The Parting

(Homer’s Iliad vi. 369-503.)

Thus, having done his duty to his gods And to his country, Hector sought his home, Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness. Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found. But her whom his soul loved he found not there, Her of the snowy arms, Andromache: For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse, Unto a tower that faced the Grecian camp Had gone to watch and weep. So Hector paused Upon the threshold, as he left the house, And made enquiry of the household maids: “Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth, Whither white-armed Andromache has gone, To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives, Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowd Of matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrath To turn to mercy by the strength of tears?” A trusty servant quickly made response: “Hector, my lord, right willingly my lips Shall answer truthfully thy eager quest,— Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives, Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowd Of matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrath To turn to mercy by the strength of tears, Has gone Andromache; but she has gone Unto a lofty tower of Ilion To watch the contest, for bad tidings came Of Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain; And at this moment, like a frenzied one, She rushes to the rampart, while, behind, Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”

She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushed Forth from the house, along the very way That he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets; Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate, (Through which he meant to hie him to the plain). But here Andromache of queenly dower, His wife, the daughter of Eëtion, Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height, In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men, Came running till she met him in the way. With her, the nurse, who to her bosom held An innocent-hearted babe, their only son, His father’s joy, in beauty like a star, Scamandrius named by Hector, but the host Called him Astyanax, the City’s King, Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy. And now he looked on him, and smiled a smile That spake his heart more than a thousand words, And called the tears into his mother’s eyes. She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand, And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words: “Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane, And, seeking glory, thou forgettest him And me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone! Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy, Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life. And, when I miss thee, it were better far That I were laid beneath the ground: for I Shall then have none to comfort me, not one, But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector! No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,— Him, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew, And razed his fair-built city to the ground. High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not, Although he slew him, but, with reverence, Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre, And raised a mound in honour of his name, Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms, The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus. And my seven brothers, in one fatal day, Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns, Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire, As, in their native fields, they watched the herds Of kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep. Nor did my queenly mother long survive, For, led a captive to the Grecian camp, With other spoils, the victor sent her home, For goodly ransom, only to be slain By the sure shaft of huntress Artemis. But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse, My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me! Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,— Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to make Thy child an orphan and a widow me! But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill, Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies, And where the wall is weakest. At that point Already have the bravest of our foes— Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede, And the two sons of Atreus—made assault, Whether incited thither by some voice Prophetic, or high hope of victory. So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”

Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm, Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said, My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth, But—could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefs And stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like, I skulked from battle in my country’s need? Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight, For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first, To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence, To struggle for the honour of my sire And for my own. Although too well I know The day shall come when sacred Troy must fall, And Priam and his war-like hosts, who well Can wield in fight the ashen-handled spear! But not the woes of my brave countrymen, Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s, Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust ’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine, When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall end Thy days of freedom, leading thee away In tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thou May’st tend another’s loom or water draw From Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,— A slavish duty forced on thee by fate. And some one, looking on thy tears, may say: ‘She was the wife of Hector, who excelled In fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’ And thy poor heart will ache with vain regret For him whose strong right arm would keep thee free. Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyes From looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”

So spake the noble Hector, and his arms Extended to receive his son; but he Shrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast, Fearing the war-like presence of his sire, His brazen armour and the horse-hair crest Above his helmet nodding fearfully. And Hector took the helmet off his head And laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground; And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayed To Zeus and all the gods on his behalf: “O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grant That this, my son, may, as his sire, excel, And may he truly be the City’s King! And may men say of him, as he returns From war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’ May he from war-like men take gory spoils, And may his mother glory in his might!”

Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the arms Of his dear wife he placed the little child. She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast, Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soul Was touched with pity, and he nursed her hand, And called her by her name: “Andromache, My love, fret not thyself too much for me! No man descends to Hades ere his time, And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate, Whether his heart be cowardly or brave. But, love, returning home, apply thyself To household duties, and thy handmaidens Despatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom. For war must be the business of men, And of all men that have been born in Troy, This war has need of none so much as me.” Thus having spoken, noble Hector placed The waving helmet on his head again. And, silently, Andromache returned (Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears) To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.

And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept; And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead, While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they said They knew that he would never more return, Exulting in his prowess, from the war.