp rich clusters seemed to shed.
There citrons waved, with shining fruitage hung, Pears and pomegranates, olive ever young,
And the sweet-mellowing fig ; but whensoe'er The old man, fain to cool his burning tongue,
Clutched with his fingers at the branches fair,
Came a strong wind and whirled them skyward through the air.
And I saw Sisyphus in travail strong
Shove with both hands a mighty sphere of stone.
With feet and sinewy wrists he laboring long
Just pushed the vast globe up, with many a groan ; But when he thought the huge mass to have thrown
Clean o'er the summit, the enormous weight
Back to the nether plain rolled tumbling down. He, straining, the great toil resumed, while sweat
Bathed each laborious limb, and the brows smoked with heat.
ODYSSEUS IN HADES.
And after him the strength of Heracles
I gazed on, a mere shadowy counterfeit
(He, the true form, among the gods of ease,
Wed to fair-ankled Hebe, still doth sit,
Feasting). While round him the dead phantoms flit,
Like of bewildered birds a clang there came.
He, dark as Night, with bent bow, seems to fit
Shaft to the naked nerve, and eyes his game, Dreadfully crouching down, as one in act to aim
Also a wondrous sword belt, all of gold, Gleamed like a fire athwart his ample breast,
Whereon were shapes of creatures manifold, Boar, bear, and lion sparkling-eyed, expressed, With many a bloody deed and warlike gest.
Whoso by art that wondrous zone achieved, Let him forever from art's labors rest !
Soon as the shade my nearing form perceived,
He knew me, and thus spake in winged words, sore-grieved :
"Zeus-born Lae"rtiades, Odysseus wise,
Is thy life sad like mine beneath the sun ?
I was the child of Zeus, but miseries
Bore without number, the bondslave of one
Far meaner, who much task work, hardly done,
Laid on me, and to these realms of the dead
Sent me to fetch the dog (for task seemed none
Heavier than this), whom yet to the air I led From Hades, save by Hermes and Athene sped. "
This spoken, he within the portals went
Of Hades, but I lingering stood my ground
To watch if any other his dark steps bent Thither — some hero of the names renowned Who died in the old time. Then had I found
Whomso I wished, Pirithous, Theseus dread, Children of gods ; but with portentous sound
Ev'n then the thousand thousands of the dead
Flocked thickening, and pale fear possessed me, and I fled.
326 THE WOMEN OF HOMER.
THE WOMEN OF HOMER. By JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
[John Addington Stmonds, English man of letters,"was born October 5, 1840; graduated at Balliol College, Oxford. He wrote Introduction to the Study of Dante" (1872), "Studies of the Greek"Poets" (1873-1876), "The Renaissance in Italy" (six volumes, 1875-1886), Shakespeare's Predecessors in the English Drama" (1884), "Life of Michelangelo" (1892), several vol umes of poetry, translated Benvenuto Cellini's autobiography, etc. He died April 18, 1893, at Borne. ]
Helen of Troy is one of those ideal creatures of the fancy over which time, space, and circumstance, and moral probabil ity exert no sway. It would be impossible to conceive of her except as inviolably beautiful and young, in spite of all her wanderings and all she suffered at the hands of Aphrodite and of men. She moves through Greek heroic legend as the de sired of all men and the possessed of many. Theseus bore her away while yet a girl from Sparta. Her brethren, Castor and Polydeukes, recovered her from Athens by force, and gave to her jEthra, the mother of Theseus, for bondwoman. Then all the youths of Hellas wooed her in the young world's prime. She was at last assigned in wedlock to Menelaus, by whom she conceived her only earthly child, Hermione. Paris, by aid of Aphrodite, won her love and fled with her to Egypt and to Troy. In Troy she abode more than twenty years, and was the mate of Deiphobus after the death of Paris. When the strife raised for her sake was ended, Menelaus restored her with honor to his home in Lacedaemon. There she received
Telemachus and saw her daughter mated to Neoptolemus. But even after death she rested not from the service of love. The great Achilles, who in life had loved her by hearsay, but had never seen her, clasped her among the shades upon the island Leuke, and begat Euphorion. Through all these adven tures Helen maintains an ideal freshness, a mysterious virginity of soul. She is not touched by the passion she inspires, or by the wreck of empires ruined in her cause. Fate deflours her not, nor do years impair the magic of her charm. Like beauty, she belongs alike to all and none. She is not judged as wives or mothers are, though she is both ; to her belong soul-wound ing blossoms of inexorable love, as well as pain-healing poppy
The Abduction of Helen
From the painting by Rudolph von Deutsch
THE WOMEN OF HOMER. 327
heads of oblivion ; all eyes are blinded by the adorable, incom parable grace which Aphrodite sheds around her form.
Whether Helen was the slave or the beloved of Aphrodite, or whether, as Herodotus hinted, she was herself a kind of Aphrodite, we are hardly told. At one time she appears the willing servant of the goddess ; at another she groans beneath her bondage. But always and on all occasions she owes every thing to the Cyprian queen. Her very body gear preserved the powerful charm with which she was invested at her birth. When the Phocians robbed the Delphian treasure house, the wife of one of their captains took and wore Helen's necklace, whereupon she doted on a young Epirot soldier and eloped with him.
She is always god-begotten and divinely fair. Was it possible that anything so exquisite should have endured rough ravishment and borne the travail of the siege of Troy ? This doubt possessed the later poets of the legendary age. They spun a myth according to which Helen reached the shore of Egypt on the ship of Paris ; but Paris had to leave her there in cedar-scented chambers by the stream of Nile, when he went forth to plow the foam, uncomforted save by her phantom. And for a phantom the Greeks strove with the Trojans on the windy plains of Ilium. For a phantom's sake brave Hector died, and the leonine swiftness of Achilles was tamed, and Zeus bewailed Sarpedon, and Priam's towers were leveled with the
Helen, meanwhile, — the beautiful, the inviolable, — sat all day long among the palm groves, twining lotus flowers for her hair, and learning how to weave rare Eastern patterns in the loom.
ground.
This legend hides a delicate satire upon human strife. For what do men disquiet themselves in warfare to the death, and tossing on sea waves ? Even for a phantom — for the shadow of their desire, the which remains secluded in some unapproach able, far, sacred land. A wide application may thus be given to Augustine's passionate outcry: "Why is it yours to go here and there over hard and toilsome ways ? Rest is not where you seek it. Seek what you seek ; but there is naught where you seek. You seek a life of bliss in the land of death : it is not there. " Those who spake ill of Helen suffered. Stesicho- rus had ventured to lay upon her shoulders all the guilt and suffering of Hellas and of Troy. Whereupon he was smitten with blindness, nor could he recover his sight till he had
328 THE WOMEN OF HOMER.
written the palinode which begins, " Not true is that tale ; nor didst thou journey in benched ships, or come to towers of Troy. " Even Homer, as Plato hints, knew not that blindness had fallen on him for like reason. To assail Helen with re proach was not less dangerous than to touch the Ark of the Covenant, for with the Greeks beauty was a holy thing. How perfectly beautiful she was we know from the legend of the cups modeled upon her breasts suspended in the shrine of Aphrodite. When Troy was taken, and the hungry soldiers of Odysseus roamed through the burning palaces of Priam and his sons, their swords fell beneath the vision of her loveliness. She had wrought all the ruin, yet Menelaus could not touch her, when she sailed forth, swanlike, fluttering white raiment, with the imperturbable sweet smile of a goddess on her lips. Between the Helen of the Iliad, reverenced by the elders in the Scaean gate, and the Helen of the Odyssey, queenlike among her Spartan maidens, there has passed no agony of fear. The shame which she has truly felt has been tempered to a silent sorrow, and she has poured her grief forth beside Andromache over the corpse of Hector.
She first appears when Iris summons her to watch the duel of Paris and Menelaus. Husband and lover are to fight be neath the walls of Troy. Priam accosts her tenderly ; not hers the blame that the gods scourge him in his old age with war. Then he bids her sit beside him and name the Greek heroes as they march beneath. She obeys, and points out Agamemnon, Odysseus, and Ajax, describing each, as she knew them of old. But for her twin brothers she looks in vain ; and the thought of them touches her with the sorrow of her isolation and her shame.
In the same book, after Paris has been withdrawn, not with out dishonor, from the duel by Aphrodite, Helen is summoned by her liege mistress to his bed. Helen was standing on the walls, and the goddess, disguised as an old spinning woman, took her by the skirt, bidding her hie back to her lover, whom she would find in his bedchamber, not as one arrayed for war, but as a fair youth resting haply from the dance. Homer gives no hint that Aphrodite is here the personified wish of Helen's own heart going forth to Paris. On the contrary, the Cyprian queen appears in the interests of the Phrygian youth, whom she would fain see comforted. Under her disguise Helen recognized Aphrodite, the terrible queen, whose bond
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woman she was forced to be. For a moment she struggled against her fate. " Art thou come again," she cried, " to bear me to some son of earth beloved of thee, that I may serve his pleasure to my own shame ? Nay, rather, put off divinity and be thyself his odalisque. " But go she must. Aphrodite is a hard taskmistress, and the mysterious bond of beauty which chains Helen to her cannot be broken.
It is in the chamber of Paris that Hector finds her. She has vainly striven to send Paris forth to battle ; and the sense of her own degradation, condemned to love a man love-worthy only for the beauty of his limbs, overcomes her when she sees the noble Hector clothed in panoply for war. Her passionate outbreak of self-pity and self-reproach is, perhaps, the strong est indication given in the Iliad of a moral estimate of Helen's crime. The most consummate art is shown by the poet in thus quickening the conscience of Helen by contact with the nobil ity of Hector. Like Guinevere, she for a moment seems to say, " Thou art the highest, and most human too ! " casting from her as worthless the allurements of the baser love for whose sake she had left her home. In like manner, it was not without the most exquisite artistic intention that Homer made the parting scene between Andromache and Hector follow im mediately upon this meeting. For Andromache in the future there remained only sorrow and servitude. Helen was destined to be tossed from man to man, always desirable and always delicate, like the sea foam that floats upon the crests of waves. But there is no woman who, reading the Iliad, would not choose to weep with Andromache in Hector's arms, rather than
to smile like Helen in the laps of lovers for whom she little cared.
Helen and Andromache meet together before Hector's corpse, and it is here that we learn to love best what is womanly in Leda's daughter. The mother and the wife have bewailed him in high thrilling threni. Then Helen advances to the bier and cries : —
" Hector, of brethren dearest to my heart,
For I in sooth am Alexander's bride,
Who brought me hither : would I first had died !
For 'tis the twentieth year of doom deferred
Since Troy ward from my fatherland I hied ;
Yet never in those years mine ear hath heard
From thy most gracious lips one sharp accusing word ;
330
THE WOMEN OF HOMER.
Nay, if by other I haply were reviled,
Brother, or sister fair, or brother's bride,
Or mother (for the king was alway mild),
Thou with kind words the same hast pacified
With gentle words, and mien like summer tide.
Wherefore I mourn for thee and mine own ill,
Grieving at heart ; for in Troy town so wide
Friend have I none, nor harborer of good will,
But from my touch all shrink with deadly shuddering chill. "
It would have been impossible to enhance more worthily than thus the spirit of courtesy and knightly kindness which was in Hector — qualities, in truth, which, together with his loyalty to Andromache, endeared the champion of the Trojans to chivalry, and placed Hector upon the list of worthies beside King Arthur and Godfrey of Bouillon.
The character of Helen loses much of its charm and becomes more conventional in the Odyssey. It is difficult to believe that the poet who put into her lips the last lines of that threnos could have ventured to display the same woman calm and in nocent and queenlike in the home of Menelaus. Helen shows her prudence and insight by at once declaring the stranger guest to be Telemachus ; busy with housewifely kindness, she prepares for him a comfortable couch at night ; nor does she shrink from telling again the tales of Troy, and the craft which helped Odysseus in the Wooden Horse. The blame of her elopement with Paris she throws on Aphrodite, who had carried her across the sea, —
Leaving my child an orphan far away,
And couch, and husband who had known no peer, First in all grace of soul and beauty shining clear.
Such words, no doubt, fell with honey-sweet flattery from the lips of Helen on the ears of Menelaus. Yet how could he forget the grief of his bereavement, the taunts of Achilles and Thersites, and the ten years' toil at Troy endured for her? Perhaps he remembered the promise of Proteus, who had said, "Thee will the immortals send to the Elysian plains and farthest verge of earth ; where dwells yellow-haired Rhada- manthus, and where the ways of life are easiest for men ; snow falls not there, nor storm, nor any rain, but Ocean ever breathes forth delicate zephyr breezes to gladden men ; since thou hast Helen for thine own, and art the son-in-law of Zeus. " Such future was full recompense for sorrow in the past.
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The charm of Helen in the Homeric poems is due in a great measure to the ndivetS of the poet's art. The situations in which she appears are never strained, nor is the ethical feeling, though indicated, suffered to disturb the calm influence of her beauty.
[Mr. Symonds here gives the sternly ethical view taken by the ration alizing ages, especially by iEschylus and Euripides. ]
It is probable that the later artists, in their illustrations of the romance of Helen, used the poems of Lesches and Arctinus, now lost, but of which the " Posthomerica "of Quintus Smyrnaeus preserve to us a feeble reflection. This poet of the fourth cen tury after Christ does all in his power to rehabilitate the char acter of Helen by laying the fault of her crime on Paris, and by describing at length the charm which Venus shed around her sacred person. It was only by thus insisting upon the daemonic influence which controlled the fate of Helen that the conclusions reached by the rationalizing process of the dramatists could be avoided. The Cyclic poems thus preserved the heroic character of Helen and her husband at" the expense of Aphrodite, while Euripides had said plainly : What you call Aphrodite is your own lust. " "
Menelaus, in the
palace of Deiphobus ; astonishment takes possession of his soul before the shining of her beauty, so that he stands immovable, like a dead tree, which neither north nor south wind shakes. When the Greek heroes leave Troy town, Agamemnon leads Cassandra captive, Neoptolemus is followed by Andromache, and Hecuba weeps torrents of tears in the strong grasp of Odysseus. A crowd of Trojan women fill the air with shrill laments, tearing their tresses and strewing dust upon their heads. Meanwhile, Helen is delayed by no desire to wail or weep ; but a comely shame sits on her black eyes and glowing cheeks. Her heart leaps, and her whole form is as lovely as Aphrodite was when the gods discovered her with Ares in the net of Hephaestus. Down to the ships she comes with Menelaus hand in hand ; and the people, " gazing on the glory and the winning grace of the faultless woman, were astonished ; nor could they dare by whispers or aloud to humble her with in sults; but gladly they saw in her a goddess, for she seemed to all what each desired. "
This is the apotheosis of Helen ; and this reading of her
Posthomerica," finds Helen hidden in the
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romance is far more true to the general current of Greek feel ing than that suggested by Euripides. Theocritus, in his exquisite marriage song of Helen, has not a word to say by hint or innuendo that she will bring a curse upon her husband. Like dawn is the beauty of her face; like the moon in the heaven of night, or the spring when winter is ended, or like a cypress in the meadow, so is Helen among Spartan maids. When Apollonius of Tyana, the most famous medium of an tiquity, evoked the spirit of Achilles by the pillar on his bar row in the Troad, the great ghost consented to answer five questions. One of these concerned Helen : Did she really go to Troy? Achilles indignantly repudiated the notion. She re mained " in Egypt ; and this the heroes of Achaia soon knew well ; but we fought for fame and Priam's wealth. "
The romance of Helen of Troy, after lying dormant during the Middle Ages, shone forth again in the pregnant myth of Faustus. The final achievement of Faust's magic was to evoke Helen from the dead and hold her as his paramour. To the beauty of Greek art the mediaeval spirit stretched forth with yearning and begot the modern world. Marlowe, than whom no poet of the North throbbed more mightily with the passion of the Renaissance, contented himself with an external handling of the Faust legend. Goethe allegorized the whole, and turned the episode of Helen into a parable of modern poetry. The new light that rose upon the Middle Ages came not from the East, but from the South ; no longer from Galilee, but from Greece.
Thus, after living her long life in Hellas as the ideal of beauty, unqualified by moral attributes, Helen passed into modern mythology as the ideal of the beauty of the pagan world. True to her old character, she arrives to us across the waters of oblivion with the cestus of the goddess round her waist, and the divine smile upon her lips. Age has not im paired her charm, nor has she learned the lesson of the Fall. Ever virginal and ever fair, she is still the slave of Aphrodite. In Helen we welcome the indestructible Hellenic spirit.
Penelope is the exact opposite to Helen. The central point in her character is intense love of her home, an almost catlike attachment to the house where she first enjoyed her husband's love, and which is still full of all the things that make her life worth having. Therefore, when at last she thinks that she will have to yield to the suitors and leave it, these words are always on her lips, " The home of my wedded years, exceeding fair,
THE WOMEN OF HOMER. 333
filled with all the goods of life, which even in dreams methinks I shall remember. " We can scarcely think of Penelope except in the palace of Ithaca, so firmly has this home-loving instinct been embedded in her by her maker. Were it not that the passion for her home is controlled and determined by a higher and more sacred feeling, this Haushalterischness of Penelope would be prosaic. Not only, however, has Homer made it evi dent in the Odyssey that the love of Ithaca is subordinate in her soul to the love of Odysseus, but a beautiful Greek legend teaches how in girlhood she sacrificed the dearest ties that can bind a woman to her love for the hero who had wooed and
won her. Pausanias says that when Odysseus was carrying her upon his chariot forth to his own land, her father, Icarius, followed in their path and besought her to stay with him. The young man was ready busked for the long journey. The old man pointed to the hearth she had known from childhood. Penelope between them answered not a word, but covered her face with her veil. This action Odysseus interpreted rightly, and led his bride away, willing to go where he would go, yet unwilling to abandon what she dearly loved. No second Odys seus could cross the woman's path. Among the suitors there was not one like him. Therefore she clung to her house tree in Ithaca, the olive around which Odysseus had built the nuptial chamber ; and none, till he appeared, by force or guile might win her thence.
It is precisely this tenacity in the character of Penelope which distinguishes her from Helen, the daughter of adventure and the child of change, to whom migration was no less natural than to the swan that gave her life. Another characteristic of Penelope is her prudence. Having to deal with the uproarious suitors camped in her son's halls, she deceives them with fair
words, and promises to choose a husband from their number when she has woven a winding sheet for Laertes. Three years pass and the work is still not finished. At last a maiden tells the suitors that every night Penelope undoes by lamplight what she had woven in the daytime. This ruse of the defense less woman has passed into a proverb ; and has become so familiar that we forget, perhaps, how true a parable it is of those who, in their weakness, do and undo daily what they would fain never do at all, trifling and procrastinating with tyrannous passions which they are unable to expel from the palace of their souls.
334 THE WOMEN OF HOMER.
The prudence of Penelope sometimes assumes a form which reminds us of the heroines of Hebrew story; as when, for example, she spoils the suitors of rich gifts by subtle promises and engagements carefully guarded. Odysseus, seated in dis guise near the hall door, watches her success and secretly approves. The same quality of mind makes her cautious in the reception of the husband she has waited for in widowhood through twenty years. The dog Argus has no doubt. He sees his master through the beggar's rags, and dies of joy. The handmaid Eurycleia is convinced as soon as she has touched the wound upon the hero's foot and felt the well-remembered scar. Not so Penelope. Though the great bow has been bent and the suitors have been slain, and though Eurycleia comes to tell her the whole truth, the queen has yet the heart to seat herself opposite Odysseus by the fire, and to prove him with cunningly devised tests. There is something provocative of anger against Penelope in this cross-questioning. But our anger is dissolved in tears, when at last, feeling sure that her husband and none other is there verily before her eyes, she flings her arms around him in that long and close embrace.
Homer, even in this supreme moment, has sustained her character by a trait which, however delicate, can hardly escape notice. Her lord is weary and would fain seek the solace of his couch. But he has dropped a hint that still more labors are in store for him. Then Penelope replies that his couch is ready at all times and whensoever he may need; no hurry about that. Meanwhile, she would like to hear the prophecy of Teiresias. Helen, the bondwoman of dame Aphrodite, would not have waited thus upon the edge of love's delight,
long looked for with strained widow's eyes. Yet it would be unfair to Penelope to dwell only on this prudent and somewhat frigid aspect of her character. She is perhaps most amiable when she descends among the suitors, and prays Phemius to cease from singing of the heroes who returned from Troy. It is more than she can bear to sit weaving in the silent chamber mid her damsels, listening to the shrill sound of the lyre and hearing how other men have reached their homes, while on the waves Odysseus still wanders, and none knows whether he be alive or dead.
It may be noticed that just as Helen is a mate meet for easily persuaded Menelaus and luxurious Paris, so Penelope matches the temper of theastute, enduring, persevering Odys
THE WOMEN OF HOMER. 335
seus. As a creature of the fancy, she is far less fascinating than Helen ; and this the poet seems to have felt, for side by side with Penelope in the Odyssey he has placed the attractive forms of Circe, Calypso, and Nausicaa. The gain is double. Not only are the hearers of the romance gladdened by the con trast of these graceful women with the somewhat elegiac figure of Penelope, but the character of Odysseus for constancy is greatly enhanced. How fervent must the love of home have been in the man who could quit Calypso, after seven years' sojourn, for the sake of a wife grown gray with twenty widowed years ! Odysseus tells Calypso to her face that she is far fairer than his wife, " I know well that Penelope is inferior to thee in form and stature, to the eyes of men. " But what Odysseus leaves unsaid — the grace of the first woman who possessed his soul — constrains him with a deeper, tenderer power than any of Calypso's charms. Penelope, meanwhile, is pleading that her beauty in the absence of her lord has perished, "Of a truth my goodliness and beauty of person the gods destroyed what time the Argives went up into Troy town. "
These two meet at last together, he after his long wander ings, and she having suffered the insistence of the suitors in her palace ; and this is the pathos of the Odyssey. The woman, in spite of her withered youth and tearful years of widowhood, is still expectant of her lord.
He, unconquered by the pleas ures cast across his path, unterrified by all the dangers he en dures, clings in thought to the bride whom he led forth, a blushing maiden, from her father's halls. O just, subtle, and mighty Homer ! There is nothing of Greek here more than of Hebrew, or of Latin, or of German. It is pure humanity.
Calypso is not a woman, but a goddess. She feeds upon ambrosia and nectar, while her maidens spread before Odysseus the food of mortals. Between her and Hermes there is recog nition at first sight ; for god knows god, however far apart their paths may lie. Yet the love that Calypso bears Odysseus brings this daughter of Atlas down to earth ; and we may reckon her among the women of Homer. How mysterious, as the Greek genius apprehended mystery, is her cavern, hidden far away in the isle Ogygia, with the grove of forest trees before it and the thick vine flourishing around its mouth. Meadows of snowflake and close-flowering selinus gird it
round ; and on the branches brood all kinds of birds. Under those trees, gazing across the ocean, in the still light of the
336 THE WOMEN OF HOMER.
evening star, Odysseus wept for his far-distant home. Then, heavy at heart, he gathered up his raiment, and climbed into Calypso's bed at night. "For the nymph pleased him no longer. Nathless, as need was, he slept the night in hollow caverns, beside her loving him who loved her not. "
To him the message of Hermes recalling him to labor on the waves was joy ; but to the nymph herself it brought mere bitterness : " Hard are ye, gods, and envious above all, who grudge that goddesses should couch thus openly with mortal men, if one should make a dear bedfellow for herself. For so the rosy-fingered morning chose Orion, till ye gods that lead an easy life grew jealous, and in Ogygia him the golden-throned maid Artemis slew with her kind arrows. " This wail of the immortal nymph Calypso for her roving spouse of seven short years has a strange pathos in it. It seems to pass across the sea like a sigh of winds awakened, none knows how, in summer midnight, that swells and dies far off upon moon-silvered waves. The clear human activity of Odysseus cuts the everlasting calm of Calypso like a knife, shredding the veil that hides her from the eyes of mortals. Then he fares onward to resume the toils of real existence in a land whereof she nothing knows. There is a fragment of his last speech to Penelope, which sounds like an echo of Calypso's lamentation. " Death," he says, " shall some day rise for me, tranquil from the tranquil deep, and I shall die in delicate old age. " We seem to feel that in his last trance Odysseus might have heard the far-off divine sweet voice of Calypso calling him, and have hastened to her cry.
Circe is by no means so mysterious as Calypso. Yet she belongs to one of the most interesting families in Greek ro mance. Her mother was Perse, daughter of Oceanus; her father was Helios; she is own sister, therefore, to the Colchian iEetes, and aunt of the redoubtable Medea. She lives in the isle of Jiaea, not, like Calypso, deep embowered in groves, but in a fair open valley sweeping downward to the sea, whence her hearth smoke may be clearly descried. Nor is her home an ivy-curtained cavern of the rocks, but a house well built of polished stone, protected from the sea winds by oak woods. Here she dwells in grand style, with nymphs of the streams and forests to attend upon her, and herds of wild beasts, human-hearted, roaming through her park. Odysseus always speaks of her with respect. Like Calypso, she has a fair shrill
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voice that goes across the waters, and as her fingers ply the shuttle, she keeps singing through the summer air. By virtue of her birthright, as a daughter of the sun, she understands the properties of plant and drug. Poppy and henbane and man- dragora — all herbs of subtle juice that draw soul-quelling poison from the fat earth and the burning sun — are hers to use as she thinks fit. And the use she makes of them is mali cious; for, fairylike and wanton, she will have the men who visit her across the seas submit their reason to her lure. There fore she turns them to swine; and the lions and wolves of the mountain she tames in like manner, so that they fawn and curl their long tails and have no heart to ravin any more.
Circe is not made out particularly wicked or malignant. She is acting only after her kind, like some beautiful but bale ful plant — a wreath, for instance, of red briony berries, whereof if children eat, they perish. The world has lived long and suffered much and grown greatly since the age of Homer. We cannot be so naif and childlike any longer. Yet the true charm of Circe in the Odyssey, the spirit that distinguishes her from Tannhaiiser's Venus and Orlando's Fata Morgana and Rug- giero's Alcina and Tancred's Armida, lies just in this, that the poet has passed so lightly over all the dark and perilous places of his subject. This delicacy of touch can never be regained by art. It belonged to the conditions of the first Hellenic bloom of fancy, to suggest without insistence and to realize without emphasis. Impatient readers may complain of want of depth and character. They would fain see the Circe of the Odyssey as strongly moralized as the Medea of Euripides. But in Homer only what is human attains to real intensity. The marvelous falls off and shades away into soft air tints and delightful dreams. Still, it requires the interposition of the gods to save Odysseus from the charms of the malicious maid. Odysseus's sword and strong will must do the rest. When Circe has once found her match, we are astonished at the bon homie which she displays. The game is over. There remains nothing but graceful hospitality on her part, — elegant banquets, delicious baths, soft beds, the restoration of the ship's crew to their proper shape, and a store of useful advice for the future.
One more female figure from the Odyssey remains as yet untouched ; and this is the most beautiful of all. Nausicaa has no legendary charm; she is neither mystic goddess nor weird woman, nor is hers the dignity of wifehood. She is
vol. ii. — 22
338 THE WOMEN OF HOMER.
simply the most perfect maiden, the purest, freshest, lightest- hearted girl of Greek romance. Odysseus passes straight from the solitary island of Ogygia, where elm and poplar and cy press overshadow Calypso's cavern, into the company of this real woman. It is like coming from a land of dreams into a dewy garden when the sun has risen: the waves through which he has fared upon his raft have wrought for him, as it were, a rough reincarnation into the realities of human life. For the sea brine is the source of vigor; and into the deep he has cast, together with Calypso's raiment, all memory of her.
A prettier picture cannot be conceived than that drawn by Homer of Nausicaa with her handmaidens thronging together in the cart, which jogs downward through the olive gardens to the sea. The princess holds the whip and drives ; and when she reaches the stream's mouth by the beach, she loosens the mules from the shafts, and turns them out to graze in the deep meadow. Then the clothes are washed, and the luncheon is taken from the basket, and the game of ball begins. How the ball flew aside and fell into the water, and how the shrill cries of the damsels woke Odysseus from his sleep, every one remem bers. The girls are fluttered by the sight of the great naked man, rugged with brine and bruised with shipwreck. Nausicaa alone, as becomes a princess, stands her ground and questions him. The simple delicacy with which this situation is treated makes the whole episode one of the most charming in Homer. Nothing can be prettier than the change from pity to admira tion, expressed by the damsel, when Odysseus has bathed in running water, and rubbed himself with oil and put on goodly
raiment given him by the girls. Pallas sheds treble grace upon his form, and makes his hair to fall in clusters like hyacinth blossoms, so that an artist who molds figures of gilt silver could not shape a comelier statue. The princess, with yester night's dream still in her soul, wishes he would stay and be her husband.
The girlish simplicity of Nausicaa is all the more attractive because the Phaeacians are the most luxurious race described by Homer. From this soft, luxurious, comely, pleasure-loving folk Nausicaa springs up like a pure blossom — anemone or lily of the mountains. She has all the sweetness of temper which distinguishes Alcinous ; but the voluptuous living of her people has not spoiled her. The maidenly reserve which she displays in her first reception of Odysseus, her prudent avoid ance of being seen with him in the streets of the town while he
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ia yet a stranger, and the care she takes that he shall suffer nothing by not coming with her to the palace, complete the portrait of a girl who is as free from coquetry as she is from prudishness. Perhaps she strikes our fancy with most clear ness when, after bathing and dressing, Odysseus passes her on his way through the hall to the banquet. She leaned against the pillar of the roof and gazed upon Odysseus, and said, " Hail, guest, and be thou mindful of me when perchance thou art in thine own land again, for to me the first thou dost owe the price of life. " This is the last word spoken by Nausicaa in the Odyssey. She is not mentioned among the Phseacians who took leave of the hero the day he passed to Ithaca.
Andromache offers a not inapt illustration to these remarks. She is beautiful, as all heroic women are ; and Homer tells us she is "white-armed. " We know no more about her person than this ; and her character is exhibited only in the famous parting scene and in the two lamentations which she pours forth for her husband. Yet who has read the Iliad without carrying away a distinct conception of this, the most lovable among the women of Homer ? She owes her character far less to what she does and what she says than to how she looks in that ideal picture painted on our memory by Homer's verse. The affection of Hector for his wife, no less distinguished than the passion of Achilles for his friend, has made the Trojan prince rather than his Greek rival the hero of modern romance. When he leaves Dion to enter on the long combat which ends in the death of Patroclus, the last thought of Hector is for Andromache. He finds her, not in their home, but on the wall, attended by her nurse, who carries in her arms his only son, — "Hector's only son, like unto a fair star. "
" Her first words, after she has wept and clasped him, are :
Love, thy stout heart will be thy death, nor hast thou pity of thy child or me, who soon shall be a widow. My father and my mother and my brothers are all slain ; but, Hector, thou art father to me and mother and brother, and thou, too, art the husband of my youth. Have pity, then, and stay here in the tower, lest thy son be orphaned and thy wife a widow. " The answer is worthy of the hero. "Full well," he says, " know I that Troy will fall, and I foresee the sorrow of my brethren and the king ; but for these I grieve not : to think of thee, a slave in Argos, unmans me almost ; yet even so I will not flinch or shirk the fight. My duty calls, and I must away. " He stretches out his mailed arms to Astyanax, but the
340 ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS.
child is frightened by his nodding plumes. So he lays aside his helmet, and takes the baby to his breast, and prays for him. Andromache smiles through her tears, and down the clanging causeway strides the prince. Poor Andromache has nothing left to do but to return home and raise the dirge for a husband as good as dead.
When we see her again in the 22d Iliad, she is weaving, and her damsels are heating a bath against Hector's return from the fight. Then suddenly the cry of Hecuba's anguish thrills her ears. Shuttle and thread drop from her hands ; she gathers up her skirts, and like a Maenad flies forth to the wall. She arrives in time to see her husband's body dragged through dust at Achilles' chariot wheels away from Troy. She faints, and when she wakes it is to utter the most piteous lament in Homer — not, however, for Hector so much, or for herself, as for Astyanax. He who was reared upon a father's knees and fed with marrow and the fat of lambs, and, when play tired him, slept in soft beds among nursing women, will now roam, an orphan, wronged and unbefriended, hunted from the com pany of happier men, or fed by charity with scanty scraps. And to the same theme Andromache returns in the vocero which she pours forth over the body of Hector. " I shall be a widow and a slave, and Astyanax will either be slaughtered by Greek soldiers or set to base service in like bondage. " Then the sight of the corpse reminds her that the last words of her sorrow must be paid to Hector himself. What touches her most deeply is the thought of death in battle, —
For, dying, thou didst not reach to me thy hand from the bed, nor say to me words of wisdom, the which I might have aye remem bered night and day with tears.
ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS. (Translated from the Odyssey by S. H. Butcher and Andrew Lang. )
"And we came to the land of the Cyclopes, a froward and a lawless folk, who trusting to the deathless gods plant not aught with their hands, neither plow : but, behold, all these things spring for them in plenty, unsown and untilled, wheat, and barley, and vines, which bear great clusters of the juice of the grape, and the rain of Zeus gives them increase. These have neither gatherings for council nor oracles of law, but they
ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS. 341
dwell in hollow caves on the crests of the high hills, and each one utters the law to his children and his wives, and they reck not one of another.
"Now there is a waste isle stretching without the harbor of the land of the Cyclopes, neither nigh at hand nor yet afar off, a woodland isle, wherein are wild goats unnumbered, for no path of men scares them, nor do hunters resort thither who suffer hardships in the wood, as they range the mountain crests. Moreover it is possessed neither by flocks nor by plowed lands, but the soil lies unsown evermore and untilled, desolate of men, and feeds the bleating goats. For the Cyclopes have by them no ships with vermilion cheek, not yet are there shipwrights in the island, who might fashion decked barks, which should accomplish all their desire, voyaging to the towns of men (as ofttimes men cross the sea to one another in ships), who might likewise have made of their isle a goodly settlement. Yea, it is in no wise a sorry land, but would bear all things in their season ; for therein are soft water meadows by the shores of the gray salt sea, and there the vines know no decay, and the land is level to plow ; thence might they reap a crop exceeding deep in due season, for verily there is fatness beneath the soil. Also there is a fair haven, where is no need of moorings, either to cast anchor or to fasten hawsers, but men may run the ship on the beach, and tarry until such time as the sailors are minded to be gone, and favorable breezes blow. Now at the head of the harbor is a well of bright water issuing from a cave, and round it are poplars growing. Thither we sailed, and some god guided us through the night, for it was dark and there was no light to see, a mist lying deep about the ships, nor did the moon show her light from heaven, but was shut in with clouds. No man then beheld that island, neither saw we the long waves rolling to the beach, till we had run our decked ships ashore. And when our ships were beached, we took down all their sails, and ourselves too stept forth upon the strand of the sea, and there we fell into sound sleep and waited for the bright Dawn.
" So soon as early Dawn shone forth, the rosy-fingered, in wonder at the island we roamed over the length thereof : and the Nymphs, the daughters of Zeus, lord of the Eegis, started the wild goats of the hills, that my company might have where with to sup. Anon we took to us our curved bows from out the ships and long spears, and arrayed in three bands we began shooting at the goats ; and the god soon gave us game in
342 ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS.
plenty. Now twelve ships bare me company, and to each ship
fell nine goats for a portion, but for me alone they set ten
apart.
" Thus we sat there the livelong day until the going down of
the sun, feasting on abundant flesh and on sweet wine. For the red wine was not yet spent from out the ships, but somewhat was yet therein, for we had each one drawn off large store thereof in jars, when we took the sacred citadel of the Cicones. And we looked across to the land of the Cyclopes who dwell nigh, and to the smoke, and to the voice of the men, and of the sheep and of the goats. And when the sun had sunk and darkness had come on, then we laid us to rest upon the seabeach. So soon as early Dawn shone forth, the rosy-fingered, then I called a gathering of my men, and spake among them all : —
" ' Abide here all the rest of you, my dear companions ; but I will go with mine own ship and my ship's company, and make proof of these men, what manner of folk they are, whether fro- ward, and wild, and unjust, or hospitable and of god-fearing mind. '
" So I spake, and I climbed the ship's side, and bade my company themselves to mount, and to loose the hawsers. So they soon embarked and sat upon the benches, and sitting orderly smote the gray sea water with their oars. Now when we had come to the land that lies hard by, we saw a cave on the border near the sea, lofty and roofed over with laurels, and there many flocks of sheep and goats were used to rest. And about it a high outer court was built with stones, deep bedded, and with tall pines and oaks with their high crown of leaves. And a man was wont to sleep therein, of monstrous size, who shepherded his flocks alone and afar, and was not conversant with others, but dwelt apart in lawlessness of mind. Yea, for he was a monstrous thing and fashioned marvelously, nor was he like to any man that lives by bread, but like a wooded peak of the towering hills, which stands out apart and alone from others.
" Then I commanded the rest of my well-loved company to tarry there by the ship, and to guard the ship, but I chose out twelve men, the best of my company, and sallied forth. Now I had with me a goatskin of the dark wine and sweet, which Maron, son of Euanthes, had given me, the priest of Apollo, the god that watched over Ismarus. And he gave it, for that we had protected him with his wife and child reverently;
ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS. 343
for ho dwelt in a thick grove of Phoebus Apollo. And he made me splendid gifts ; he gave me seven talents of gold well wrought, and he gave me a mixing bowl of pure silver, and furthermore wine which he drew off in twelve jars in all, sweet wine unmingled, a draught divine ; nor did any of his servants or of his handmaids in the house know thereof, but himself and his dear wife and one house dame only. And as often as they drank that red wine honey sweet, he would fill one cup and pour it into twenty measures of water, and a marvelous sweet smell went up from the mixing bowl: then truly it was no pleasure to refrain.
" With this wine I filled a great skin, and bare it with me, and corn too I put in a wallet, for my lordly spirit straightway had a boding that a man would come to me, a strange man, clothed in mighty strength, one that knew not judgment and justice.
" Soon we came to the cave, but we found him not within ; he was shepherding his fat flocks in the pastures. So we went into the cave, and gazed on all that was therein. The baskets were well laden with cheeses, and the folds were thronged with lambs and kids ; each kind was penned by itself, the firstlings apart, and the summer lambs apart, apart too the younglings of the flock. Now all the vessels swam with whey, the milk pails and the bowls, the well- wrought vessels whereinto he milked. My company then spake and besought me first of all to take of the cheeses and to return, and afterwards to make haste and drive off the kids and lambs to the swift ships from out of the pens, and to sail over the salt sea water. Howbeit I hearkened not (and far better would it have been), but waited to see the giant himself, and whether he would give me gifts as a stranger's due. " Yet was not his coming to be with joy to my company.
Then we kindled a fire, and made burnt offering, and our selves likewise took of the cheeses, and did eat, and sat waiting for him within till he came back, shepherding his flocks. And he bore a grievous weight of dry wood, against supper time. This log he cast down with a din inside the cave, and in fear we fled to the secret place of the rock. As for him, he drave his fat flocks into the wide cavern, even all that he was wont to milk ; but the males both of the sheep and of the goats he left without in the deep yard. Thereafter he lifted a huge door- stone and weighty, and set it in the mouth of the cave, such an one as two and twenty good four-wheeled wains could not raise
ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS.
from the ground, so mighty a sheer rock did he set against the doorway. Then he sat down and milked the ewes and bleating goats all orderly, and beneath each ewe he placed her young. And anon he curdled one half of the white milk, and massed it together, and stored it in wicker baskets, and the other half he let stand in pails, that he might have it to take and drink against supper time. Now when he had done all his work busily, then he kindled the fire anew, and espied us, and made question : —
"'Strangers, who are ye? Whence sail ye over the wet ways ? On some trading enterprise or at adventure do ye rove, even as sea robbers over the brine, for at hazard of their own lives they wander, bringing bale to alien men. '
" So spake he, but as for us our heart within us was broken for terror of the deep voice and his own monstrous shape ; yet despite all I answered and spake unto him, saying : —
" ' Lo, we are Achaeans, driven wandering from Troy, by all manner of winds over the great gulf of the sea ; seeking our homes we fare, but another path have we come, by other ways : even such, methinks, was the will and the counsel of Zeus. And we avow us to be the men of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, whose fame is even now the mightiest under heaven, so great a city did he sack, and destroyed many people ; but as for us we have lighted here, and come to these thy knees, if perchance thou wilt give us a stranger's gift, or make any present, as is the due of strangers. Nay, lord, have regard to the gods, for we are thy suppliants ; and Zeus is the avenger of suppliants and sojourners, Zeus, the god of the stranger, who fareth in the company of reverend strangers. '
" So I spake, and anon he answered out of his pitiless heart : ' Thou art witless, my stranger, or thou hast come from afar, who biddest me either to fear or shun the gods. For the Cy clopes pay no heed to Zeus, lord of the aegis, nor to the blessed gods, for verily we are better men than they. Nor would I, to shun the enmity of Zeus, spare either thee or thy company, unless my spirit bade me. But tell me where thou didst stay thy well-wrought ship on thy coming? Was it perchance at the far end of the island, or hard by, that I may know ? '
" So he spake tempting me, but he cheated me not, who knew full much, and I answered him again with words of guile : " ' As for my ship, Poseidon, shaker of the earth, brake it to pieces, for he cast it upon the rocks at the border of your
ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS. 345
" So I spake, and out of his pitiless heart he answered me not a word, but sprang up, and laid his hands upon my fellows, and clutching two together dashed them, as they had been whelps, to the earth, and the brain flowed forth upon the ground, and the earth was wet. Then cut he them up piece meal, and made ready his supper. So he ate even as a moun tain-bred lion, and ceased not, devouring entrails and flesh and bones with their marrow. And we wept and raised our hands to Zeus, beholding the cruel deeds ; and we were at our wits' end. And after the Cyclops had filled his huge maw with human flesh and the milk he drank thereafter, he lay within the cave, stretched out among his sheep.
country, and brought it nigh the headland, and a wind bare it thither from the sea. But I with these my men escaped from utter doom. '
" So I took counsel in my great heart, whether I should draw near, and pluck my sharp sword from my thigh, and stab him in the breast, where the midriff holds the liver, feeling for the place with my hand. But my second thought withheld me, for so should we too have perished even there with utter doom. For we should not have prevailed to roll away with our hands from the lofty door the heavy stone which he set there. So for that time we made moan, awaiting the bright Dawn.
"Now when early Dawn shone forth, the rosy-fingered, again he kindled the fire and milked his goodly flocks all orderly, and beneath each ewe set her lamb. Anon when he had done all his work busily, again he seized yet other two men and made ready his midday meal. And after the meal, lightly he moved away the great doorstone, and drave his fat flocks forth from the cave, and afterwards he set it in his place again, as one might set the lid on a quiver. Then with a loud whoop, the Cyclops turned his fat flocks towards the hills ; but I was left devising evil in the deep of my heart, if in any wise I might avenge me, and Athene grant me renown.
" And this was the counsel that showed best in my sight. There lay by a sheepfold a great club of the Cyclops, a club of olive wood, yet green, which he had cut to carry with him when it should be seasoned. Now when we saw it we likened it in size to the mast of a black ship of twenty oars, a wide merchant vessel that traverses the great sea gulf, so huge it was to view in bulk and length. I stood thereby and cut off from it a portion as it were a fathom's length, and set it by my
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fellows, and bade them fine it down, and they made it even, while I stood by and sharpened it to a point, and straightway I took it and hardened it in the bright fire. Then I laid it well away, and hid it beneath the dung, which was scattered in great heaps in the depths of the cave. And I bade my company cast lots among them, which of them should risk the adventure with me, and lift the bar and turn it about in his eye, when sweet sleep came upon him. And the lot fell upon those four whom I myself would have been fain to choose, and I appointed my self to be the fifth among them. In the evening he came shepherding his flocks of goodly fleece, and presently he drave his fat flocks into the cave each and all, nor left he any without in the deep courtyard, whether through some foreboding, or perchance that the god so bade him do. Thereafter he lifted the huge doorstone and set it in the mouth of the cave, and sitting down he milked the ewes and bleating goats, all orderly, and beneath each ewe he placed her young. Now when he had done all his work busily, again he seized yet other two and
made ready his supper.