The Ο ἶκ τος of Achilles: Reinterpreting Pity in the Iliad By Will Milvaney Acknowledgements I would like to thank Dr. Keyne Cheshire for his endless support in this lengthy process. His constant guidance and encouragement gave me the confidence to achieve my goal, and the perseverance to never be satisfied with my work. It is because of him that I was able to complete this paper and, more importantly, that I was able to discover the truly endless gifts that the Iliad has to offer. I would also like to thank Dr. Drew Keller and Dr. Stephanie Russell, who inspired in me a passion for the Classics that has never faltered. They helped set me on this path and, while I still cannot tell where it will ultimately lead, I am forever grateful to them. Finally, I thank my wonderful parents. They have supported me and stuck by me from the very beginning, teaching me never to give up, and to expect the best from myself. Their love and encouragement is present in everything I do. I would also like to dedicate this work to my grandfather. Even if he had little clue about Ancient Greece, he taught me to be kind and dedicated in all aspects of life. I’m quite sure that if Achilles had been lucky enough to have him, he would have learned to feel pity and sympathy after all.
ii Table of Contents I. An Introduction: Pity in the Iliad 1 II. Ἔλεος
13
III. Οἶκτος
27
IV. Reframing Achilles 45 62
Works Consulted iii I. An Introduction: Pity in the Iliad Although there is not nearly as much scholarship about pity in the Iliad as there is concerning other topics, such as the essence of the Homeric hero or Achilles’ μῆνις (rage), there are still a number of scholars who have analyzed this subject, at least tangentially. In general, these scholars have one of two main goals. Some want to prove the existence of an individual poet, a singular Homer who created and shaped this work.1 To do so, they analyze overarching emotional arcs to establish a grand thematic structure, both complex and unified enough to point to a single-­‐
minded creator. They argue that such a perfectly balanced and subtly coherent text, especially with regard to the emotional journeys of both character and audience, must imply a single author or organizer at some point in the creation of the poem we have today. Other scholars wish to understand the nature of pathos in the Iliad, why the story inspires modern audiences so powerfully and how it would have affected the ancient Greeks.2 All of these scholars, then, are more concerned with pity as an abstract concept, a unifying theme that binds and transforms characters and motifs, than they are with specific moments of pity within the narrative. A few do treat the specific language,3 namely the three main verbs generally thought to denote pity: ἐ λεέω, ἐ λεαίρω, and ο ἰκτείρω. But in this area of detailed linguistic analysis, I have found scholarship treating these words per se to be severely lacking. 1 See, for example, Ingalls, “Structural Unity of the Iliad”; and Kim, The Pity of Achilles. 2 See, for example, Conley, “Pity and Poetic Justice in the Iliad”; and Scott, “Pity and Pathos in Homer.” 3 See Kim, The Pity of Achilles; and Prauscello, “The Language of Pity”; and Scott, “Pity and Pathos in Homer.” 1 The reason is clear: almost every scholar, translator, and dictionary considers these words to be synonymous. Even the few who attempt to discern subtle distinctions between them do so relatively cursorily, and do not find particularly significant results.4 This is where my study will fit into the general scholarly field. I find this assumption of synonymy to be a dangerous one, and through closer linguistic examination I shall show that, while ἐ λεέω and ἐ λεαίρω express pity, ο ἰκτείρω does not. This distinction has profound implications for the broader scholarly and popular conception of the Iliad and its characters. Before proceeding, however, a brief review of the relevant scholarship will help contextualize my own study. The contexts in which these emotions are presented are the only clues we have to a distinction between the emotions of ἐ λεέω
and ο ἰκτείρω. There is therefore an inevitable incompleteness inherent in studies of Homeric emotion. While my main focus will be on the scenes where these verbs explicitly express the emotion of the characters (particularly Achilles), other scenes containing language of sorrow, mourning, or despair doubtless also contain elements of pity. As Griffin points out, “‘[Homer] has made the narrative sufficiently pathetic’; but it is not by means of explicitly emotional words that this effect is achieved.”5 Just as the audience may feel pity during a scene in which no word for pity appears, a character may feel pity without “explicitly emotional words” present, betraying this feeling simply through his actions or words. Since I will be arguing that scenes involving the verbs ο ἰκτείρω and ἐ λεέω are distinct from one another, it 4 See Prauscello, “The Language of Pity”; and Scott, “Pity and Pathos in Homer.” 5 Griffin, Homer on Life and Death, 108-­‐109. He notes that the first part of the sentence is from the ancient scholia, but does not seem to cite a specific source. 2 is important to keep in mind that there could be additional moments in which these emotions are felt but not overtly mentioned. Nonetheless, despite such difficulties, scholars seem unable to resist the urge to explain why this epic has been so able to stir the great depths of our feeling and pity for so long. Very often they turn to a more renowned, but still somewhat problematic Greek guide – Aristotle. Duane Conley, for example, in “Pity and Poetic Justice in the Iliad,” considers the great emotional triumph of the poem, based on a reading of Aristotle’s Poetics, to be Homer’s ability to strike the perfect equilibrium between pity and poetic justice. That is to say, Achilles inspires sympathy when he mourns for his friend Patroclus, or when he pities and assists the enemy king Priam, because he reveals a humane and vulnerable side. Yet our sense of righteousness is also satisfied, as Achilles gets punished for his inexhaustible bitterness and rage. In this singular story – Aristotle notes that “out of an Iliad… only one tragedy can be made, or two at most, whereas several have been made out of the Cypria, and of the Little Iliad more than eight”6 – we invest fully in the great tragedy of Achilles because he displays a full range of human pity and anger, sorrow and rage, love and selfishness. This focused and balanced tragic equilibrium, according to Conley, is the heart of the Iliad. Todd Frobish also examines the poem through an Aristotelian lens (the Rhetoric rather than the Poetics), but he is more interested in developing a theory of Homeric character and ethos that he can trace forward to Aristotle than in explaining the particular emotional impact that the Iliad has had through the centuries. It seems that modern scholars are intensely interested not only in 6 Conley, “Pity and Poetic Justice in the Iliad, 171, citing Aristotle’s Poetics 23.7. 3 connecting Homer philosophically to his Greek posterity, but also in categorizing this epic by means of later narrative theory with respect to emotion, character, and plot. This approach can be dangerous, though, since the meanings and distinctions between words can shift, even in only a few hundred years. The words that I will examine, and their implications, may not have meant the same thing to the Classical Athenian as they did to the Homeric Greek. Elizabeth Robertson and T.A. Stroud, in their article “Aristotle’s Poetics and the Plot of the Iliad,” go perhaps even further with this approach, splitting the Iliad into two main plots, each under one of Aristotle’s categories. The first is a ‘simple’ plot in which a series of spectacles unfolds centered around the Plan of Zeus, which is accomplished when the Trojans reach the Greek ships, the ultimate punishment and humiliation. Though Zeus is the main actor here, they see him as a thematic substitute for Achilles since he is enacting this plan based on Achilles’ plea. The second plot is a ‘passion-­‐dominated’ one in which Achilles retakes an active role as protagonist and his rage transforms from a reserved aloofness to an unbridled yearning for revenge. In this way, Robertson and Stroud argue that the plot is driven by two different forms of Achilles’ rage, and they treat Achilles’ feeling of ο ἶκτος for Priam at the end of the story (24.516) as a sort of denouement: “the change occurs only after all passion is spent.”7 This raises an important issue: what is the nature of Achilles’ connection with Priam in the final book? 8 These authors see it as an integral movement in the plot that concludes a journey starting as early as the first 7 Robertson & Stroud, “Aristotle’s Poetics and the Plot of the Iliad,” 195. 8 Here, as I will examine in later sections, the verb used is ο ἰκτείρω (24.516). 4 line of the poem, in which the poet sings of Achilles’ μ ῆνις (rage). Since scholars who analyze the theme of pity are generally in favor of the theory that a single poet created this work, they tend to take the same stance as Robertson & Stroud. This is in direct response to other scholars, such as Walter Leaf, who have theorized that the Iliad consists of a series of layered stories that accumulated over the centuries in the oral tradition.9 By this argument, the final books in which Achilles feels ο ἶκτος may simply be a tacked on conclusion, not necessarily essential to the main story. The role and nature of pity and ο ἶκτος is perhaps the crucial element in this debate, speaking to whether Achilles’ story is a unified whole or a series of fragmented layers. The study of the nature of pity in the Iliad, then, holds no small significance for the larger issues of narrative structure and authorship.
Other scholars approach the topic of pathos in order to elucidate the cultural mindset of the Homeric audience and society. A. Maria van Erp Taalman Kip, for example, focuses on the gods in “The Gods of the Iliad and the Fate of Troy” as she rebukes any attempt to find justice or morality in the divine action within the poem. She warns against modern sentiment and sensibility as it pertains to the Iliad, emphasizing instead what a truly stark world Homer presents, where men fighting for life and death pledge themselves and pray to gods who are more interested in their own fickle desires than the livelihoods of mortals. This narrative device, she argues, “open[s] the way for our pity and our awareness of the human condition.”10 If the gods acted in a purely moral fashion, we would not sympathize with the 9 For more on Leaf, his theory, and the sorts of responses it has elicited from other scholars, see Duffy, “Leaf’s Theory of the Gods,” 4-­‐18. 10 Kip, “The Gods of the Iliad and the Fate of Troy,” 402. 5 Trojans and the entire war would seem to be just a righteous crusade rather than the layered human tragedy that it truly is presented to be. In this way, the pity of the audience lies at the very center of the story for Kip, and the pity of the characters, particularly Achilles as he begins to see the world of gods and men in a similar way to the audience, may be a reflection of the emotional reality that existed for the Homeric audience. For her, the moments of pity throughout the epic are directly linked with those moments in which the audience would sympathize as well. Mary Scott, in “Pity and Pathos in Homer,” is also interested in this mirroring effect, by means of which the characters and audience are emotionally linked. She is one of the few scholars who distinguishes between the specific words for pity within the epic, as I will discuss later, but she does this only in an attempt to discern what scenes would have aroused empathy in the audience. War and death, according to Scott, are not manifestations of inherent evil, as they may be to a more modern audience. Rather, the pathos in these concepts lies in the fear of failure. The most pathetic part of a warrior’s death, as we see throughout the Homeric epithets and obituaries, is his failure to return to his family or provide for his people. Pity, then, lies solely, as a student of Aristotle would indeed argue, in the connection between audience and character, and the fear that whatever tragic fate comes to Achilles may in some way befall the listener as well. The nature of pity among these characters, then, does not just influence our conception of the story’s construction and intention. It holds significant implications for the very essence of the poem and how audiences, both ancient and modern, have related to it. 6 Scott relies heavily on the work of A.W.H. Adkins, who espouses a warning similar to both hers and Kip’s in his article “Values, Goals, and Emotions in the Iliad”: we must be wary of contaminating this ancient text with modern, anachronistic sentiments. He acknowledges, as most readers do, the “intensity of the sorrow and the pity evoked by [the poem].”11 But he goes on to say that this pity “affects the emotions rather than the mind and need not lead to new insight.”12 This is presumably in response to scholarship that tends to assign some grand, enlightened, humane moral lesson to the meeting between Achilles and Priam, that to love and pity other men is just and right, as opposed to the endless destructive war that makes up most of the narrative. This message is seen by some as a shift from the Archaic Age to a more enlightened age of moral justice, human rights, and even democracy.13 Adkins’ measured restraint is understandable, and his reading is in fact an attempt to ennoble this poignant ending and save it from modern bias and sentimentality. But in his efforts, he ends up giving these scenes little special significance. While this pity should not be confused with concepts of democratic equality or Judeo-­‐Christian mercy (that is not the world in which the Iliad was created), a response against this trend that would push the theme of pity to the background is just as problematic. These moments may not lead to new insight, but they are clearly important to the basic story, and thus to our understanding of both the Iliad and the Homeric culture in which it was created. 11 Adkins, “Values, Goals, and Emotions in the Iliad,” 324. 12 Ibid. 13 See, for example, Hammer, “The Iliad as Ethical Thinking,” 203-­‐235; and Koziak, “Homeric Thumos,” 1068-­‐1091. 7 There are a number of more recent studies that focus on pity, not necessarily to illuminate some new insight, but to emphasize the importance of this emotion within the Homeric narrative. Most thorough, perhaps, is Jinyo Kim’s book, The Pity of Achilles: Oral Style and the Unity of the Iliad, in which she postulates a tripartite structure built upon the emotional themes of pity, rage, and friendship. According to her argument, Achilles is a normal character, full of reverence and pity for his fellow soldiers going into the Chryses crisis of Book 1. However, after Agamemnon insults him and takes his prize, Achilles is filled with rage and pitilessness toward the Greek king, and even toward the whole Greek army since they did nothing to defend him. This pitilessness, according to Kim, continues throughout the first eight books. In his pitilessness, moreover, Achilles’ concept of φιλότης (friendship) changes, shrinking to exclude his former allies to the point where his only friends are the Myrmidons he commands, particularly Patroclus. Starting in Book 9, when the Greek embassy comes to Achilles’ tent, his pitilessness is gradually worn down until finally, Kim argues, he pities Patroclus in Book 16 and sends him back to the battle. While this is only a symbolic abandonment of his anger, his φιλότης is gradually expanding, and the Greeks become active allies again after Hector kills Patroclus. In the final section, Achilles returns to the battle, turning his vengeful pitilessness toward Hector and the Trojans, and in this way the natural structure of alliances is restored. However, at the end, according to Kim, Achilles’ conception of his φιλότης expands even further, to include Priam and perhaps all humankind. Kim’s narrative structure, then, revolves around Achilles’ φιλότης, which shrinks through his anger toward Agamemnon, and then expands again through his pity for 8 Patroclus. It even expands beyond the cultural norm because of his pity for Priam. This argument for complexity of design, yet precise cohesiveness of theme and focus, implies a single-­‐minded creator, but also points to the great significance of the theme of pity in interpreting the Iliad. The moments in which pity occurs, particularly with relation to Achilles, are crucial turning points in the story, not just for Kim but for most interpretations of the story, and so the results of my linguistic analyses of these scenes will be especially significant. Kim’s structure is a particularly complex and thorough one, but there are certainly other scholars who have posited similar ideas. Jeremy Ingalls, in “Structural Unity of the Iliad,” postulates a design of emotional stresses in the poem, which creates a continuous flow through the various dynamics of wrath, fear, sorrow, and pity to a final, grand conclusion. In this way, she proposes that the poem is akin to a great musical composition, precisely laid out in terms of emotional crescendos and denouements. Similarly to Kim and Robertson, Ingalls asserts that in a grand final flourish “the spirit of Achilles himself is at last released from the infatuate overplus of passion” when he meets with Priam.14 This climactic scene at the end of the poem seems to be an important moment for most of these scholars, and a strong pattern of scenes that involve and evoke pity emerges. She uses this design, as we have seen others do, to support the theory that a single great composer was involved at some point in the history of this piece. Once again, we find that the theme and nature of pity in the Iliad is not just an important part of 14 Ingalls, “Structural Unity in the Iliad,” 402. 9 these structures and arguments, but a fundamental building block upon which the entire scholarly field is established. One last theoretical structure that warrants discussion is that of Glenn Most, outlined in his article “Anger and Pity in Homer’s Iliad.” Like Kim, he writes about the connection between anger and pity in the Iliad, and even postulates another tripartite structure, though his premise is a bit more precise: he finds pity cannot exist in the Homeric hero without anger. He maps out the first two sections like Kim did; Achilles feels anger initially toward Agamemnon, and after Patroclus’ death the rage transfers to Hector. However, during these two sections, Most postulates that some form of pity must also be taking place, as a sort of balance for the anger. He proposes that when Achilles feels anger toward Agamemnon he is feeling pity for himself even though such an idea is never explicitly confirmed in the text. When Achilles turns his rage from Agamemnon toward Hector, Most argues that Achilles’ pity shifts from himself to Patroclus. In the final section, perhaps the most problematic, Most argues that Achilles’ pity shifts from Patroclus to Priam, and that Achilles redirects his anger from Hector toward himself. While it may be difficult to believe that Achilles, or any Homeric hero, would feel either self-­‐hate or self-­‐pity, Most proposes an interesting pattern. According to his theory, Achilles’ anger shifts from a king to a fellow soldier to himself, while his pity shifts from himself to a soldier to a king. That is, Most proposes an inward movement of anger and a contrasting outward movement of pity as Achilles’ perception of the world and his role in it presumably changes. Achilles’ defining characteristic is in many ways his extreme passion – whether anger, sorrow, battle fury, etc. – and in this way we may 10 see his passion as remaining constant, but the emotion whose form it takes shifts from anger to pity, pity to anger. While I shall show that Most’s conception of pity is problematic, this chiastic structure he proposes is compelling and will warrant further discussion in light of the redefinition of ο ἰκτείρω that I shall set forth in the following chapters. Very few recent scholars have treated Homer’s uses of ο ἰκτείρω and ἐ λεέω in light of one another. In her study of a later Greek author, “The Language of Pity: Eleos and Oiktos in Sophocles’ Philoctetes,” Lucia Prauscello touches on Homer as a precursor to Sophocles. In Sophocles’ Philoctetes, a play very much focused around the concept of pity, she attempts to discern some distinction between the two linguistic forms ο ἶκτος and ἔ λεος. In her overview of Homer, she states, “eleos and its derivates generally express… an impulse to act upon a certain feeling,”15 and that for this reason “eleos is a specialized subset of oiktos.”16 In other words, Prauscello argues that the verb οἰκτείρω involves a generalized feeling of pity, while ἐ λεέω
explicitly implies a resulting action, or at least “an impulse to act.” Mary Scott, whose interest, as I have already discussed, is primarily to determine how these feelings would have been reflected in the ancient Greek audiences, arrives at a similar conclusion to Prauscello’s: “eleos is a positive impulse in favor of someone in trouble which, when followed up, leads to action on his behalf, while oiktos merely involves a holding back from further action which would increase the distress and 15 Prauscello, “The Language of Pity,” 200. 16 Ibid., 201. 11 shame of the object.”17 Scott finds, like Prauscello, that ἔ λεος implies an impulse, but she adds that ο ἶκτος is more than just a generalized form; it is an explicit “holding back.” In a society of Homeric competitive values, as Kim and others also point out in their studies that I have discussed previously, pity is not an uncommon emotion. Heroes naturally feel pity (ἔλεος) for their friends, especially in a story with so much war and death. When these social allies suffer, a fellow soldier is expected to feel the impulse to assist them. The ο ἶκτος, on the other hand, is the outlier. It is the less common word in the Homeric texts, and I will show that it involves not pity, but a horror or indignation that is much less in keeping with the Homeric value system presented throughout the Iliad than the more appropriate ἔ λεος. Through close linguistic analysis of salient scenes, I will examine the nature of this distinction, how it functions as part of the larger narrative, and what it means for our overall conception of Achilles, who may be as problematic in pity as he is in wrath.
17 Scott, “Pity and Pathos in Homer,” 13. 12 II. Ἔ λ εος
Just like most of the scholarship on the Iliad, the Etymological Dictionary of Greek deems the verbs ἐ λεέω and ο ἰκτείρω to be essentially synonymous, both meaning simply “to pity.” They are derived from two different cries of pain or sorrow – ἐ λελεῦ and ο ἰοιοι – but there is no specific evidence adduced, linguistic or otherwise, to indicate what distinction, if any, might have originally existed between them. It is quite reasonable to expect that such a distinction once existed, but that it was lost by the time of Aristotle and his Athenian contemporaries. The only way to recover this distinction, then, is to closely analyze the scenes in which the verbs οἰκτείρω and ἐ λεέω occur, and to discern whether the context implies any difference in the nature of these emotions. I will examine the rarer ο ἰκτείρω in the following chapters, but first we must seek to understand the basic nature of Homeric pity as expressed by the verbs ἐ λεέω and ἐ λεαίρω, and in particular Achilles’ relationship to it. Pity appears as a noun only once in the entire Iliad. In a well-­‐known scene near the end of the poem, Apollo laments Achilles’ cruel treatment of Hector’s corpse (24.44-­‐45): ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς ἔλεον μὲν ἀπώλεσεν, οὐδέ οἱ αἰδὼς
γίγνεται, ἥ τ᾽ ἄνδρας μέγα σίνεται ἠδ᾽ ὀνίνησι.
So Achilleus has destroyed pity, and there is not in him Any shame; which does so much harm to men but profits them also.18 Apollo’s statement that Achilles has “destroyed pity” (ἔλεον… ἀπώλεσεν, 44) may seem like hyperbole here, but Achilles does indeed have a unique relationship with 18 All translations are from Lattimore (1951), unless otherwise noted. 13 pity. While he does feel the emotion expressed by the verb ο ἰκτείρω, as I will discuss in the next chapter, he never appears to feel ἔ λεος. This most basic and common form of pity in the Iliad is felt by many characters, both mortal and divine, throughout the epic. While the noun never appears elsewhere in this text, the verb ἐλεέω is used 27 times throughout the poem, concentrated in certain sections.19 To understand the significance of Achilles’ lack of ἔ λεος, we must analyze what this emotion truly implies. These 27 verbal appearances form two main categories: pity felt and pity sought. The first group, pity felt, involves either men or gods pitying a beloved companion or mortal. There are four scenes in which a mortal hero explicitly pities his companion falling in battle: τὼ δὲ πεσόντ᾽ ἐλέησεν ἀρηΐφιλος Μενέλαος
τὼ δὲ πεσόντ᾽ ἐλέησε μέγας Τελαμώνιος Αἴας: τὸν δὲ πεσόντ᾽ ἐλέησεν ἀρηΐφιλος Λυκομήδης, τὸν δὲ πεσόντ᾽ ἐλέησεν ἀρήϊος Ἀστεροπαῖος, (5.561) (5.610) (17.346) (17.352) Each line begins with nearly the same formula, which I have underlined – some variation of “he pitied him dying” – and ends with a hero’s name and epithet, in these cases Menelaus, Telamonian Ajax, Lycomedes, and the Trojan Asteropaeus. These characters feel a basic, understandable pity for their “dying” (πεσόντα) companions on the battlefield. This formulaic construction is essentially the same when gods pity mortals who are suffering: τοὺς δὲ ἰδοῦσ᾽ ἐλέησε θεὰ λευκώλενος Ἥρη,
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ἐλέησε πατὴρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε,
τειρομένους δ᾽ ἐπὶ νηυσὶν ἰδὼν ἐλέησεν Ἀχαιούς.
τοὺς δὲ ἰδὼν ἐλέησε Κρόνου πάϊς ἀγκυλομήτεω,
(8.350) (15.12) (15.44) (16.431) 19 It is especially common in books 6, 17, 22, and 24. 14 μυρομένω δ᾽ ἄρα τώ γε ἰδὼν ἐλέησε Κρονίων,
(17.441) μυρομένους δ᾽ ἄρα τούς γε ἰδὼν ἐλέησε Κρονίων, (19.340) ἐς πεδίον προφανέντε: ἰδὼν δ᾽ ἐλέησε γέροντα,
(24.332) The focus here is on the god’s “seeing” (ἰδοῦσα/ἰδών), rather than on the mortal’s “dying” (πεσόντα), but the general concept is the same. At 8.350, Hera feels pity for the Greeks as they are slaughtered by the Trojans. Just as in the previous group, this line begins with a nearly equivalent phrase describing the act of pitying, and ends with the name of the one pitying (Hera) and her epithets. The order of the formula’s elements varies occasionally, for instance at 15.44 and 24.332, when the act of seeing and pitying is expressed later in the line.20 Despite the variance in line construction, though, the formula of seeing and pitying is still unchanged. At 17.441 and 19.430, a similar shift occurs, as Zeus’ seeing and pitying is pushed back to make room for the emphatic weeping (μυρομένω/μυρομένους) of the pitiable characters. All these instances of ἐ λεέω, then, 11 of the 27, appear in similar formulae to express a basic, straightforward form of pity that a hero feels for his dying friend, or that a god feels for a beloved and suffering mortal or group of mortals.21 20 In these instances, the first half of the line is devoted to a description of the mortals who are being pitied: at 15.44 it is the distress and affliction of the Greeks (τειρομένους), and at 24.332 it is Priam riding out into the open, unprotected plain (ἐς πεδίον προφανέντε) as he journeys to ransom his dead son. Perhaps the especially pitiable situations of the mortals in these lines take emphatic precedence over the more conventional pity of the gods. 21 In 17.441 there is an exception. Zeus pities not mortals, but the immortal horses who are weeping for the dead Patroclus. However, since the horses have been subjected to living on the mortal plane, they have become exposed to and involved in mortality, the source of all that is pitiable. Zeus’ pity for them becomes essentially equivalent to his pity for a suffering human, one who is below the gods and subject to the torments of the mortal life. 15 The other category involves pity sought. There are only two mortals in the Iliad from whom other characters beg for pity, Achilles and Hector: μηδὲ κατακτείνειεν ὁμηλικίην ἐλεήσας,
‘γουνοῦμαι σ᾽ Ἀχιλεῦ: σὺ δέ μ᾽ αἴδεο καί μ᾽ ἐλέησον:
πρὸς δ᾽ ἐμὲ τὸν δύστηνον ἔτι φρονέοντ᾽ ἐλέησον
‘Ἕκτορ τέκνον ἐμὸν τάδε τ᾽ αἴδεο καί μ᾽ ἐλέησον
ἀλλ᾽ αἰδεῖο θεοὺς Ἀχιλεῦ, αὐτόν τ᾽ ἐλέησον
(20.465, Achilles) (21.74, Achilles) (22.59, Hector) (22.82, Hector) (24.503, Achilles) In these scenes, the imperative form of ἐ λεέω is used,22 and each time it appears at the very end of the line. In three of these five instances, it is also paired with a form of αἰδέομαι (“to feel shame”). This is a connection we have already seen in the opening quote from Apollo: he laments that Achilles has not only destroyed ἔ λεος, but also that he has no shame or restraint. Thus, shame and ἔ λεος have a close relationship in the Iliad. These pleas for pity are generally unsuccessful. Achilles goes on to kill Tros in Book 20 and Lycaon in Book 21. Hector ignores the pleas of both his mother and father in Book 22, and chooses to face Achilles in battle regardless. In Book 24, Achilles does in fact respond to Priam’s appeal, but since it is not ἔ λεος with which he responds, this intriguing exception will be reserved for the next chapter. More common than these moments of begging, which take place in an instant of desperation, are scenes in which a mortal wishes for pity from a god in an upcoming contest or endeavor. Once again, this grouping is bound together by a common formulaic construction: 22 In the sole exception, at 20.465, the participle is used rather than the imperative, but this is only because the poet chose to describe this exchange through narration rather than direct speech. This is a stylistic choice, but the essential function of the verb is unchanged. 16 ἤνις ἠκέστας ἱερευσέμεν, αἴ κ᾽ ἐλεήσῃ
ἤνις ἠκέστας ἱερευσέμεν, αἴ κ᾽ ἐλεήσῃ
ἤνις ἠκέστας ἱερεύσομεν, αἴ κ᾽ ἐλεήσῃς
ὄφρα Διὶ Κρονίδῃ ἀρησόμεθ᾽, αἴ κ᾽ ἐλεήσῃ.
μή μιν ἐγὼ μὲν ἵκωμαι ἰών, ὃ δέ μ᾽ οὐκ ἐλεήσει ἤν πως ἡλικίην αἰδέσσεται ἠδ᾽ ἐλεήσῃ ὠμηστὴς καὶ ἄπιστος ἀνὴρ ὅ γε οὔ σ᾽ ἐλεήσει,
ἐσθλὸν γὰρ Διὶ χεῖρας ἀνασχέμεν αἴ κ᾽ ἐλεήσῃ.
γούνων ἁψάμενοι λιτανεύσομεν αἴ κ᾽ ἐλεήσῃ.
(6.94)
(6.275)
(6.309)
(9.172) (22.123) (22.419) (24.207) (24.301) (24.357) The formula here is αἴ κ᾽ ἐλεήσῃ (“if he/she might have pity”), but, as in some of the previous categories, there is a little bit of variation. In the scenes where a god’s ἔλεος is sought, the formula remains the same.23 But in the three lines where the formula varies (22.123, 22.419, 24.207), it is not a god from whom the characters hope for ἔ λεος, but Achilles. At 22.419, the word for “if” is changed (ἤν replaces αἴ), and the formula is lengthened to allow for yet another appearance of the verb αἰδέομαι in connection with ἔ λεος. In this scene, Priam is in a crazed and distressed state after the death of his son Hector, and he wishes beyond hope that the vengeful Achilles might feel ἔ λεος for him and return Hector’s body. Perhaps the emphasis on shame (αἰδέσσεται) in addition to ἔ λεος speaks to some cultural expectation that one ought to feel shame and pity, or it may point ahead to Apollo’s later lament about Achilles’ lack of ἔ λεος and αἰδώς (24.44). Whatever the case, it is important to note that pity and shame are closely connected in the Homeric vocabulary, and that this relationship does not seem to occur between ο ἶκτος and αἰδώς. In addition, Achilles 23 In 24.357, this formula is used when Priam’s herald sees an unknown figure approaching and suggests that they grasp his knees in the hope that he might take pity on them. The herald may think the approaching figure is a mortal, but since the audience knows that it is Hermes in disguise we can include this moment of dramatic irony among those conventional ones in which a mortal wishes for pity from a god. 17 is the only mortal from whom ἔ λεος is sought in this way. In the other two variant lines (22.123 and 24.207), Hecuba and Hector consider Achilles’ capacity for ἔ λεος in a more realistic fashion than Priam. They do not express a generalized wish for ἔλεος, but rather a response to the implied question “will he take pity on me?” Hecuba is responding directly to Priam (24.207), whereas Hector is grappling with his own irrational hope (22.123), but the resulting conclusion is the same: Achilles will not feel ἔ λεος (οὐκ ἐλεήσει / οὔ σ᾽ ἐλεήσει) no matter what anyone wishes. These characters, more reasoning and practical than Priam in his moment of passion, acknowledge that there is no point in begging Achilles for ἔ λεος, since he is essentially pitiless. There are two uses of ἐ λεέω that don’t fit formulaically into the previous categories, but they are particularly significant as the only two to take place in the context of peace. Despite the war-­‐centric nature of the Iliad, we find that ἐ λεέω is not a term reserved exclusively for battle. Andromache uses it once in a simile (22.494), when she imagines men from the town feeling ἔ λεος for her child Astyanax, orphaned after Hector’s death. This seems to imply a peaceful form of ἔλεος removed from the battlefield. Similarly, Hector pities Andromache’s situation within the city before he returns to combat (6.484-­‐485): δακρυόεν γελάσασα: πόσις δ᾽ ἐλέησε νοήσας,
χειρί τέ μιν κατέρεξεν ἔπος τ᾽ ἔφατ᾽ ἔκ τ᾽ ὀνόμαζε.
Smiling in her tears; and her husband saw, and took pity upon her, And stroked her with his hand, and called her by name and spoke to her. Achilles and Hector are the two major players in this poem, and they mirror each other in a number of ways. Neither feels ἔ λεος on the battlefield, and both have been 18 shown to refuse pleas for it. Yet in this scene, Hector notably does feel ἔ λεος. It does not prevent him from returning to battle and ultimately giving his life, but it does make him pause. In this way, even Hector, Achilles’ Trojan counterpart, appears to have the capacity for ἔ λεος. There are also scenes in the epic in which Achilles encounters friends or loved ones who are crying and suffering. It is significant, then, that, while Hector feels pity here, Achilles never does.24 If he were capable of the same ἔ λεος as Hector, then we would expect him to explicitly feel it at some point in the story. Instead, it seems that Apollo was not speaking in hyperbole: Achilles is thoroughly without ἔ λεος. As a result, Achilles never seems to feel the close partner of ἐ λεέω, ἐ λεαίρω, either. Though somewhat less common – 13 uses as opposed to 27 – ἐ λεαίρω appears not to be semantically distinct from its partner. This can be seen in Andromache’s use of the verb when seeking pity from Hector. In very close proximity to Hector’s previously discussed moment of ἔ λεος (6.484), she bitterly claims, using the verb ἐ λεαίρω, that her husband feels pity neither for herself nor for their son Astyanax (6.407), and subsequently begs him to (6.431). Given the fact that Hector responds with pity (ἐλεέω) to Andromache’s demand, we can assume that her use of ἐ λεαίρω refers to the same emotion as does the use of ἐ λεέω describing his response. In this scene, at least, the two verbs seem to be interchangeable, both expressing the basic pity that is ἔ λεος. 24 Most notably, Achilles does not feel ἔ λεος for the tears of his dearest friend Patroclus in the beginning of Book 16. Instead, he feels ο ἶκτος (16.5). I will examine this scene and the significance of this distinction in the next chapter. 19 The gods are subjects of the verb ἐ λεαίρω a number of times. Zeus never directly feels ἔ λεος with this verb, but his messengers Dream and Iris come to mortals using it to describe how he feels toward them (2.27, 2.64, 24.174). Other gods pity the sufferings of mortals directly through a form of ἐ λεαίρω: ἔνθ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἐξ ἁλὸς ἕζετ᾽ ἰών, ἐλέαιρε δ᾽ Ἀχαιοὺς (13.15, Poseidon) πᾶσαν ἀεικείην ἄπεχε χροῒ φῶτ᾽ ἐλεαίρων
(24.19, Apollo) τὸν δ᾽ ἐλεαίρεσκον μάκαρες θεοὶ εἰσορόωντες,
(24.23, all the gods) These lines do not display the same formulaic consistency as the appearances of ἐλεέω, but they do carry a similar contextual meaning. The second half of line 13.15, where Poseidon feels ἔ λεος for the Greeks, is metrically identical to a similar previously discussed instance of Poseidon’s pity expressed by ἐ λεέω: τ ειρομένους δ᾽
ἐπὶ νηυσὶν ἰδὼν ἐλέησεν Ἀχαιούς (15.44). The other two occurrences feature Apollo and the other gods pitying Hector’s corpse as Achilles defiles it (24.19, 24.23). This takes place directly before Apollo’s speech accusing Achilles of destroying ἔ λεος
(24.44), strongly suggesting that ἐ λεαίρω, like ἐ λεέω, is a verbal from of ἔ λεος. This verb functions in a way similar to ἐ λεέω when it is applied to Achilles, too. Characters like Odysseus (9.307) seek pity from him and he refuses. Other characters observe through ἐ λεαίρω the same pitilessness in Achilles that Hecuba and Hector do using the verb ἐ λεέω (22.123, 24.207).25 Given these examples, it may start to appear that ἔ λεος is a special or remarkable emotion, felt and sought by gods and heroes in particularly notable situations, and emphatically not felt by Achilles. However, he is not the only one to be described as explicitly without ἔ λεος. 25 Specifically, Nestor states that Achilles feels no pity for the Greeks at 11.665, while the narrator similarly states that Achilles has none for the Trojans at 21.147. 20 At 7.27, Apollo reprimands Athena for refusing to feel or show ἔ λεος toward the Trojans. Then, at 10.176, Nestor asks Diomedes to feel ἔ λεος for him in quite a casual situation: ἄνστησον: σὺ γάρ ἐσσι νεώτερος: εἴ μ᾽ ἐλεαίρεις (“and waken them—
you are younger than I—if truly you have pity”). He simply asks Diomedes, since he is younger, to feel ἔ λεος and go summon Ajax and Meges. Some scholars dispute the authenticity of Book 10,26 but even if it was a slightly later addition it still throws considerable doubt on the idea that ἔ λεος was anything more than a typical form of pity that one would seek from a friend as much as from a heroic, raging Achilles. Finally, there is the adjectival form of ἔ λεος, ἐ λεεινός, a passive adjective used to describe something that is pitiable or deserving of pity. Uses of this adjective fall into three syntactical categories: purely adjectival, adverbial, and comparative. The purely adjectival forms of ἐ λεεινός further reinforce the idea that ἔ λεος is a common feeling of pity, not reserved for special characters or situations. In one case, Achilles beseeches Zeus, calling himself ἐ λεεινός or deserving of pity, as he is about to be destroyed by the river Scamander (21.273). In another, Priam prays to Zeus that Achilles may find him ἐ λεεινός (24.309). In the third, Patroclus’ corpse is described by the narrator as ἐ λεεινός (23.110), a descriptor that probably emphasizes the fact that the body is as yet unburied. Thus, ἔ λεος in all of its forms appears to denote an emotion very close to the English “pity.” The adverbial forms all modify some verb of speaking or groaning, and mean “piteously,” implying that the speaker’s moans are deserving of, or at least meant to 26 For a particularly extreme example, see Mitchell’s translation (2011), which eliminates Book 10 altogether. 21 evoke, the listener’s pity. In all three cases, the form ἐ λεεινά occurs in the same position, directly before the primary caesura. It is used once in a simile describing the pitiful screams of baby sparrows as they are devoured by a snake (2.314), and once to describe Priam’s manner of addressing Hector in his attempt to dissuade him from facing Achilles (22.37). When Achilles does eventually kill his son, the adverb describes Priam’s lamentation (22.408). Priam is, in fact, a character closely linked with the concept of pity, as the single comparative use of the adjective refers to him as well (24.503-­‐504): ἀλλ᾽ αἰδεῖο θεοὺς Ἀχιλεῦ, αὐτόν τ᾽ ἐλέησον
μνησάμενος σοῦ πατρός: ἐγὼ δ᾽ ἐλεεινότερός περ,
Honour the gods, Achilleus, and take pity upon me Remembering your father, yet I am still more pitiful; I have already discussed this plea for pity in line 503 (ἐλέησον), but Priam further emphasizes this request by claiming that he is even more deserving of pity (ἐλεεινότερος) than Achilles’ own father, Peleus. This is an important climax in the poem, when the concepts of pity and what is pitiable are truly stretched and redefined. Here is another scene in which, if he were capable, we might expect Achilles finally to feel ἔ λεος, but he does not.27 There is one more word related to ἔ λεος that must be considered, the negative adjective νηλής or νηλεές. According to the Etymological Dictionary of Greek, this adjective means ‘pitiless’ or ‘unescapable,’ and is derived from “the negation *n-­‐ and *hleu-­‐o (as in ἔ λεος, ἐλεέω).”28 The word most often describes the 27 As in the scene with Patroclus (16.5), the emotion that Achilles feels here is ο ἶκτος
(24.516), and it will be discussed in the next chapter. 28 Beekes, Etymological Dictionary of Greek, 1016. 22 bronze weapons of the Homeric warriors.29 This bronze (χαλκός) is pitiless presumably because of its cold, unfeeling nature and its penchant for taking life without mercy or bias. Νηλής also modifies the word day (ἦμαρ) to describe the day of death on which a hero falls or is fated to fall.30 Like the bronze, these death days are unbiased and unfeeling, taking warriors when it is their time despite whatever pity or pathos may be evoked by the event, either for other characters or for the audience. The adjective is also used once to describe a bond (δεσμός), when Dolon asks his Greek captors to tie him up with a νηλής bond rather than kill him (10.443). The bond may be pitiless for its inherently unrelenting nature, like the bronze, but it may also be that Dolon is seeking to use the adjective hyperbolically to suggest that binding him is a sufficiently νηλής substitute for the νηλὴς ἦμαρ that the Greeks must surely intend for him. All three of these uses, then, are modifiers that essentially turn an ordinary object – whether bronze, a day, or a bond – into an operator of death, the very opposite of pity. Νηλής is used only a handful of times to describe a person rather than an inanimate object, and, remarkably, it is always the same person: Achilles. Just as he never feels ἔ λεος, and, as we have seen, is described multiple times as explicitly not feeling it, Achilles is presented through this adjective as the man without pity, indeed the only man, perhaps even putting him on a level with death itself. Three times Achilles is called “pitiless” as a lone epithet, in each case placed emphatically at the beginning of the line: 29 3.292, 4.348, 5.330, 12.427, 13.501, 13.553, 16.345, 16.561, 16.761, 17.376, 19.266. 30 11.484, 11.588, 13.514, 15.375, 17.511, 17.615, 21.57. 23 τῆς ᾗ μιν παρὰ νηυσὶν ἐτίομεν ἔξοχον ἄλλων
νηλής: καὶ μέν τίς τε κασιγνήτοιο φονῆος
(9.632) αἴ κε μὴ Ἀργείοισιν ἀεικέα λοιγὸν ἀμύνῃς;
νηλεές, οὐκ ἄρα σοί γε πατὴρ ἦν ἱππότα Πηλεύς, (16.33) σχέτλιε Πηλέος υἱὲ χόλῳ ἄρα σ᾽ ἔτρεφε μήτηρ,
νηλεές, ὃς παρὰ νηυσὶν ἔχεις ἀέκοντας ἑταίρους:
(16.204) In the first instance, toward the end of the embassy scene in Book 9, Ajax angrily calls Achilles νηλής. While it is in the third person, it is still in the presence of Achilles, and is clearly intended to have an effect on him. Then a while later, Patroclus rebukes Achilles, calling him pitiless directly to his face (we do not see this type of behavior from Patroclus before Book 16) and claiming he must be born from the ocean rather than a caring father and mother. Finally, soon after this reprimand by his closest friend, which must hit the hero harder than the rebuke by Ajax, Achilles acknowledges that men have been calling him νηλής when he commands the Myrmidons to follow Patroclus back into battle. These scenes reinforce the idea of Achilles as lacking the capacity for ἔ λεος. Finally, there are two instances in which νηλής is used rhetorically to describe a seat of emotion.31 Again in the embassy scene, Phoenix tells Achilles that it is unseemly “to hold a pitiless heart” (νηλεὲς ἦτορ ἔχειν, 9.497). Later, however, after Patroclus’ death, Odysseus invokes Achilles’ pitiless nature in a positive context, saying that the Achaeans must also be “holding a pitiless heart” (νηλέα
θυμὸν ἔχοντας, 19.229), similarly to Achilles, so that they can stop mourning and eat before avenging Patroclus’ death. In this scene, the same thing that Phoenix, and 31 There is general disagreement on how exactly to translate the various seats of emotion to which Homer refers, such as ἦτορ and θυμός. I will use the English idiom “heart” for the sake of simplicity. 24 seemingly Ajax and Patroclus as well, consider to be unseemly or cruel is upheld by Odysseus as a necessary strength. The similarity in phrasing, the adjective first followed by a seat of emotion and then by a form of ἔ χω, indicates that perhaps there is some sort of formulaic seed here. There must be some flexibility in the meaning of νηλής then, as it does not always have a negative connotation. Perhaps it should mean something closer to “unmoving” or “indifferent” than “pitiless.” Just as in our own culture, this ability to be unaffected emotionally is a benefit in some situations and a flaw in others. However, only Odysseus encourages Achilles’ pitilessness, as a clever rhetorical tool to convince the vengeful Achilles himself to let the Greek army eat before fighting. There are no positive sentiments concerning Achilles’ earlier pitilessness toward the Greeks, and the negative implication is by far the most common one associated with this adjective and its application to Achilles. Thus, our picture of Achilles as the νηλής one, literally the one without ἔ λεος, even the one who has somehow destroyed ἔ λεος, according to Apollo, is confirmed. He is the only character described with such a vividly νηλής nature. He never takes the action of ἐ λεέω and often explicitly refuses to do so. He begs Zeus to save him, ἐλεεινός as the river is about to defeat him, proving that he is at least familiar with the term and concept. Yet still he never responds to any other ἐ λεεινός figure or situation himself, at least not with an emotion expressed by the verbs ἐ λεέω or ἐλεαίρω. All this evidence points to an undeniable pattern with regard to Achilles’ pity. He may feel sorrow and pain, for instance when Patroclus dies, but he is a thoroughly pitiless character, and his abominable treatment of his fellow Greeks 25 makes him unique, at least with regard to the concept of pity, among all the many heroes and gods of the Iliad.
26 III. Ο ἶκ τος The other word generally taken by scholars to mean “pity” in the Iliad is οἶκτος. The noun itself never actually appears in the epic,32 but the related verb οἰκτείρω occurs five times and the adjective ο ἰκτρός twice.33 Among the verbal uses, four of the five appearances reflect the emotion of Achilles. Since, as we have seen, he never feels ἔ λεος, his relationship to ο ἶκτος seems all the more significant. The Etymological Dictionary of Greek offers a more or less synonymous definition for οἶκτος (“lamentation, compassion, pity”) as it does for ἔ λεος, merely noting that it probably derived from the interjection ο ἰοιοι whereas the other came from the battle cry or cry of pain ἐ λελεῦ. Nonetheless, some of the scholarship examined in earlier chapters offers a potential denotative distinction. Mary Scott writes that “eleos is a positive impulse in favour of someone in trouble which, when followed up, leads to action on his behalf, while oiktos merely involves a holding back from further action which would increase the distress and shame of the object.”34 Prauscello, at least in part, agrees: “eleos and its derivates generally express… an impulse to act upon a certain feeling.”35 She also finds that “eleos is a specialized subset of oiktos.”36 As we have seen, ἔ λεος does indeed usually involve “action” on behalf of someone in trouble, and it implies an emotion close to our conception of pity. In this chapter, I 32 Οἶκτος does occur as a noun twice in Homer’s Odyssey. This may be a point of interest to a future, more extensive study of the Homeric concept of pity generally. 33 As Verb: 11.814, 16.5, 23.534, 23.548, 24.516. As Adjective: 11.242, 22.76. 34 Scott, “Pity and Pathos in Homer,” 13. 35 Prauscello, “The Language of Pity,” 200. 36 Ibid., 201. 27 will argue two essential points: ο ἶκτος is not defined by a “holding back,” and there is no overlap at all between this feeling and that of ἔ λεος. The first time ο ἰκτείρω appears, it describes the emotion not of Achilles, but of his closest friend Patroclus. At this point, Achilles has bitterly withdrawn his men from the fighting, and sent Patroclus to see how the Greeks are doing (11.812-­‐821): ὤμων καὶ κεφαλῆς, ἀπὸ δ᾽ ἕλκεος ἀργαλέοιο
αἷμα μέλαν κελάρυζε: νόος γε μὲν ἔμπεδος ἦεν.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτειρε Μενοιτίου ἄλκιμος υἱός,
καί ῥ᾽ ὀλοφυρόμενος ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα:
‘ἆ δειλοὶ Δαναῶν ἡγήτορες ἠδὲ μέδοντες
ὣς ἄρ᾽ ἐμέλλετε τῆλε φίλων καὶ πατρίδος αἴης
ἄσειν ἐν Τροίῃ ταχέας κύνας ἀργέτι δημῷ.
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε μοι τόδε εἰπὲ διοτρεφὲς Εὐρύπυλ᾽ ἥρως,
ἤ ῥ᾽ ἔτι που σχήσουσι πελώριον Ἕκτορ᾽ Ἀχαιοί,
ἦ ἤδη φθίσονται ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ δουρὶ δαμέντες;
Down his shoulders and face, and from the sore wound dark blood Continued to drip, and yet the will stayed steady within him. And the strong son of Menoitios looked on him in pity And was sorrowful over him, and addressed him in winged words: ‘Poor wretches, you leaders and men of counsel among the Danaans, was it your fate then, far from your friends and the land of your father, to glut with your shining fat the running dogs here in Troy land? But tell me this, my lord Eurypylos grown under God’s hand: Will the Achaians somehow be able to hold huge Hektor Or must they now perish beaten down under his spear?’ Here, Patroclus encounters the wounded Greek Eurypylus coming back from the battlefield. The poet describes the pitiable appearance of the Greek warrior, his “sore wound” (ἕλκος ἀργαλέος, 812) and the “dark blood” (αἷμα μέλας, 813) falling from it, but assures us that the wounded man is still noble, with his will remaining “steady” (ἔμπεδος, 813). Thus, it would make sense for Patroclus to pity this fellow Greek who endures his pain heroically, and the scene may not seem particularly distinct from those in which a hero or god feels ἔλεος for a beloved ally. The 28 formula in which ο ἰκτείρω occurs looks familiar, too: τ ὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτειρε. At 15.12, for example, where Poseidon pities the Greeks, we saw τ ὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ἐλέησε, one of eleven instances of this formula with ἐ λεέω. These two formulae both appear at the beginning of the line, leading into a mid-­‐line caesura, after which we get the name or epithet of the subject. The verbs, each beginning the second half of the second foot, are metrically equivalent, with the long first syllable of ᾤκτειρε taking the same space as the two short syllables that begin ἐ λέησε. The choice of ο ἰκτείρω, therefore, is not based on metrical requirements, which seems to imply that Patroclus’ feeling here, despite the definitions given in the Etymological Dictionary of Greek, is distinct from the feeling associated with ἐ λεέω. But is it “a feeling of inhibition, a shrinking back,” as alleged by Scott?37 There is not the same explicit urge to avenge or to save, perhaps, that we have seen in association with ἐ λεέω, but the emotion certainly inspires action. Soon after this passage, Patroclus decides that, despite his other commitments, he must give aid to Eurypylus: “But even so I will not leave you in your affliction” (ἀλλ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ὧς περ σεῖο
μεθήσω τειρομένοιο, 11.841). This decision reveals an impulse to action, because of which Patroclus delays his crucial task of going to Achilles and begging him to return to battle. The Myrmidon feels sorrow for Eurypylus and the other Greeks, and so he takes action to help the wounded soldier. In this scene, which Scott fails to consider, even claiming falsely that Achilles “is the only man in the Iliad to 37 Scott, “Pity and Pathos in Homer,” 13. 29 experience this emotion [οἶκτος],”38 the characterization of ο ἶκτος as a shrinking back simply does not hold up. Patroclus’ verbal response to Eurypylus following the verb ο ἰκτείρω gives us the best opportunity to decipher what this word may imply. He laments that Eurypylus and the other Greeks are “poor wretches” (δειλοί, 816) despite their high status as “leaders of the Danaans” (Δαναῶν ἡγήτορες, 816). He decries the horrible fate of these kings “far from your friends and the land of your father, to glut with your shining fat the running dogs here in Troy land” (817-­‐818). It would not be strange for Patroclus to pity his suffering countrymen, but we know that there is another level of complexity for this character in particular. As a Myrmidon, Patroclus is loyal to his friend and lord Achilles, yet Achilles has himself decreed that this suffering of the Greeks take place. The greatest warrior of the Greek army has created a situation in which the natural order of things is completely upturned. When a Greek watches another Greek fall in battle, as we have seen, he feels pity, ἔ λεος, for the suffering of his friend. But this death and the consequent ἔ λεος fit easily into the Homeric construct of war. These men are fighting against the Trojans and some of them inevitably must fall. That is the way of war. In the case of Eurypylus, who isn’t even fatally wounded, Patroclus does not feel ἔ λεος. Rather he sees in the suffering of Eurypylus and the other renowned Greeks a manifestation of a profound injustice created by his own king. In The Iliad: A Commentary, J.B. Hainsworth notes, “Patroklos sighs aloud. The Achaeans are suffering what they 38 Ibid., 8. 30 had just now been inflicting; they are dying far from hearth and home.”39 Though the Greeks have yet to take Troy, they had been containing and killing the Trojans before Achilles left the battle. Now, the powerful Greek kings, fated to win this war and sail home victorious, are “suffering” and “dying far from hearth and home.” This is not just a sad misfortune, which would elicit Patroclus’ ἔ λεος, but a situation that is inherently wrong. Norman Postelthwaite, in his commentary, adds, “In the wounded Eurypylos Patroklos recognizes the suffering of all the Achaians.”40 This scenario is not simply a case of a warrior pitying a friend; it is the realization of a profoundly unjust, even unnatural situation, at which Patroclus is appalled. Οἶκτος, then, is distinct from ἔ λεος, and refers to the shock or horror that one feels in the face of an appalling situation. It can also elicit a number of emotional reactions. For Patroclus, the gentle and kind friend of Achilles, it results in sorrow, as revealed by the adjective ὀ λοφυρόμενος (11.815). This may imply that Patroclus feels some pity for Eurypylus and the other Greeks, but it is not explicitly stated. Patroclus’ subsequent tending of Eurypylus’ wound betrays his sympathetic and dutiful nature, but pity is not a necessary response to ο ἶκτος, and the reaction may be in stark contrast for someone else of a different nature. Since the only other uses of this verb in the epic involve Achilles, whom we have seen to be utterly lacking in ἔλεος, we should not necessarily expect to find sympathy in conjunction with ο ἶκτος
again. 39 Kirk et al., The Iliad: A Commentary, Vol. 3, 309. 40 Postelthwaite, Homer’s Iliad: A Commentary, 163. 31 In many ways, even this first occurrence of ο ἰκτείρω looks forward to Achilles’ own feelings of ο ἶκτος, since it is the sorrow of Patroclus to which Achilles reacts 2,500 lines later in his own tent (16.2-­‐11): Πάτροκλος δ᾽ Ἀχιλῆϊ παρίστατο ποιμένι λαῶν
δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων ὥς τε κρήνη μελάνυδρος,
ἥ τε κατ᾽ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης δνοφερὸν χέει ὕδωρ.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτιρε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς,
καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα:
‘τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη
νηπίη, ἥ θ᾽ ἅμα μητρὶ θέουσ᾽ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει
εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ᾽ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει,
δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ᾽ ἀνέληται:
τῇ ἴκελος Πάτροκλε τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις.’
Meanwhile Patroklos came to the shepherd of the people, Achilleus, And stood by him and wept warm tears, like a spring dark-­‐running That down the face of a rock impassable drips its dim water; And swift-­‐footed brilliant Achilleus looked on him in pity, And spoke to him aloud and addressed him in winged words: ‘Why then Are you crying like some poor little girl, Patroklos, Who runs after her mother and begs to be picked up and carried, And clings to her dress, and holds her back when she tries to hurry, And gazes tearfully into her face, until she is picked up? You are like such a one, Patroklos, dropping these soft tears.’ Achilles’ response here is problematic. Once again, Scott’s claim that ο ἶκτος involves a “holding back” does not seem to hold true.41 Achilles fervently insults his dearest friend in this passage, and soon afterward allows Patroclus to wear his armor and return to the battle with the Myrmidon soldiers. In no sense can Achilles be described as reserved in this scene. Some scholars find Achilles’ initial response to be friendly and joking. Postelthwaite claims, “Achilleus’ relationship with Patroklos is reflected in his tone of gentle mockery.”42 M.M. Willcock adds, “Achilleus’ speech 41 Scott, “Pity and Pathos in Homer,” 13. 42 Postelthwaite, Homer’s Iliad: A Commentary, 206. 32 to Patroklos is a delicate combination of gentleness and irony.”43 But, as we have seen, even Hector, Achilles’ fierce Trojan counterpart, can express sympathy in a conventional sense, as in the case of Andromache (6.484) discussed previously. There is no reason, then, to believe that these biting remarks mask a hidden gentleness. On the contrary, Achilles seems appalled at the sight of Patroclus crying, just as Patroclus was appalled at the sight of the suffering Eurypylus. He bitterly calls Patroclus “some poor little girl” (κούρη νηπίη, 7) who “gazes tearfully into her [mother’s] face” (δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, 10). In Achilles’ eyes, the sight of Patroclus weeping is not pitiable, but shocking and wrong. One may wonder why Achilles is so offended by a close friend’s tears. The concept of weeping is certainly not a foreign one to the hero. Early on in the epic, he cries with his mother Thetis over Agamemnon’s perceived slight to his own honor and standing among the Greeks (1.357). After Patroclus dies, Achilles weeps and mourns more intensely than any other character in the poem. Certainly one of the most memorable and basic contexts in which tears seem to be acceptable to Homeric society is that of death. Since Achilles has just sent Patroclus to confirm the identity of the recently wounded Eurypylus, it seems safe to assume that the king can guess at the cause of his friend’s sorrow: the suffering of the many Greek allies that Achilles himself has wrought. As Willcock notes, “Achilleus knows perfectly well why Patroklos is weeping but affects to believe that it may be some bad news from home of which he is unaware.”44 When Achilles, despite this knowledge, asks if there is news from home about the deaths of Menoetius and Peleus (the fathers of 43 Willcock, A Companion to the Iliad, 177. 44 Ibid. 33 Achilles and Patroclus), he touches on a significant distinction. It is socially acceptable to weep for one’s father. But to Achilles’ mind, Patroclus weeps for enemies. Achilles has no investment in the Greek soldiers, and he views Patroclus’ tears disdainfully, as inherently wrong and unjustified. If anything, the tears are a sign of disloyalty, as appalling to Achilles as tears for Hector himself. Patroclus was appalled at the situation in which Achilles put Eurypylus and the other Greeks, and as a result he felt sorrow for them. Here, Achilles is appalled that Patroclus has taken a sympathetic stance toward men that he perceives as his enemies, but he feels offense instead of sorrow because of his pitiless nature and the context of the situation. Even when Achilles relents in the following lines and allows Patroclus to rejoin the battle without him, there is no sign that this indignation has disappeared. Insults and resentment would seem a strange reaction indeed for one feeling pity.45 As we have seen, Achilles never feels ἔ λεος and there is no reason to suspect that he feels pity here. Instead, he is simply appalled at this perceived injustice, that Patroclus weeps for men whom Achilles would have him despise. Not until the penultimate book, with Patroclus and Hector dead and gone, does ο ἰκτείρω reappear for a third time (23.532-­‐538): υἱὸς δ᾽ Ἀδμήτοιο πανύστατος ἤλυθεν ἄλλων
ἕλκων ἅρματα καλὰ ἐλαύνων πρόσσοθεν ἵππους.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτειρε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς,
στὰς δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἐν Ἀργείοις ἔπεα πτερόεντ᾽ ἀγόρευε:
‘λοῖσθος ἀνὴρ ὤριστος ἐλαύνει μώνυχας ἵππους:
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε δή οἱ δῶμεν ἀέθλιον ὡς ἐπιεικὲς
δεύτερ᾽: ἀτὰρ τὰ πρῶτα φερέσθω Τυδέος υἱός.’
45 In Kirk et al., The Iliad: A Commentary, Vol. 4, 315, Richard Janko, misinterpreting οἶκτος, writes, “Akhilleus’ pity, which redeems him in the end, leads him to disaster here.” On the contrary, it is because of and despite Achilles’ ο ἶκτος that he refuses to return to battle himself and yet permits Patroclus to take his place. 34 Last and behind them all came in the son of Admetos Dragging his fine chariot and driving his horses before him, And seeing this, brilliant swift-­‐footed Achilleus took pity upon him And stood forth among the Argives and spoke to them all in winged words: ‘The best man is driving his single-­‐foot horses in last. Come then, we must give some kind of prize, and well he deserves it; Second prize; Let first place go to the son of Tydeus.’ Once again it is Achilles who feels ο ἶκτος, but this time in a less crucial scene and for a fairly obscure character: Eumelus, son of Admetus. In the preceding lines we see that the gods play a huge part in the chariot race, and it is only because of them that Eumelus finishes “last” (λοῖσθος, 536), despite being “the best man” (ἀνὴρ ὤριστος, 536). As Antilochus’ response to this comment reveals, however, the gods are such an integral part of Greek society, or at least the Homeric narrative, that their favor or disfavor may be seen as simply another tool in competition: “But he himself is great. He should have prayed to the immortal gods. That is why he came in last of all in the running” (αὐτός τ᾽ ἐσθλὸς ἐών: ἀλλ᾽ ὤφελεν ἀθανάτοισιν / εὔχεσθαι: τό κεν οὔ τι
πανύστατος ἦλθε διώκων, 23.546-­‐547). If Eumelus had prayed for glory rather than relying on skill alone, he might have won the prize. This speaks to a tension that may hit especially close to home for Achilles: the competing influences of mortal ability and divine will. As Richardson notes, “The point is surely more general: Eumelos is simply the best, and Akhilleus holds that he deserves recognition.”46 Postelthwaite adds that Achilles’ urge to restore Eumelus’ position “is in keeping with the heroic principle of rewarding merit.”47 Thus, even though Eumelus did not pray to the gods, in Achilles’ mind he still “deserves recognition.” Achilles values 46 Kirk, et al., The Iliad: A Commentary, Vol. 6, 228. 47 Postelthwaite, Homer’s Iliad: A Commentary, 288. 35 human merit over divine intervention, and so this situation in which a god causes the best man to finish last is a serious injustice in his mind. Achilles may see some of himself in Eumelus: widely recognized as the best of the mortals, yet still at the mercy of whatever outcome the gods choose. In the normal habit of this heroic society, one ought to glorify the victorious and despise, or at least disregard, the defeated. Yet Achilles’ own biases cause him to invest personally in this unfair situation. He is appalled at the defeat of Eumelus, which represents the victory of divine intervention over mortal ability, just as he was appalled at Patroclus’ tears, which represented his friend’s sympathy for men that Achilles himself had deemed enemies. To him, these situations symbolize inherent wrongs within his own personal value system, and they cause him to feel ο ἶκτος. As a result, Achilles tries to correct these injustices, not as a display of sympathy, but as a response to his own shock and indignation. Antilochus’ response to Achilles’ proposal is significant, moreover, because he recognizes that Achilles is not feeling ἔ λεος, but ο ἶκτος: ε ἰ δέ μιν οἰκτίρεις καί τοι
φίλος ἔπλετο θυμῷ / ἔστί τοι ἐν κλισίῃ χρυσὸς πολύς, ἔστι δὲ χαλκός (but if you are appalled at him and he is dear to your liking, there is abundant gold in your shelter, and there is bronze there; 23.548-­‐549).48 Even though it was the narrator who told us earlier that Achilles was appalled, Antilochus here appears to be able to read this emotion in the Myrmidon’s face. Οἶκτος, then, is an emotion that may be perceived 48 I have inserted my own translation of ο ἰκτίρεις here. Lattimore translates it “if you are sorry for him.” 36 by others and can apparently be distinguished from ἔ λεος. If the characters themselves acknowledge this distinction, then the audience must as well. This passage reveals, furthermore, that Achilles’ feeling of ο ἶκτος is not necessarily shared by everyone. It appears to be exceptional. We have already seen that, whereas Patroclus is appalled at the suffering of the Greeks, Achilles delights in it, and is in fact offended by Patroclus’ sympathy for them. Here, while Achilles sees Eumelus’ defeat at the hands of the gods as a terrible injustice, Antilochus seems to think that he has won his own prize fair and square, and that his opponent simply should have been more pious. He almost belittles Achilles’ ο ἶκτος, telling him to rectify the perceived injustice by giving Eumelus some of his own χρυσός (“gold”) and χαλκός (“bronze”) if it makes him feel less appalled. While ο ἶκτος can only be inspired by a serious wrong or injustice, the perception of this offense may be unique to a single character, and hardly objective to everyone. It is perhaps no coincidence, then, that it is Achilles who so often feels this emotion. He is the one who creates the complex situation with the Greeks in which allies become enemies, and he is the one in whose mind the victory of divine intervention over mortal skill is appalling and wrong. There is a reason for this theme of the ο ἶκτος of Achilles: his unique nature, intensely passionate and yet entirely unsympathetic, causes him to feel appalled at situations for which other characters might simply feel pity. Finally, we come to the most famous occurrence of ο ἶκτος in the Iliad. In the final book of the poem, Achilles feels ο ἶκτος at the situation of a character whom we certainly would not expect him to pity, the Trojan king Priam (24.513-­‐526): Αὐτὰρ ἐπεί ῥα γόοιο τετάρπετο δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς,
καί οἱ ἀπὸ πραπίδων ἦλθ᾽ ἵμερος ἠδ᾽ ἀπὸ γυίων,
37 αὐτίκ᾽ ἀπὸ θρόνου ὦρτο, γέροντα δὲ χειρὸς ἀνίστη
οἰκτίρων πολιόν τε κάρη πολιόν τε γένειον,
καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα:
‘ἆ δείλ᾽, ἦ δὴ πολλὰ κάκ᾽ ἄνσχεο σὸν κατὰ θυμόν.
πῶς ἔτλης ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν ἐλθέμεν οἶος
ἀνδρὸς ἐς ὀφθαλμοὺς ὅς τοι πολέας τε καὶ ἐσθλοὺς
υἱέας ἐξενάριξα; σιδήρειόν νύ τοι ἦτορ.
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε δὴ κατ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἕζευ ἐπὶ θρόνου, ἄλγεα δ᾽ ἔμπης
ἐν θυμῷ κατακεῖσθαι ἐάσομεν ἀχνύμενοί περ:
οὐ γάρ τις πρῆξις πέλεται κρυεροῖο γόοιο:
ὡς γὰρ ἐπεκλώσαντο θεοὶ δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι
ζώειν ἀχνυμένοις: αὐτοὶ δέ τ᾽ ἀκηδέες εἰσί.
When great Achilleus had taken full satisfaction in sorrow And the passion for 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. How could you dare to come alone to the ships of the Achaians And before my eyes, when I am one who have killed in such numbers Such brave sons of 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. Again, Achilles’ feeling spurs him to take action, not to hold back. While it may be that Achilles restrains himself from doing further harm to a man that ought to be his enemy, he undeniably steps in to help the old king. First he “set[s] him on his feet again” (ἀνίστη, 515), and then he attempts to restore him to a position of respect by telling him to “sit down upon this chair” (κατ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἕζευ ἐπὶ θρόνου, 522). Achilles notably even begins his speech with the same words (ἆ δείλ᾽) as Patroclus did in his address to Eurypylus when he felt ο ἶκτος at the Greek’s situation (ἆ δειλοί, 11.816), perhaps implying a similar impulse to intervene. These actions may not be grand or extraordinary, but they symbolize a restoration of Priam by Achilles that is certainly 38 significant. Achilles is not holding back, as some would argue, but rather taking positive, restorative action. Many scholars, assuming that ο ἶκτος implies pity, have seen this passage as a sort of resolution to Achilles’ μ ῆνις (rage) that appeared as the first word of the poem. But since ο ἶκτος elsewhere involves shock and horror at a situation, this meeting may not represent a satisfying release of passion at all. Achilles and Priam have just wept together, intensely and extensively, but at the start of this passage we see that Achilles “[has] taken full satisfaction in sorrow” (γόοιο τετάρπετο, 513), and that “it [has] gone from his mind and body” (ἀπὸ πραπίδων ἦλθ᾽ ἵμερος ἠδ᾽ ἀπὸ γυίων, 514). Sorrow, then, has ended and has no part in this ο ἶκτος.49 If my proposed theory is true, then what is the profound wrong here at which Achilles is so appalled? This time, the verb does not appear formulaically like the others. It is a participle that begins the line (οἰκτίρων, 516), and Achilles is appalled specifically at Priam’s “grey head and the grey beard” (πολιόν τε κάρη πολιόν τε γένειον, 516). While this is metonymy for Priam as a whole, it still implies that Priam’s old age is relevant to Achilles’ ο ἶκτος, especially given the fact that the Trojan king mentioned Achilles’ own father Peleus in comparison to his situation as a father losing his son. The commentaries have much to say about Achilles’ subsequent speech, but generally ignore this specific mention of his ο ἶκτος. Postelthwaite points out the 49 This is in contrast to Patroclus’ ο ἶκτος, which explicitly does involve sorrow (11.814-­‐815). However, since, as I have argued, ο ἶκτος can elicit a spectrum of emotional reactions, it is by no means surprising that Achilles should put away his sorrow whereas Patroclus clung to it. 39 “pathos of ‘in pity for the grey head and the grey beard,’”50 assuming like the others that Achilles’ ο ἶκτος is identical to the ἔ λεος that Priam begs of him just before (24.503). Priam wants Achilles to feel personal sympathy or empathy for him. He thinks that the Greek may return Hector’s corpse if he can emulate an old man for whom Achilles cares, Peleus. After all, Achilles told Patroclus that they would mourn for Peleus and Menoetius, but not the Greek soldiers. But even with this personal connection, Achilles is unique; he never feels ἔ λεος. He feels ο ἶκτος. He is appalled at the sight of a situation that he perceives to be an unjust one based on his own personal code. Sorrow and troubles are inherent to the human condition, and most would simply feel sympathy for a fellow man struggling through such terrible hardship, especially one as old and worn down as Priam. But for Achilles, Priam’s suffering is a reflection of his own mortal adversity, as well as that of his father. He can indeed see the parallel between Priam and Hector, and Peleus and himself. But the misery that these “unfortunate mortals” (δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι, 525) share is no mere misfortune; 51 it is a profound, defining offense for which the gods are to blame, they who “have no sorrows” (ἀκηδέες, 526). Achilles is not sorry for Priam, but, on a more generalized level, appalled that this should be the way of the world. The emotion here represents no concluding kindness or empathy; rather, it reveals an 50 Postelthwaite, Homer’s Iliad: A Commentary, 303. 51 Achilles’s use of δειλοῖσι here points back to the opening of his speech, ἆ δείλ᾽ (518), and perhaps even recalls Patroclus’ speech to Eurypylus (ἆ δειλοί, 11.816). Through this word, these moments in which Achilles and Patroclus feel ο ἶκτος at a specific miserable individual are connected to Achilles’ more generalized ο ἶκτος at the misery that mortality necessarily implies. 40 Achilles unchanged, one who remains remarkably constant in indignation toward the nature of the world, and uniquely unsympathetic in his relationships and encounters. There are two appearances of the adjective ο ἰκτρός, described as a “first member” of the noun and verb by the Etymological Dictionary of Greek, that do not involve Achilles, but shed further light on the subtleties of this emotion. First, during Agamemnon’s aristeia, he cuts down a fairly obscure Trojan named Iphidamas, but one who nevertheless gets an obituary (11.241-­‐245): ὣς ὃ μὲν αὖθι πεσὼν κοιμήσατο χάλκεον ὕπνον
οἰκτρὸς ἀπὸ μνηστῆς ἀλόχου, ἀστοῖσιν ἀρήγων,
κουριδίης, ἧς οὔ τι χάριν ἴδε, πολλὰ δ᾽ ἔδωκε:
πρῶθ᾽ ἑκατὸν βοῦς δῶκεν, ἔπειτα δὲ χίλι᾽ ὑπέστη
αἶγας ὁμοῦ καὶ ὄϊς, τά οἱ ἄσπετα ποιμαίνοντο.
So Iphidamas fell there and went into a brazen slumber, Unhappy, who came to help his own people, and left his young wife A bride, and had known no delight from her yet, and given much for her. First he had given a hundred oxen, then promised a thousand Herds of goats and sheep, which were herded for him in abundance. Though Lattimore translates the adjective as “unhappy” (οἰκτρός, 242) here, his reading still seems to imply the sense of “pitiable,” an interpretation that other scholars and translators support. The placement of οἰκτρός at the beginning of the line, moreover, is reminiscent of the same use of other adjectives like νήπιος or δειλός that characterize a person and their sympathetic situation prior to further elaboration. Bryan Hainsworth notes that it “sounds a rare ‘empathetic’ note… an intrusion of the poet into his narrative.”52 The emphasis placed on the price Iphidamas paid for his wife, and the fact that he “had known no delight from her yet” 52 Kirk et al., The Iliad: A Commentary, Vol. 3, 251. 41 (ἧς οὔ τι χάριν ἴδε, 243) is certainly meant to play on a societal sympathy for a man who gave up much but was unable to capitalize on his reward. As with Eumelus’ appalling situation, finishing last when he deserved to finish first, Iphidamas here deserves the chance to enjoy his wife for whom he paid so much. If the Trojan had lived with his wife for a few years before the war, then his death might still be sad or pitiable, but it is only because of this specific injustice that it is ο ἰκτρός. Iphidamas’ situation is not merely an “unhappy” one, as Lattimore translates it, but a stark wrong at which the audience of the Iliad should be appalled. The other instance of the adjective is used by a more significant character, Priam. This time, as in the scene with Antilochus and Achilles, the king uses the superlative form in direct speech, proving again that the characters themselves can recognize the subtlety and significance of this emotion. As Hector prepares to face Achilles in single combat, Priam desperately tries to dissuade him from atop the walls (22.74-­‐76): ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ πολιόν τε κάρη πολιόν τε γένειον
αἰδῶ τ᾽ αἰσχύνωσι κύνες κταμένοιο γέροντος,
τοῦτο δὴ οἴκτιστον πέλεται δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσιν.
But when an old man is dead and down, and the dogs mutilate The grey head and the grey beard and the parts that are secret, This, for all sad mortality, is the sight most pitiful. It is not strange to us that Priam is begging his son not to face the nearly invincible Achilles. But the use of ο ἴκτιστον here is connected to Hector’s symbolic role in the poem. The death of one warrior or another, as we saw with Iphidamas, is not in and of itself ο ἰκτρός. But Hector is the great defender of Troy, the one who time and time again turns back the Greek army. Without him, many characters have noted that the 42 city would certainly fall. Thus, Priam must be painfully aware that not only is he about to lose his most beloved son, but also the final hope for his city’s survival. When Hector is killed, then the city will be sacked, and Priam himself will be “dead and down,” and the “dogs will mutilate” him. Perhaps knowing that his son will not retreat out of fear for his own life, Priam attempts to elicit not mere ἔ λεος, but horror or shock from him by predicting the king’s own unjust fate. From the perspective of the Trojans, there can be no greater overturning of the natural order than for the Greeks to breach the walls and mutilate their king. Nonetheless, just as when Antilochus disregarded Achilles’ ο ἶκτος for Eumelus, Hector ignores his father’s perception of this ο ἴκτιστον situation. For the Trojan hero, perhaps, it would be more unjust and unnatural to retreat in fear than to be defeated and seal the appalling fate of his father. Furthermore, this scene seems to have a number of intersections with the meeting between Priam and Achilles two books later. Priam’s emphasis here on “the grey head and the grey beard” (πολιόν τε κάρη πολιόν τε γένειον, 75) is mirrored by Achilles feeling ο ἶκτος for Priam’s own “grey head and grey beard” (24.516), which is expressed by the only other use of this same formula in the epic. The idea of “sad mortality” (δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσιν, 76)53 is also repeated in Achilles’ speech to Priam (24.525), a noun-­‐adjective pairing used only four times in the epic. It is notable, then, that Hector ultimately ignores his father’s plea, as Priam tries to impress upon his son the appalling circumstances that will undoubtedly befall him if 53 Lattimore translates it as “sad mortality” here, but the generalization may be confusing, and thus we might take it to mean “unfortunate mortals” just as it is translated at 24.525 when Achilles says the phrase. 43 Hector dies. After Hector is killed, and this description becomes a reality in Book 24, Achilles is ironically the one who ultimately feels this ο ἶκτος and attempts to restore some dignity to the Trojan king. This coincidence serves to emphasize the unique nature of Achilles, who is much more likely to feel ο ἶκτος than any other character, and seems to feel it even when others, like Hector, do not. While other characters like Patroclus and Priam do occasionally feel or acknowledge this emotion, it is really Achilles around whom it tends to revolve. In the following chapter, I will examine what this pattern means for the overall arc of the story, and how this ο ἶκτος of Achilles relates to his νηλής nature and to his μ ῆνις.
44 IV. Reframing Achilles This new reading of the word ο ἰκτείρω, as the feeling of being appalled at someone’s situation or circumstances, has far-­‐reaching implications for more general analysis of the Iliad, particularly concerning the nature of Achilles. We have already seen that no current scholarship has considered my interpretation, and, upon closer examination of many current popular translations, I have found none that appears to attribute anything more to ο ἶκτος than the traditional sense of pity or empathy.54 It seems that, at least in modern times, the word and its distinction from ἔ λεος has gone largely overlooked. Moreover, the scenes in which this emotion occurs are essential ones in the grand scheme of the story. Jeremy Ingalls writes about the “design of emotional stresses” within the Iliad,55 and if such a design truly exists, then these specific moments are integral to its form. Scholars generally assume a softening of character when Achilles feels ο ἶκτος at Patroclus or Eumelus or Priam. But my reinterpretation of Achilles in these scenes as feeling shock or horror rather than sympathy calls this assumption into question. In this new context, we are forced to consider whether the story of Achilles truly involves change and growth, or whether it constitutes a far more static and unmoving reality. In the opening lines of Book 16, when Patroclus comes weeping before Achilles, begging him to return to battle and save the dying Greeks, the king feels οἶκτος for the first time (16.2-­‐11): 54 Lang, Leaf, and Myers (1950); Lattimore (1951); Graves (1959); Fitzgerald (1974); Fagles (1990); Lombardo (1997); Merrill (2007); Mitchell (2011); Verity (2011); McCrorie (2012); Powell (2013). 55 Ingalls, “Structural Unity in the Iliad,” 404. 45 Πάτροκλος δ᾽ Ἀχιλῆϊ παρίστατο ποιμένι λαῶν
δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων ὥς τε κρήνη μελάνυδρος,
ἥ τε κατ᾽ αἰγίλιπος πέτρης δνοφερὸν χέει ὕδωρ.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτιρε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς,
καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα:
‘τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη
νηπίη, ἥ θ᾽ ἅμα μητρὶ θέουσ᾽ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει
εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ᾽ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει,
δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ᾽ ἀνέληται:
τῇ ἴκελος Πάτροκλε τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις.
Meanwhile Patroklos came to the shepherd of the people, Achilleus, And stood by him and wept warm tears, like a spring dark-­‐running That down the face of a rock impassable drips its dim water; And swift-­‐footed brilliant Achilleus looked on him in pity, And spoke to him aloud and addressed him in winged words: ‘Why then Are you crying like some poor little girl, Patroklos, Who runs after her mother and begs to be picked up and carried, And clings to her dress, and holds her back when she tries to hurry, And gazes tearfully into her face, until she is picked up? You are like such a one, Patroklos, dropping these soft tears. The aforementioned translators and scholars read this as pity, a sign that Achilles, despite his rough exterior, still has a personal sympathy deep down for his friend. Yet the Alexandrian scholar Aristarchus was troubled by this word all the way back in the 2nd century BCE. The scholiast tells us that he replaced ο ἴκτειρε with θάμβησε, “astounded” or “astonished,” ο ὐ γὰρ ἂν ἔπαιξεν ἐν τῶ πυνθάνεσθαι, εἴπερ οἴκτειρεν56
(“for [Achilles] would not have taunted [Patroclus] in his inquiry if he had really pitied him”).57 Thus, even as early as Aristarchus’ time, there was a disconnect between the meaning of ο ἰκτείρω and the context in which Homer used it. The verb must have become by his time essentially synonymous with ἐ λεέω for Aristarchus to feel such discomfort, since he acknowledges that it makes absolutely no sense at this point to translate it as an expression of compassion due to Achilles’ consequent 56 Erbse, Scholia Graeca, Vol. 4, 156. 57 My own translation. 46 insults. Aristarchus’ edit is strong evidence that, at least in Homer, ο ἶκτος indeed ought to be read as something other than pity. Moreover, Aristarchus’ emendation, θάμβησε, implies a sense of amazement or wonder, not so different from the shock and horror that I propose the Homeric ο ἰκτείρω conveyed. Another crucial occurrence of ο ἶκτος that has profound significance for the general scholarly outlook is when Priam comes before Achilles in Book 24 to beg for the return of Hector’s body (24.513-­‐526): Αὐτὰρ ἐπεί ῥα γόοιο τετάρπετο δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς,
καί οἱ ἀπὸ πραπίδων ἦλθ᾽ ἵμερος ἠδ᾽ ἀπὸ γυίων,
αὐτίκ᾽ ἀπὸ θρόνου ὦρτο, γέροντα δὲ χειρὸς ἀνίστη
οἰκτίρων πολιόν τε κάρη πολιόν τε γένειον,
καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα:
‘ἆ δείλ᾽, ἦ δὴ πολλὰ κάκ᾽ ἄνσχεο σὸν κατὰ θυμόν.
πῶς ἔτλης ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν ἐλθέμεν οἶος
ἀνδρὸς ἐς ὀφθαλμοὺς ὅς τοι πολέας τε καὶ ἐσθλοὺς
υἱέας ἐξενάριξα; σιδήρειόν νύ τοι ἦτορ.
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε δὴ κατ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἕζευ ἐπὶ θρόνου, ἄλγεα δ᾽ ἔμπης
ἐν θυμῷ κατακεῖσθαι ἐάσομεν ἀχνύμενοί περ:
οὐ γάρ τις πρῆξις πέλεται κρυεροῖο γόοιο:
ὡς γὰρ ἐπεκλώσαντο θεοὶ δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι
ζώειν ἀχνυμένοις: αὐτοὶ δέ τ᾽ ἀκηδέες εἰσί.
When great Achilleus had taken full satisfaction in sorrow And the passion for 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. How could you dare to come alone to the ships of the Achaians And before my eyes, when I am one who have killed in such numbers Such brave sons of 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. After the men have wept together, Achilles feels ο ἶκτος at the old man’s grey head and beard. C.W. MacLeod, in his commentary on the concluding book, Homer: Iliad 47 Book XXIV, inevitably focuses on this climactic encounter. Like other scholars I have discussed, he argues that pity is central to the overall story arc and, as a result, that this final book is necessary to the plot as a conclusion or completion of Achilles’ journey. He finds that “ambition, vindictiveness and resentment all give way to pity” when Achilles feels ο ἶκτος for Priam.58 In other words, he is arguing that all of these aggressive impulses that have dominated the character to this point “give way” to an empathetic and compassionate state that MacLeod and others call “pity.” He goes on to posit that this pity is “not only an emotion, but an insight: because he sees that suffering is unavoidable and common to all men, he can keep back, not without a struggle, his own pride, rage and grief. The result is that he acquires a new form of honour from Zeus.”59 By using the word “insight,” MacLeod directly implies that some sort of transformation is taking place. Achilles has not just felt something different, in MacLeod’s view, but has gained a new level of awareness that transcends the war, and even his own personal desires. Upon realizing the shared “suffering” of humanity, he allegedly chooses to push down the “pride, rage and grief” that have defined him in favor of sympathy. This conversion, according to MacLeod, translates to “a new form of honour from Zeus,” which directly contrasts with the honor that Zeus bestowed on Achilles in battle, both when the hero was himself fighting and killing, and when he was absent and Zeus gave honor and glory to the Trojans on his behalf. While this idea of a new emotion or insight cannot be true – Achilles has already felt ο ἶκτος twice before – MacLeod’s commentary also brings up a larger 58 MacLeod, Homer: Iliad Book XXIV, 27. 59 Ibid. 48 issue. If Achilles feels pity for Priam, then it may indeed be that he is forsaking his warlike impulses and honors in favor of a “new form of honour” in peace and sympathy. But if his ο ἶκτος actually means that he is appalled and horrified at some perceived injustice, as I have argued, then this transformation may not be taking place at all. Instead, Achilles is replacing one unusual passion with another, and there is no humanizing insight as MacLeod and others would like to understand. The idea of a conclusion for the Iliad, and specifically for Achilles’ emotional journey through it, is prevalent throughout much of the scholarship, not just in MacLeod. Achilles’ ο ἶκτος for Priam is certainly integral to this discussion, but so is the moment in book 23 when Achilles feels the same emotion for the Greek Eumelus (23.532-­‐538): υἱὸς δ᾽ Ἀδμήτοιο πανύστατος ἤλυθεν ἄλλων
ἕλκων ἅρματα καλὰ ἐλαύνων πρόσσοθεν ἵππους.
τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ᾤκτειρε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς,
στὰς δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἐν Ἀργείοις ἔπεα πτερόεντ᾽ ἀγόρευε:
‘λοῖσθος ἀνὴρ ὤριστος ἐλαύνει μώνυχας ἵππους:
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε δή οἱ δῶμεν ἀέθλιον ὡς ἐπιεικὲς
δεύτερ᾽: ἀτὰρ τὰ πρῶτα φερέσθω Τυδέος υἱός.’
Last and behind them all came in the son of Admetos Dragging his fine chariot and driving his horses before him, And seeing this, brilliant swift-­‐footed Achilleus took pity upon him And stood forth among the Argives and spoke to them all in winged words: ‘The best man is driving his single-­‐foot horses in last. Come then, we must give some kind of prize, and well he deserves it; Second prize; Let first place go to the son of Tydeus.’ Though he is the best charioteer, Eumelus loses the race at Patroclus’ funeral games because Athena interferes and destroys his car. Once again, if Achilles truly feels pity here, then we may see a sort of personal growth and reintegration. In her book Achilles: Paradigms of the War Hero from Homer to the Middle Ages, Katherine King 49 claims, “Homer returns Achilles to the human world in two stages. He returns him socially in Book Twenty-­‐Three, spiritually in Book Twenty-­‐Four.”60 According to her, the scene with Eumelus returns Achilles socially to his rightful place among the Greek warriors. By feeling pity for one of them, he forsakes what MacLeod calls his “vindictiveness and resentment,”61 that is, the anger and bitterness that caused the hero to abandon the fighting in the first place. He retakes his rightful position as friend and ally, and the social order is restored. Likewise, according to King, Achilles’ alleged pity for Priam in Book 24 is what returns him spiritually to the realm of humanity. This relationship is not socially acceptable, as Achilles is fighting to destroy Priam and take his city, but on a spiritual level, presumably, it in some sense restores Achilles after the alienating effects of his earlier anger against the Greeks or sorrow for Patroclus. In this way, King argues, the final two books of the poem act as a transformative conclusion for Achilles, bringing him back into the proper social and spiritual realms. King goes even further: “Homer makes us understand that transcendent personal sympathy, not martial prowess, represents quintessential human excellence.”62 She here articulates a theory that has come to thoroughly saturate general scholarly and popular perception. The Iliad is Achilles’ story at its heart, and if he transforms from a character defined by “martial prowess” to one defined instead by his “transcendent personal sympathy,” then we may well assume that this is the moralizing statement underlying Homer’s poem. But what if Achilles is not 60 King, Achilles: Paradigms of the War Hero, 37. 61 MacLeod, Homer: Iliad Book XXIV, 27. 62 King, Achilles: Paradigms of the War Hero, 45. 50 feeling personal sympathy for Eumelus and Priam, but is in fact appalled at their situations, and indignant? Then we don’t really have a moralizing transformation at all. Instead, Homer may be telling us that this character, utterly pitiless, is rather one obsessed by what he perceives to be injustice or imbalance. He cannot stand to tolerate such grave wrongs, and he must act to correct them, whatever the cost. Just as he was compelled to punish Agamemnon, going against all social norms, when he perceived a personal slight in Book 1, so he will not allow Eumelus to fall below his rightful standing as he understands it, even though that is what the gods have willed. Likewise, he will not allow Priam to be degraded, even though that is what his allegiance should demand. Achilles is as offended and unyielding in the final books as he was in the first, and he cares about social and cultural codes just as little in contrast to his own. Others consider these concluding books not so much a return as a release. MacLeod hinted at the juxtaposition between Achilles’ initial aggressive impulses and his concluding ones, but some scholars go further. Ingalls, in “Structural Unity of the Iliad,” asserts that “the spirit of Achilles himself is at last released from the infatuate overplus of passion” when he meets with Priam.63 Similarly, Robertson and Stroud, in “Aristotle’s Poetics and the Plot of the Iliad,” describe Achilles’ ο ἶκτος as a “change [that] occurs only after all passion is spent.”64 Both articles acknowledge the intense passion by which Achilles is characterized throughout the poem, and try to find some sort of reconciliation in his meeting with Priam. This points to a premise that almost every scholarly analysis of this theme shares. 63 Ingalls, “Structural Unity of the Iliad,” 402. 64 Robertson & Stroud, “Aristotle’s Poetics and the Plot of the Iliad,” 195. 51 Achilles’ ο ἶκτος involves a holding back (Mary Scott), or a giving way (MacLeod), or a release (Ingalls; Robertson). In their eyes, it is in direct opposition to the passionate outbursts of anger and sorrow that he has shown, for instance when Agamemnon takes Briseis in Book 1, or after he learns of Patroclus’ death in Book 18. Pity for them becomes the humanizing balance for the warlike emotions that dominate most of the plot. From this juxtaposition, someone like Koziak, in “Homeric Thumos: The Early History of Gender, Emotion, and Politics,” may infer that the larger arc of the story “can serve as an image of what an initial movement toward polis politics requires in both cultural practices and emotional constitution.”65 She finds that Achilles’ story, the transformation from an honor-­‐obsessed warrior hero to a sympathetic figure that can even relate to and negotiate with an enemy king, may be analogous to the larger cultural and political shift away from the Homeric kingdoms to a more democratic polis system. While this anachronistic link is certainly problematic, Koziak’s theory indicates a more general modern bias. Whether it is release of passion, a return to society and humanity, or the birth of a democratic spirit, all of these scholars see a change in Achilles’ character. And this change, however one chooses to interpret it, is entirely dependent on the pity that Achilles feels for his fellow man, particularly in the closing books of the poem. If ο ἶκτος is not personal sympathy, but indignation in the face of injustice, as I have argued, then it is not really such a new feeling for Achilles after all, and all of these moral transformations that have been assigned to the Iliad and its protagonist may be mistaken. 65 Koziak, “Homeric Thumos,” 1087. 52 Jinyo Kim takes the idea of this emotional arc even further, in her book The Pity of Achilles: Oral Style and the Unity of the Iliad, positing a tripartite structure for the whole poem centered on Achilles’ pity, and she specifically connects this concept to another important theme: his μ ῆνις (wrath). She sees the Iliad as a progression that involves Achilles’ evolving concept of φιλότης (friendship). In Book 1, when Achilles feels that Agamemnon dishonors him by taking away his prize, the girl Briseis, he also feels anger toward the rest of the Greeks since they do nothing to prevent Agamemnon’s action. In this moment his conception of φιλότης shrinks to exclude those Greeks, and at this point he cares only about his fellow Myrmidons, and particularly Patroclus. Through the end of Book 8, Achilles remains pitiless in this regard toward his former allies. In the second stage of Kim’s structure, Achilles’ pitilessness is gradually worn down through the pleas of the embassy, and finally by Patroclus in Book 16, when Achilles feels ο ἶκτος in the presence of his friend. He sends Patroclus and the Myrmidons back into battle, symbolically relenting from his pitilessness even if he won’t return himself. After Patroclus is killed, in the final eight books, Achilles turns his pitilessness to Hector and the Trojans. However, in the knowledge that he is as responsible for Patroclus’ death as his enemies are, and that the Trojans are fated to die just like him, his concept of φιλότης gradually expands again to include not just the Greeks, but also the Trojans, and even all mankind. Once again, the moment in Book 24 when Achilles feels ο ἶκτος for Priam, and thus accepts the Trojan king into his sphere of φιλότης, is a crucial turning point for Kim. The structure that Kim offers, then, begins with an Achilles who very much exists within the natural social structure of the war, then moves to one who has 53 isolated himself through pitilessness, and ultimately concludes with a character who has transcended the emotional constraints of the war and come to sympathize with both Greek and Trojan alike. The very title of her book, The Pity of Achilles, is inherently problematic if, as I have tried to demonstrate, Achilles never actually feels pity. Her structure, like so many others, is founded on the interpretation that Achilles’ ο ἶκτος at Patroclus, Eumelus, and Priam involves personal sympathy and a resolution of wrath. But she takes the juxtaposition even further, connecting it specifically with the μ ῆνις of the poem’s opening lines: “The theme of Achilles’ menis is twice resolved in the poem… both times it is resolved in the theme of Achilles’ pity.”66 Thus, Kim sees Achilles’ οἶκτος as a resolution, not just of his general passion, but specifically of the μ ῆνις theme that she claims “is a thematic equivalent of his pitilessness.”67 Her structure of three main sections is not necessarily wrong, as the trends she points to do fit somewhat conveniently into sections of eight books each, but the connotations certainly change when ο ἶκτος is interpreted as something other than pity. Achilles’ μῆνις may indeed represent his pitiless nature, but how can it be “the thematic obverse of his pity”68 if he has destroyed pity, as Apollo claims (24.44), and does not appear to feel pity anywhere in the epic? The passion involved in Achilles’ wrath does not resolve into a humanizing pity, but rather transforms into an equally passionate and radical emotion, that of οἶκτος. While ο ἶκτος and μ ῆνις are by no means the same emotion, neither are they 66 Kim, The Pity of Achilles, 182. 67 Ibid., 173. 68 Ibid. 54 the polar opposites of pity and pitilessness, as Kim suggests. If anything, they have in common that they are both extreme passions that almost exclusively characterize Achilles. They set him apart from the rest of the cast, and imply to the audience just how exceptional he truly is, not only in terms of fighting ability, but also in terms of zealous emotionality. To put it in Kim’s terms, the theme of Achilles’ ο ἶκτος does not serve to resolve the theme of his μ ῆνις, but rather to extend and reflect it. Plenty of other scholars have analyzed Achilles’ μ ῆνις, and some, like Kim, have even discussed it in connection with οἶκτος. Glenn Most, in “Anger and Pity in Homer’s Iliad,” postulates a similar tripartite structure, but his thesis is that Homeric pity cannot occur without coexisting anger. He tries to demonstrate that Achilles’ anger is first directed at Agamemnon, then shifts to Hector when he kills Patroclus, and finally falls upon Achilles himself when he sees what evil he has caused for Priam. In a parallel progression, Achilles’ pity is initially focused on himself when Agamemnon wrongs him, shifts to his dead friend Patroclus, and ends up directed at Priam. With this argument, Most ties μ ῆνις and ο ἶκτος together even more closely than Kim does, implying that the relationship between the two emotions involves not so much a resolution of one by the other as an inherent coexistence. However, Most’s argument still implies a level of transformation and growth. For him, Achilles’ anger begins focused on a king (Agamemnon), moves to a character much more reflective of Achilles himself (Hector), and finally ends up directed at his own person. His pity grows from self-­‐pity, to one focused on a dear friend (Patroclus), and concludes with a king who is completely different from him (Priam). Thus Most’s Achilles evolves from a self-­‐centered egotist, angry with 55 others and pitying himself, to a self-­‐sacrificing sympathizer, angry with himself and pitying others. If we recognize shock and horror in ο ἶκτος rather than pity, however, a new picture arises. Early in the poem we have the μ ῆνις of Achilles, and in later books we have his ο ἶκτος. This shift occurs, perhaps, based on his emotional reactions to those around him. Early on, he feels that he is being personally wronged, so he experiences μ ῆνις toward Agamemnon and the Greeks, the perceived wrongdoers. Yet it is not self-­‐pity that he feels at this point, but ο ἶκτος, which I propose denotes a sense indignation that his prize should be stolen and that he should be so degraded by Agamemnon. It is this indignation that gradually shifts outward, as he feels shock at the death of Patroclus and, finally, at Priam’s horrifying situation. At the same time, he transfers his rage from the Greeks to Hector after Patroclus’ death, and finally, once he has taken vengeance on Hector and has nowhere else to direct his anger, to himself. The specific words μ ῆνις and ο ἶκτος are not explicitly used in these scenes, but I am extrapolating like Most, since these are the two emotions that seem to define Achilles elsewhere. In this way, perhaps μ ῆνις may be seen as a reaction to ο ἶκτος, that is, as the rage that might occur in the wake of a perceived injustice. If there is a transformation taking place, then, it is not one in which Achilles becomes increasingly sympathetic toward those around him, but rather one in which his indignation expands from a personal level to a collective one. Whatever the case, as Most has pointed out, the relationship between these two emotions is an inherent one. 56 My interpretation, then, does not affect our understanding of ο ἶκτος alone, but that of the entire emotional life of the Iliad. In “Ethics, ethology, terminology: Iliadic anger and the cross-­‐cultural study of emotion,” D.L. Cairns finds that anger in the Iliad functions as a “response to a breach of co-­‐operation which… guarantees and makes credible the threat inherent in the offended party’s reaction.”69 In this way, for one scholar at least, emotion in Homeric society evolved to promote social “co-­‐operation”. Μ ῆνις serves to punish any “breach” in that relationship, and ἔ λεος (pity) may be the impulse by which it is normally upheld between social allies. Cairns also finds anger in this poem to be closely associated with self-­‐identity and recipricocity. As in the case of Achilles’ μ ῆνις in Book 1, it can protect one’s own place in society, and especially one’s honor, when a perceived imbalance is created. But where does the role of ο ἶκτος fit in, then? It is the feeling of being appalled at some radical injustice, but what social purpose does that impulse serve? Although Cairns does not specifically consider this word, it may be that ο ἶκτος is the “offended party’s reaction” to which he refers, and that μ ῆνις is the response to this initial reaction of indignation or outrage. Regardless, the role of ο ἶκτος in the social structures of the Iliad is a much more complicated matter than scholars have previously considered. Achilles’ social or political development through the story, not just his emotional journey, is an important theme as well, the interpretation of which is inevitably affected by the nature of ο ἶκτος. As Dean Hammer, in “The Iliad as Ethical Thinking: Politics, Pity, and the Operation of Esteem,” points out, “Achilles’ ethical 69 Cairns, “Ethics, ethology, terminology,” 21. 57 stance is linked to a sense of his esteem, as an image of himself in relationship to others.”70 When Agamemnon threatens that “image” in the beginning, Achilles feels μῆνις. When he perceives the “image of himself in relationship to” Priam at the end, that is to say, when he realizes what a source of evil and distress he has been to the enemy king, he feels ο ἶκτος. While Cairns indirectly raises the question of how οἶκτος fits into the general social operations, Hammer implies that, at least for Achilles, if not for all the Homeric heroes, it is linked to his “sense of… esteem” just like other emotions, and is defined by his “image” of himself. In this way, the nature of the emotional reaction is an inherent indicator of the social role that the character is performing. For Hammer this has political significance, and he sees the Iliad as raising the fundamental question, “how can communities endure in a world of human collisions in which we suffer for deeds that we can neither foresee nor control?”71 In this larger theme of “communities,” even a detail as small as Achilles’ οἶκτος can play a crucial part, informing us how he fits into the group and whether the relationships involved can “endure” through the war and strife. Emotions in the Iliad then, such as this ο ἶκτος, have a profound impact not just on our perception of the characters, but on how political and social structures exist within the story as well. Finally, much of the relevant scholarship on the Iliad is concerned with pathos, how the epic elicits emotion in an audience, and in what sense it would have done so among ancient Greeks. The role of Achilles’ ο ἶκτος is important to these 70 Hammer, “The Iliad as Ethical Thinking,” 205. 71 Ibid., 207. 58 questions, and my reinterpretation raises a central question: should we pity him? Many scholars find that Achilles’ capacity to sympathize in the end saves him from being an entirely unsympathetic character. Duane Conley, for example, in “Pity and Poetic Justice in the Iliad,” argues that the basis for the incredible influence of the Iliad on countless generations lies in the perfect equilibrium between pity and poetic justice. According to Conley, while we are satisfied that Achilles gets punished for his pride and his betrayal of the Greeks, we also feel pity for him when we see how much he cares for Patroclus, or how he sympathizes with Priam after the main conflict of the epic has finished. The pull between these two emotional urges, and the way in which Homer balances them, is supposedly the reason that the poem has been able to affect so many people across so many years. If Achilles does not feel pity, then, as I have argued, it alters not only the character of Achilles and the emotional landscape within the narrative, but the entire pathetic effect of the poem. It calls into question whether Homer even intended to evoke the emotional response that, at least in Conley’s view, has inspired readers for centuries. Conley considers the writings of Aristotle to support his arguments, pointing to the existence of a similar question perhaps even in ancient times. He quotes from the Poetics 23.7: “out of an Iliad… only one tragedy can be made, or two at most, whereas several have been made out of the Cypria, and of the Little Iliad more than eight.”72 This points to a unity of thought, and hence, according to some, authorship, that is particularly appealing to scholars and casual readers alike. Whether or not my reinterpretation would affect Aristotle’s perception of the pathos of the Iliad, it 72 Conley, “Pity and Poetic Justice in the Iliad,” 171. 59 undoubtedly must affect the “one tragedy” that is contained therein. Whereas a subtle change of meaning might not have profound, overarching implications for other works like the Cypria or Little Iliad, it can have such an effect on the uniquely focused story of Achilles in the Iliad. We may still feel pity for Achilles based on his sorrow for Patroclus, but his lack of pity for his friend in life, and for Priam in the end, must to some extent inform our understanding of this singular tragedy. In conclusion, I have found that a character who experiences ο ἶκτος in Homer’s Iliad is not necessarily feeling pity or sympathy; rather, he is appalled at the situation of another and horrified at the sight. As a result of this simple distinction, we must reconsider how we perceive Achilles and the Iliad as a whole. Achilles does not undergo a profound moral transformation in which pity replaces rage or sorrow, and Homer is not trying to tell us that human sympathy is more honorable than war. Achilles does not return to society or rediscover humanity through some new insight, nor does he learn any profound lesson of compassion. When he feels ο ἶκτος at Patroclus, he is not tragically sympathizing with him right before his death, but rather is appalled that Patroclus should show such weakness and disloyalty. When he feels it at Eumelus, he is not reintegrating himself into the Greek social construct, but is indignant that the gods should dishonor a great talent in such an arbitrary way. And likewise, when he feels ο ἶκτος at Priam, he is not realizing the shared sorrow of the human experience, but is simply horrified and outraged that such misery and humiliation should exist for an old man at all. Achilles does not undergo any transformation; he is as passionately indignant in the end as he was at the start. Thus, without understanding ο ἶκτος in its proper context, 60 we cannot hope to grasp the true message or nature of Achilles’ story, much less that of the Iliad as a whole. 61 Works Consulted Adkins, A.W.H. “Values, Goals, and Emotions in the Iliad.” Classical Philology 77, no. 4 (Oct., 1982): 292-­‐326. Anhalt, Emily Katz. “Barrier and Transcendence: The Door and the Eagle in Iliad 24.314-­‐21.” The Classical Quarterly, New Series, 45, no. 2 (1995): 280-­‐295. Beekes, Robert. 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