As he grew old, the poet Robert Browning (1812-1889) looked back upon his relationship with the Iliad, the tale of Troy, in his poem Development, published in 1889. From a boyhood enjoyment of the story of the siege of Troy, he had graduated to reading Alexander Pope’s translated version, and then to reading Homer’s original Greek. Later his confidence that the Iliad recounted real historical events was profoundly shaken by the work of the German scholar Wolf, whose Prolegomena to Homer (1795) raised many of the questions that have occupied scholars since that time.
And after Wolf, a dozen of his like Proved there was never any Troy at all, Neither Besiegers nor Besieged, nay, worse ‒ No actual Homer, no authentic text, No warrant for the fiction I, as fact, Had treasured in my heart and soul so long… Browning concludes with the wish that he had never been introduced to the story of Troy, but rather to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, once he was of an age to attempt to make sense of it, difficult though it is to understand. In Aristotle, as in the Iliad, Browning would have encountered the virtues of prudence, temperance, courage and justice, in a philosophical treatise, rather than a colourful work of the imagination. He was left with a sense of anger and resentment that his father had ‘led him up the garden path’ with the tale of Troy, rather than introducing him to a work that spelled out directly the requirements for living a good life.
Many readers of Sofia will empathise with Browning’s sense of betrayal as he learnt that an ancient text he had been taught to regard as historically accurate was in fact a product of human creativity. The pages of Sofia have often borne witness to the initial pain and eventual liberation of those brought up to believe that what the Bible says is literally true, the revealed Word of God, but who are learning that there are other, more useful ways of approaching biblical scholarship.
That I have avoided this unhappy experience, I credit to my own introduction to the world of story and myth. I was raised on a diet of Greek myths, King Arthur, the Bible and Charles Kingsley’s Water Babies. I was never particularly aware of any difference between the Greek gods and heroes, the Knights of the Round Table, Jesus and the Old Testament prophets, and the old women little Tom met in The Water Babies. All belonged to a glorious world of creative imagination, that conveyed some truths, made wonderful stories and shaped my developing intellect. It was always obvious that what we can see around us is only a part of the picture, a snapshot at a particular moment in time, if time truly exists, where we can only see physically the material world, without knowing how this fits into other dimensions, some of which have been revealed by Science, and some that are still obscure.
Thirty years later, I was asked to take on the teaching of A-level Classical Studies. Within the syllabus was an option to study Epic Poetry in translation. Once again I stood outside the city of Priam with the Achaean forces. Around me, unseen, strode the pantheon of gods. It amazed me that I should be paid to do anything as wonderful as reading and studying the Iliad! Simply, all human life is there, but set within a context that includes the gods, who manipulate the people as it suits their own intention and who sometimes take on human form when it furthers their schemes. We are given an alternative to the view that it is chance alone that rules our lives.
What continues to attract me to reread the Iliad?
First and foremost, it is an exciting story, a sequel to the theft of Helen, wife of Menelaus of Sparta, by Prince Paris of Troy, which caused the Trojan War. Now the Achaeans are encamped outside Troy in an effort to reclaim her.
However, the best Achaean fighter, Achilles, refuses to join in the fighting for most of the book, peeved that Agamemnon has stolen from him the girl Briseis, the prize awarded to Achilles by the army. We come to know very well a range of Achaean and Trojan heroes, and which gods and goddesses fight on the Achaean and Trojan sides.
The spinning of a coherent narrative from several different Troy stories is a work of genius.
The poet has a deep understanding of human life, of the countryside and the sea, and is a brilliant entertainer, spicing horror with humour, and keeping a range of sub-narratives in play with vibrancy and cohesion.
Who can forget the many poignant moments, such as the Trojan hero Hector’s farewell to his wife, Andromache, and son as he goes off to battle?
The audience, whether ancient listeners or modern readers, know that once Hector is dead and Troy has fallen, she will be taken away overseas as a slave by Neoptolomus, son of the Achaean hero Achilles, and the boy flung to his death from the city walls to destroy the lineage of his grandfather Priam, king of Troy. But this is in the future and outside the scope of the Iliad itself. Meanwhile, afraid of his father’s plumed helmet, the child ‘shrank back with a cry to the bosom of his girdled nurse, alarmed by his father’s appearance’. Hector takes off his helmet and, putting it on the floor, gives his son a cuddle.
This will prove the family’s last meeting.
Later, when Achilles has killed Hector, King Priam goes, under the protection of Hermes, messenger of the gods, through the Achaean lines to ransom the body, which Achilles has been mistreating in revenge for the recent death in battle of his dearest friend Patroclus. Priam, Hector’s father, falls down before Achilles and kisses his hands: ‘Achilles, fear the gods and be merciful to me, remembering your own father, though I am even more entitled to compassion, since I have brought myself to do a thing that no one else on earth has done ‒ I have raised to my lips the hand of the man who killed my son.’ Achilles, laying aside temporarily his own desperate grief for his friend Patroclus, tells him: ‘Let us leave our sorrows, bitter though they are, locked up in our hearts, for weeping is cold comfort and does little good. We men are wretched things, and the gods, who have no cares themselves, have woven sorrow into the very pattern of our lives.’ Much of the Iliad consists of exciting battle scenes. These remind me of modern sports commentaries, interspersed with snippets of information about the participants. For example, in the struggle to drag off the body of Patroclus, a Trojan called Hippothous is killed by Aias, as he attempts to fasten thongs around Patroclus’ ankles. ‘He was a long way from deep-soiled Larissa when the spear of Aias cut him off. His life had been too short, and now he could never repay his parents for their care.’ These little cameos relieve the constant slaughter, and add to the interest of the commentary, similar to hearing that a particular player, for example, began his career with Southampton, and has been capped for England three times.
The poet keeps his audience constantly aware of life beyond the battlefield. When Hephaestus, the smith god, makes new armour for Achilles, the shield is illustrated with scenes showing the contrast between war and peace. Throughout the Iliad, agricultural and country scenes of hunting and fishing recur, with wasps, fierce lions and stockraiding described. Although the narrative does not describe any single period of Greek prehistory, it creates a world picture that is both credible and attractive.
The lives of the gods add to the drama, and complicate the narrative. Much of the humour comes from the interaction on Olympus, such as when Hera, Zeus’ wife and sister, seduces him with her beauty, in order to go behind his back to achieve her ends. We see Zeus with the scales of destiny, an image familiar from ancient Egypt to medieval Europe, pondering as to what should occur on Earth. The lives of the human combatants and of the deathless gods are inextricably linked.
Does this reflect reality, I wonder?
Whereas Browning’s reaction to a more accurate contextualisation of the Iliad was anger and resentment, I continue to revere this seminal epic, which lays out what it is to be human with such tenderness and accuracy, while providing us with glorious entertainment.
Margaret Connolly read History at Reading University.
Now retired, she was Headmistress of Hollygirt School, Nottingham.