Stories from the Iliad

by H. L. Havell

So together they passed along the level sand, with many a prayer to Poseidon, lord of the sea, that they might easily persuade the mighty heart of Æacides.[[2]] And when they came to the tents and ships of the Myrmidons, they found Achilles sitting at the door of his tent, and soothing his troubled spirit with song, and the clear music of a harp, which he had taken among the spoil of Eëtion's city. Opposite to him sat Patroclus, the most beloved of his comrades, waiting until Achilles should have finished his lay, whose theme was the deeds of famous men. And they came and stood before him, with Odysseus at their head. When Achilles saw them he gave a cry of surprise, and sprang from his seat, harp in hand; and Patroclus rose up with him. Then, greeting them with a courteous gesture, he said: "Welcome, dear friends! Most welcome are ye of all the Greeks, even in this hour of my displeasure. Be seated. I know why ye have come hither—sore indeed is the need." So saying, he led the way into the tent, and as soon as they were seated he called to Patroclus, saying: "Set forth the largest bowl, and open the oldest cask of wine, to do honour to the dear guests who have come under my roof."

[[2]] Grandson of Æacus, the father of Peleus.

Therewith he placed a table, in the light of the fire, and on it he laid the loin of a sheep and another of a fat goat, and the chine of a hog. Automedon, his squire, held the meat, and Achilles with his own hands cut it into slices, spitted it, and roasted it over the glowing embers. When all was ready, they feasted sumptuously, and drank of the rich wine which Achilles poured out without stint. The banquet being ended, Ajax made a sign to Phœnix; but Odysseus took the word from him, and, rising with a full cup in his hand, pledged Achilles, and said: "I drink to thee, son of Peleus, and thank thee for thy good cheer. Never have I tasted choicer fare, not even in the tent of Agamemnon himself. But, alas! my noble host, we have little heart for feasting and making merry, for we stand on the very brink of ruin, and thou alone canst save us. The Trojans have pitched their camp before our very gates, and it will not be long before they sweep us into the sea. Zeus hath openly taken sides with our foes, and affrights us with thunders and with lightnings; and Hector, full of mad presumption, is breathing out threatenings and slaughter against us. I fear—yea, I fear exceedingly—that the god will accomplish his threats, and that we are indeed doomed to perish in the land of Troy, far from our native Argos. Up, then, and gird thee to the fight, if thou art minded to save the sons of Greece, even in the eleventh hour. If thou wait longer the mischief will be done, and thou wilt repent of thy stubbornness too late. Remember the words of thy father, Peleus, when he sent thee to the war: 'My son, thou art very strong, but this good gift thou owest to heaven. Do thou curb thy haughty spirit, and turn thee to thoughts of kindness, if thou wouldst be honoured of old and young.' Thou hast forgotten the good words of thy father, and given place to malice and uncharitableness. Quit this froward mood, and mark while I tell thee the brave gifts which Agamemnon offers as the price of thy good will."

Accordingly Odysseus went on to recite the whole tale of the royal bounty, and when the list was complete he wound up his speech by appealing at once to the humanity, the pride, and the ambition of Achilles. "If thou despisest Agamemnon and his gifts, take pity on thy poor countrymen, who will honour thee as a god, and glorify thee as their preserver. And now thou mayest slay Hector, for assuredly he will not refrain from thee in the frenzy which possesseth him, boasting that there is none to match him among all the Greeks who sailed to Troy."

Odysseus resumed his seat, and amidst a breathless silence Achilles rose up and began to speak, calmly at first, but rising in passion as he proceeded. "Most noble son of Laertes, I will answer thee bluntly and to the purpose, that ye may know my mind, and may not come hither on this errand again. For hateful to me, even as the gates of death, is the man who hides one thing in his heart, and speaks another. Hear, then, what I have to say. Neither Agamemnon, nor all the Greeks together, shall turn me from my purpose. I have fought—thou knowest how I have fought—against the common foe; and what my reward hath been thou knowest also. Like a mother bird, who flies to and fro, never weary, never resting, carrying morsels to her nestlings, while she remains empty herself, so have I passed my days in war and bloodshed, and my nights in sleepless watchings, putting my life in jeopardy, for the sake of another man's wife. Twelve cities have I sacked, sailing the sea in my ships, and eleven on land, within the realm of Troy. First the toil, which was mine, and after that the spoil, which was his. I brought it all, and laid it at his feet, and he kept the greater part by far, giving me back a little—a very little—for all my pains. And that little he hath taken away. Let him keep it, and joy go with it! I loved the maid Briseis, yea, dearly I loved her! Thinketh he that he alone and his brother love their wives? She was my prize, my bride: he hath torn her from mine arms, and that foul deed I will never forgive.

"And as to the gifts which he offers, let him know that I came here to fight for honour, not for pelf. He hath denied mine honour, and now he would bribe me to erase that dark record with a purse of gold. But I will not be bribed. Away with his gifts! I value them not a straw. Not though he offered me ten times and twenty times as much—all the wealth that he hath, or ever shall have—not for all the riches of Egyptian Thebes, which sends forth ten thousand warriors, with chariots, and with horses, from its hundred gates—no, not for treasures unnumbered as the sands and dust of the earth—could he buy pardon of me, until he hath suffered the full penalty of the outrage which devours my heart.

"Long ago my mother gave me the choice of two diverse fates—short life with honour, or long life without a name. Mine honour is lost—therefore I will cling to my life, and live it out to the end. Thy miser king holds that men's lives are to be bought and sold, as the lives of sheep and oxen; but herein he is mistaken again. Wealth may be won, and lost, and won back again, seized by the strong hand, or heaped up slowly by plodding industry; but the breath of our life cannot be called back again, when once it hath passed the door of our lips. Therefore I am determined to end my days in peace and quietness among my own people, and quit these brawls, which concern not me. And I counsel all the rest to do the same, for it is clear that Troy's overthrow is not to be wrought by you.

"Ye have heard my answer; go tell it to the chiefs, and bid them be assured that they have naught to hope from me."

Deep was the disappointment of the three envoys, as they followed the wild eloquence of that fierce and implacable man. For a long time not a word was spoken, for it seemed vain to argue against such passion and pride. At last the venerable Phœnix rose feebly from his place, and in a voice broken with sobs and tears began a discourse of immense length, full of tender personal reminiscence and old-world legend. This old man had a curious history. Born to wealth and power, he became an exile in his youth, having been cursed by his father, whom he had bitterly provoked in the course of a family feud. In consequence of the curse he remained a childless man, and, finding a new home in the land of Peleus, he lavished more than a father's tenderness on Achilles, Peleus' infant son.

These incidents from his own life, which he dwelt on with the fond garrulity of an old nurse, furnished a copious theme to Phœnix in the first part of his harangue. "I little thought," he said, "when I set thee on my knee, a little, helpless babe, and fed thee with choice morsels of meat, and held the cup to thy lips, and thou wouldst spill the wine over my gown in thy childish weakness—I little thought to see thee grow up to be so pitiless and inflexible, more hard to move than the gods themselves, whom we approach with prayer and sacrifice, and with bended knees. Beware of the vengeance which waits upon a stubborn and unforgiving heart. Swift and strong is the dread goddess Ate, who prompts man to give and take offence; but Penitence is an old and wrinkled goddess, who goes halting behind her, to heal the mischief; and if he who is wronged will not listen to her voice he himself becomes the offender, and the whole guilt of the quarrel rests on his head. Hearken thou, therefore, to her gentle pleading, and receive the bountiful gifts of Agamemnon, or the day will come when thou wilt take thy sword perforce, and fight the battles of the Greeks without reward."