A Guide to the Odyssey: A Commentary on the English Translation of Robert Fitzgerald (48 page)

This constant in Odysseus’ character is thus highlighted, raising the possibility, however outrageous, that since the etiology—an account of origins—of the wound is Odysseus’ own response to his parents’ request for a story, it might not be true! If this is the case (and I underscore the fact that we have no way of
knowing if it is), then (1) not only does Odysseus’ history of inventing his self by storytelling go back to his childhood but (2) there would be no firm bottom to any level of narrative in
The Odyssey
and (3) Homer would be presenting himself as a dupe of his own character’s lies. A narrative structure of this sort, which plays with the possibility of infinite regression, is generally known to narratologists by the French phrase
mise en abîme
. How fitting for it to be one of Homer’s ruses. For another example of infinite regress, in the logical realm, compare “All Kretans are liars,” and see XIII.327, above.

477–81
Homer tells the story of Autólykos’ naming of Odysseus, of obvious significance in
The Odyssey
. But why is it part of the narrative of the boar hunt and wounding? It is the scar that leads Eurýkleia to address Odysseus by his name (
“You are Odysseus!”
550 [474]). To take it further, a hero’s name is like a deep wound: he can no more escape the fate of his name (a victim of odium and suffering) than erase the trace left by the wound, the scar.

But Homer may have connected the two in Odysseus’ case by another of his characteristic wordplays: Autólykos gives him the name “Odysseus,” explicitly derived by his grandfather from
odussamenos
[407–9] (see also 328, above). But in other regions and other traditions, his name was
Oulixes
, Latinized as
Ulixes
(the English version of his name, “Ulysses,” derives ultimately from this tradition via the Latin). He receives this name, after a fashion, when the boar gives him his “wound” (
oulê
). The argument here is one not of historical etymology but of etymological play on the poet’s part, and we know that the poet of
The Odyssey
is entirely capable of bringing the words into conjunction. From the historical perspective, the major objection would be the now invisible digamma (“w” sound) with which
oulê
at one time began (compare the Latin
uulnus
), but the poet of
The Odyssey
only fitfully preserves the digamma, already a fossil remnant in the language of his day. (See also I.448 and VIII.70, above.)

480
odium … Odysseus:
This now standard solution to the
problem of finding wordplay in English to correspond to Homer’s is on the whole satisfactory. Odysseus’ name itself would mean “child of woe” or “one who is hated,” but it suggests as well that Odysseus would deal out his share of woe to others (as the Trojans, the suitors, and Polyphêmos could testify). In this very scene, he is inflicting pain, however temporary and strategic, on Penélopê, and his treatment of Eurýkleia, though expedient, will be harsh (557–69).

Autólykos grounds the name in his experience, but of course Odysseus fills out the fate of his name in his own career. Both ancient Greeks and Latins memorialized the widely assumed connection between a person’s name and his or her destiny in proverbs which mean, in essence, “one’s name is a prophetic sign” (
onoma ornis
, Greek;
nomen omen
, Latin).

482–89
The delight grandparents have in their grandchildren’s visits seems universal. Recall that before the advent of mass travel, any visit of over a few miles would have been astonishingly rare: Odysseus’ maternal grandfather had not seen him since he was in swaddling clothes, his maternal grandmother never. Neither could Penélopê send her parents photographs or put baby Odysseus on the phone to chat. No regular and reliable postal service existed: one relied on news carried by either messengers or the chance wayfarer, such as the Kretan in these books or the young Odysseus himself as described at the end of this passage. Stories of one’s heritage and family were of more importance for the Greeks, not less, amid a lack of communication that would appear to us today a frightening silence.

490–95
The men of the house, Odysseus’ uncles, prepare the ritual meal. See XIV.494–514 for the shape of this “typical scene,” of which this is a highly compressed version.

531
rune:
A spell or incantation. Reports of the efficacy of a spell to stop a flow of blood circulate even in our own century, but the practice was obviously more common in ancient times.

540–41
… boar’s white tusk …:
At this point exact repetition
of the Greek behind Fitzgerald’s lines 461–63 marks the formal closure of the boar-wound tale’s compositional ring. In Greek, the repeated material consists of one line including the last two metrical feet of the preceding line [393b-94, 465b-66]. In English, the text would run something like “with a white tusk, coming to Parnassos with the sons of Autólykos.”

553–54
Her eyes turned to Penélopê …:
Homer’s gift for compellingly detailed descriptions of things, of movements, of physical consequences in all their materiality could be pointed out throughout the poem, but it leaps out in moments like this, when a lesser poet, or lesser school of poets, would focus only on the high drama and emotion. The drama is in the clang of bronze and the spilling of water. As if to signal a return to normality (and formally, to close the ring), after the intense whispered exchanges between Odysseus and Eurýkleia (549–82), Eurýkleia fetches “more water, / her basin being all split” (583–84). Note too the characteristically Homeric economy, not only in the sense of the spare means with which he achieves his effects but in the sense of disposition or arrangement: he can play with the possibility of greater recognition of Odysseus by Penélopê at this point, but instead he gives us a lesser one, and keeps us waiting for the grand moment we all want. Before that, however, more than a bronze basin will clang, and more than water will be spilt.

580–81
Odysseus is master and will give up none of his authority, not even to Eurýkleia, particularly when the issue is a judgment of life or death over other servants. In fact, when he has gained control of the house, he does consult Eurýkleia (XXII.467–68).

590–642
Penélopê has made the Kretan her own guest (see 301, above), and she addresses him now as the valued friend and adviser she would expect her guestfriend to be. In lines 608–19 she asks straight out whether he thinks she should persevere in her current course or whether she should marry the “noblest” (613) of the suitors or, as the Greek has it, “the best of the Akhaians” [528], a term that, since the death of Akhilleus, best
describes Odysseus himself. “Now,” she tells this Kretan noble, “my son is of age; I can remarry.”

601–7
Think how Pandáreos’ daughter …:
Penélopê turns to legend for an example for her grief. The daughter of the Kretan king Pandáreos was Aedon, who had one son, Itylos, from her Theban husband, Zêthos. She was so jealous of her sister-in-law Niobe, who had many children, that she attempted to kill Niobe’s oldest son. But in the dark she killed her own, Itylos (in some versions Itys), instead. Zeus transformed her into a nightingale to sing her lament unceasingly.

606–19
mourning for Itylos …:
The linkage of legend and her present situation is virtually explicit: if Penélopê does not accede to the suitors’ pressure and marry soon, she may inadvertently cause the death of “her and her lord’s only child” (compare 607), who as the adult male of the household (617) must either give her away or face the suitors’ wrath alone.

620–42
Listen: / interpret me this dream …:
On dreams, oracles, and their interpretation, see XV. 197–225, above. Of course it is possible that Penélopê suspects the true identity of her Kretan guest and makes up this dream narrative to see if he might be willing to reveal himself (see 678–99 and XX.69ff., below). There is no way either to confirm such a hypothesis or to prove it false. “Intuit” may be a better word than “suspect.”

630
killed my geese:
As often is the case in dreams and oracles, there is a grammatical or semantic equivocation that could be resolved in two ways. The Greek [543] could bear either “killed my geese” or “killed the geese for my benefit.” Fitzgerald, forced to choose, as a translator always is, rightly picks the first, which is what provoked Penélopê’s wailing (could the geese stand for her son?) until the eagle corrects her. Russo presents “[a] third and more submerged association” by construing the sentence so that it yields “my eagle,” which he analyzes as “an irony in that Penélopê does not yet know that the eagle is more truly hers than the geese are” (HWH 3.102 [on XIX.543]).

652–59
The two gates for ghostly dreams
have inspired both poets (e.g., Vergil,
Aeneid
VI.893–99) and generations of interpreters. For Homer, “honest horn” and “ivory” are likely assigned to false and true dreams—true in the sense that they will come true—on the basis of etymological play: “Horn” [
keraessi
, 563] sounds like a word meaning “to fulfill, to come to pass” [
krainousi
, 566–67]; “ivory” [
elephas
, 563–64] like a word meaning “to deceive” [
elephairontai
, 565], although Homer’s exact understanding of both etymologies is still debated.

662–73
Without waiting for a further response, although she has made clear what her hopes are, Penélopê decrees a contest. In the fashion of a fairy tale, aspirants for the hand of the queen must compete in a contest. (On the much-debated particulars of the contest of the twelve ax heads, see XXI. 132–37, below.) By her introduction (note “listen / carefully” 660–61), it seems clear that she wants her guest to compete, or at least consider competing.

673
But I’ll remember, though I dream it only:
Although Penélopê is ostensibly referring to the fact that once remarried and departed she will look back at her time in Ithaka, in Odysseus’ home, as a dream, by referring to dreams at the end of this speech (
oneirôi
is in fact the very last word [581]), she recalls the dream she had narrated just above, thereby expressing her true hope.

678–99
Odysseus … / will be here:
It is also a fairy-tale motif that the lady’s champion arrives just in time for the contest. If Penélopê has been exploring her suspicions by a sort of code, the Kretan responds in kind. She will recognize that this is the only form an affirmative answer could take, and understanding that, she withdraws for the night (admirable and wise restraint). But there is no certainty, and she remains at best unsure, still weeping as Homer tells us for her husband (697–98). Again, rather than speaking in terms of the suspicions she has articulated in her mind and the tests she has devised, it is better to think of Penélopê’s actions in Books XIX-XXIII in terms of a shifting set of motivations,
at times a contradictory mix of suspicion, intuition, hope, desperation, inspiration, and divine direction.

678
who knows the shifts of combat:
Here the disguised Odysseus makes striking use of
polymêas
[585] to describe the real Odysseus (see 65, above).

693
On the Greek wordplay behind “that misery at Ilion, unspeakable” [597], which also appears at 309, see XXIII.20–21, below, where the wordplay is most clearly reproduced in English: “ill wind / to Ilion.”

8ff
.
Now came a covey of women:
The opportunity to observe exactly which maids are traitors to the house, of which Odysseus spoke to Eurýkleia (XIX.581), comes now.

11–24
and anger took him:
As in
Book XVII
.300–304 and 608–11, the challenge to which Odysseus must rise is still to restrain his anger and to postpone action until the proper time.

14–17
His heart cried out …:
Homer frequently uses a word metaphorically—in the Greek, Odysseus’ heart “growls” [
hulaktei
, 13]—which Homer then explains by a simile (“the way a brach with whelps …”). Fitzgerald has done virtually the same thing, only it is worth remarking that Homer’s style keeps the two parts more distinct, his method being (as often noted) additive. Homer builds in blocks. Another poet, or Homer on another occasion, might omit the simile and retain merely the metaphor—perhaps if his lord’s stomach, or his own, were already growling (out of hunger). To make his point clearer, Homer also
uses the verb or a closely related verb twice in the lines in question [
hulaei
, 15;
hulaktei
, 16]; Fitzgerald, writing for an entirely different sensibility, avoids repetition, striving for rich variety (“cried out,” 14; “would howl,” 16).

21
Nobody
[
mêtis
, 20]: This word doubles the reference to the encounter with Polyphêmos. (See esp. IX.394ff., above.) Here as well, “being a nobody” and “guile” are both required.

25–28
rocked, rolling
(25) and
rolled
(28) on either side of this even more striking simile conveys the sense of Homer’s repetition of
helisseto
[24, 28].