The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (103 page)

My father rul
’
d, Ctesius Ormenides,

A man like the immortals. With these states

The cross-biting Phoenicians traffick’d rates

Of infinite merchandise in ships brought there,

In which they then were held exempt from peer.

There dwelt within my father’s house a dame,

Born a Phoenician, skilful in the frame

Of noble housewi
f
’
ries, right tall and fair.

Her the Phoenician great-wench-net-layer

With sweet words circumvented, as she was

Washing her linen. To his amorous pass

He brought her first, shor’d from his ship to her,

To whom he did his whole life’s love prefer,

Which of these breast-exposing dames the hearts

Deceives, though fashion’d of right honest parts.

He ask’d her after, what she was, and whence?

She, passing presently, the excellence

Told of her father’s turrets, and that she

Might boast herself sprung from the progeny

Of the rich Sidons, and the daughter was

Of the much-year-revenu’d Arybas;

But that the Taphian pirates made their prise,

As she return’d from her field-housewi
f
’
ries,

Transferr’d her hither, and, at that man’s house

Where now she lived, for value precious

Sold her to th’ owner. He that stole her love

Bade her again to her birth’s sent remove,

To see the fair roofs of her friends again,

Who still held state, and did the port maintain

Herself reported. She said: ‘Be it so,

So you, and all that in your ship shall row,

Swear to return me in all safety hence.’

All swore. Th’ oath past, with every consequence,

She bade: ‘Be silent now, and not a word

Do you, or any of your friends, afford,

Meeting me afterward in any way,

Or at the washing-fount, lest some display

Be made, and told the old man, and he then

Keep me strait bound, to you and to your men

The utter ruin plotting of your lives.

Keep in firm thought then every word that strives

For dangerous utterance. Haste your ship’s full freight

Of what you traffic for, and let me straight

Know by some sent friend she hath nil in hold,

And with myself I’ll bring thence all the gold

I can by all means finger; and, beside,

I’ll do my best to see your freight supplied

With some well-weighing burthen of mine own.

For I bring up in house a great man’s son,

As crafty as myself, who will with me

Run every way along, and I will be

His leader, till your ship hath made him sure.

He will an infinite great price procure,

Transfer him to what languag’d men ye may.’

This said, she gat her home, and there made stay

A whole year with us, goods of great avail

Their ship enriching. Which now fit for sail,

They sent a messenger t’ inform the dame;

And to my father’s house a fellow came,

Full of Phoenician craft, that to be sold

A tablet brought, the body all of gold,

The verge all amber. This had ocular view

Both by my honour’d mother and the crew

Of her house-handmaids, handled, and the price

Bent, ask’d, and promis’d. And while this device

Lay thus upon the forge, this jeweller

Made privy signs, by winks and wiles, to her

That was his object; which she took, and he,

His sign seeing noted, hied to ship. When she

(My hand still taking, as she us’d to do

To walk abroad with her) convey’d me so

Abroad with her, and in the portico

Found cups, with tasted viands, which the guests

That us’d to flock about my father’s feasts

Had left. They gone (some to the council court,

Some to hear news amongst the talking sort),

Her theft three bowls into her lap convey’d,

And forth she went. Nor was my wit so stay’d

To stay her, or myself. The sun went down,

And shadows round about the world were flown,

When we came to the hav’n in which did ride

The swift Phoenician ship; whose fair broad side

They boarded straight, took us up; and all vent

Along the moist waves. Wind Saturnius sent.

Six days we day and night sail’d; but when Jove

Put up the sev’nth day, she that shafts doth love

Shot dead the woman, who into the pump

Like to a dop-chick div
’
d, and gave a thump

In her sad settling. Forth they cast her then

To serve the fish and sea-calves, no more men;

But I was left there with a heavy heart;

When wind and water drave them quite apart

Their own course, and on Ithaca they fell,

And there poor me did to Laertes sell.

And thus these eyes the sight of this isle prov’d.’

‘Eumaeus,’ he replied, ‘thou much hast mov’d

The mind in me with all things thou hast said,

And all the suf
f
’
rance on thy bosom laid.

But, truly, to thy ill hath Jove join’d good,

That one whose veins are serv’d with human blood

Hath bought thy service, that gives competence

Of food, wine, cloth to thee; and sure th’ expence

Of thy life’s date here is of good desert,

Whose labours not to thee alone impart

Sufficient food and housing, but to me;

Where I through many a heap’d humanity

Have hither err’d, where, though like thee not sold,

Nor stay’d like thee yet, nor nought needful hold.’

This mutual speech they us’d, nor had they slept

Much time before the much-near Morning leapt

To her fair throne. And now struck sail the men

That serv’d Telemachus, arriv’d just then

Near his lov’d shore; where now they stoop’d the mast,

Made to the port with oars, and anchor cast,

Made fast the ship, and then ashore they went,

Dress’d supper, fill’d wine; when (their appetites spent)

Telemachus commanded they should yield

The ship to th’ owner, while himself at field

Would see his shepherds; when light drew to end

He would his gifts see, and to town descend,

And in the morning at a feast bestow

Rewards for all their pains. ‘And whither now,’

Said Theoclymenus, ‘my loved son,

Shall I address mysel
f
? Whose mansion,

Of all men, in this rough-hewn isle, shall I

Direct my why to? Or go readily

To thy house and thy mother?’ He replied:

‘Another time I’ll see you satisfied

With my house entertainment, but as now

You should encounter none that could bestow

Your fit entreaty, and (which less grace were)

You could not see my mother, I not there;

For she’s no frequent object, but apart

Keeps from her wooers, woo’d with her desert,

Up in her chamber, at her housewi
f
’
ry.

But I’ll name one to whom you shall apply

Direct repair, and that’s Eurymachus,

Renown’d descent to wise Polybius,

A man whom th’ Ithacensians look on now

As on a god, since he of all that woo

Is far superior man, and likest far

To wed my mother, and as circular

Be in that honour as Ulysses was.

But heav’n-hous’d Jove knows the yet hidden pass

Of her disposure, and on them he may

A blacker sight bring than her nuptial day.’

As this he utter’d, on his right hand flew

A saker, sacred to the god of view,

That in his talons truss’d and plumed a dove;

The feathers round about the ship did rove,

And on Telemachus fell; whom th’ augur then

Took fast by th
’
hand, withdrew him from his men,

And said: ‘Telemachus! This hawk is sent

From god; I knew it for a sure ostent

When first I saw it. Be you well assur’d,

There will no wooer be by heav’n endur’d

To rule in Ithaca above your race,

But your pow’rs ever fill the regal place.’

‘I wish to heav’n,’ said he, ‘thy word might stand.

Thou then shouldst soon acknowledge from my hand

Such gifts and friendship as would make thee, guest,

Met and saluted as no less than blest.’

This said, he call’d Piraeus, Clytus’ son,

His true associate, saying: ‘Thou hast done

(Of all my followers to the Pylian shore)

My will in chief in other things, once more

Be chiefly good to me; take to thy house

This loved stranger, and be studious

T’ embrace and greet him with thy greatest fare,

Till I myself come and take off thy care.’

The famous-for-his-lance said: ‘If your stay

Take time for life here, this man’s care I’ll lay

On my performance, nor what fits a guest

Shall any penury withhold his feast.’

Thus took he ship, bade them board, and away.

They boarded, sat, but did their labour stay

Till he had deck’d his feet, and reach’d his lance.

They to the city; he did straight advance

Up to his sties, where swine lay for him store,

By whose side did his honest swine-herd snore,

Till his short cares his longest nights had ended,

And nothing worse to both his lords intended.

The end of the fifteenth book

Book 16

The Argument

The prince at field, he sends to town

Eumaeus, to make truly known

His safe return. By Pallas’ will,

Telemachus is giv’n the skill

To know his father. Those that lay

In ambush, to prevent the way

Of young Ulyssides for home,

Retire, with anger overcome.

Another Argument

Pi

To his most dear

Ulysses shows.

The wise son here

His father knows.

Book 16

Uly
s
se
s and divine Eumaeus rose

Soon as the morning could her eyes unclose,

Made fire, brake fast, and to their pasture send

The gather’d herds, on whom their swains attend.

The self-tire barking dogs all fawn’d upon,

Nor bark’d, at first sight of Ulysses’ son.

The whinings of their fawnings yet did greet

Ulysses’ ears, and sounds of certain feet,

Who thus bespake Eumaeus: ‘Sure some friend,

Or one well-known, comes, that the mastiffs spend

Their mouths no louder. Only some one near

They whine, and leap about, whose feet I hear.’

Each word of this speech was not spent, before

His son stood in the entry of the door.

Out rush’d amaz’d Eumaeus, and let go

The cup to earth, that he had labour’d so,

Cleans’d for the neat wine, did the prince surprise,

Kiss’d his fair forehead, both his lovely eyes,

Both his white hands, and tender tears distill’d.

There breath’d no kind-soul’d father that was fill’d

Less with his son’s embraces, that had liv’d

Ten years in far-off earth, now new retriev’d,

His only child too, gotten in his age,

And for whose absence he had felt the rage

Of griefs upon him, than for this divin’d

So-much-for-form was this divine-for-mind;

Who kiss’d him through, who grew about him kissing,

As fresh from death ’scaped. Whom so long time missing,

He wept for joy, and said: ‘Thou yet art come,

Sweet light, sweet sun-rise, to thy cloudy home.

O, never I look’d, when once shipp’d away

For Pylos’ shores, to see thy turning day.

Come, enter, lov’d son, let me feast my heart

With thy sweet sight, new come, so far apart.

Nor, when you lived at home, would you walk down

Often enough here, but stay’d still at town;

It pleas
’
d you then to cast such forehand view

About your house on that most damned crew.’

‘It shall be so then, friend,’ said he, ‘but now

I come to glad mine eyes with thee, and know

If still my mother in her house remain,

Or if some wooer hath aspir
’
d to gain

Of her in nuptials; for Ulysses’ bed,

By this, lies all with spiders’ cobwebs spread,

In penury of him that should supply it.’

‘She still,’ said he, ‘holds her most constant quiet,

Aloft thine own house, for the bed’s respect,

But, for her lord’s sad loss, sad nights and days

Obscure her beauties, and corrupt their rays.’

This said, Eumaeus took his brazen spear,

And in he went; when, being enter’d near

Within the stony threshold, from his seat

His father rose to him, who would not let

Th’ old man remove, but drew him back and press
’
d

With earnest terms his sitting, saying: ‘Guest,

Take here your seat again, we soon shall get

Within our own house here some other seat.

Here’s one will fetch it.’ This said, down again

His father sat, and to his son his swain

Strew’d fair green osiers, and impos’d thereon

A good soft sheepskin, which made him a throne.

Then he appos’d to them his last-left roast,

And in a wicker basket bread engross
’
d,

Fill’d luscious wine, and then took opposite seat

To the divine Ulysses. When, the meat

Set there before them, all fell to, and eat.

When they had fed, the prince said: ‘Pray thee say,

Whence comes this guest? What seaman gave him ray

To this our isle? I hope these feet of his

Could walk no water. Who boasts he he is?’

‘I’ll tell all truly, son: from ample Crete

He boasts himself, and says, his erring feet

Have many cities trod, and god was he

Whose finger wrought in his infirmity.

But, to my cottage, the last ’scape of his

Was from a Thesprot’s ship. Whate’er he is,

I’ll give him you, do what you please; his vaunt

Is, that he is, at most, a suppliant.’

‘Eumaeus,’ said the prince, ‘to tell me this,

You have afflicted my weak faculties,

For how shall I receive him to my house

With any safety, that suspicious

Of my young forces (should I be assay’d

With any sudden violence) may want aid

To shield mysel
f
? Besides, if I go home,

My mother is with two doubts overcome –

If she shall stay with me, and take fit care

For all such guests as there seek guestive fare,

Her husband’s bed respecting, and her fame

Amongst the people; or her blood may frame

A liking to some wooer, such as best

May bed her in his house, not giving least.

And thus am I unsure of all means free

To use a guest there, fit for his degree.

But, being thy guest, I’ll be his supply

For all weeds, such as mere necessity

Shall more than furnish, fit him with a sword,

And set him where his heart would have been shor’d;

Or, if so pleas’d, receive him in thy shed,

I’ll send thee clothes, I vow, and all the bread

His wish would eat, that to thy men and thee

He be no burthen. But that I should be

His mean to my house, where a company

Of wrong-professing wooers wildly live,

I will in no sort author, lest they give

Foul use to him, and me as gravely grieve.

For what great act can any one achieve

Against a multitude, although his mind

Retain a courage of the greatest kind?

For all minds have not force in one degree.’

Ulysses answer’d: ‘O friend, since ’tis free

For any man to change fit words with thee,

I’ll freely speak: methinks, a wolfish pow’r

My heart puts on to tear and to devour,

To hear your affirmation, that, in spite

Of what may fall on you, made opposite,

Being one of your proportion, birth, and age,

These wooers should in such injustice rage.

What should the cause be? Do you wilfully

Endure their spoil? Or hath your empery

Been such amongst your people, that all gather

In troop, and one voice (which ev’n god doth father)

And vow your hate so, that they suffer them?

Or blame your kinsfolk’s faiths, before th’ extreme

Of your first stroke hath tried them, whom a man,

When strifes to blows rise, trusts, though battle ran

In huge and high waves? Would to heav’n my spirit

Such youth breath’d, as the man that must inherit

Yet-never-touch’d Ulysses, or that he,

But wandering this way, would but come, and see

What my age could achieve (and there is fate

For hope yet left, that he may recreate

His eyes with such an object); this my head

Should any stranger strike off, if stark dead

I struck not all, the house in open force

Ent’ring with challenge! If their great concourse

Did over-lay me, being a man alone,

(Which you urge for yoursel
f
) be you that one,

I rather in mine own house wish to die

One death for all, than so indecently

See evermore deeds worse than death applied,

Guests wrong’d with vile words and blow-giving pride,

The women-servants dragg’d in filthy kind

About the fair house, and in corners blind

Made serve the rapes of ruffians, food devour’d

Idly and rudely, wine exhaust, and pour’d

Through throats profane; and all about a deed

That’s ever wooing, and will never speed.’

‘I’ll tell you, guest, most truly,’ said his son,

‘I do not think that all my people run

One hateful course against me; nor accuse

Kinsfolks that I in strifes of weight might use;

But Jove will have it so, our race alone

(As if made singular) to one and one

His hand confining. Only to the king,

Jove-bred Arcesius, did Laertes spring;

Only to old Laertes did descend

Ulysses; only to Ulysses’ end

Am I the adjunct, whom he left so young,

That from me to him never comfort sprung.

And to all these now, for their race, arise

Up in their house a brood of enemies.

As many as in these isles bow men’s knees,

Samos, Dulichius, and the rich-in-trees

Zacynthus, or in this rough isle’s command,

So many suitors for the nuptials stand,

That ask my mother, and, mean space, prefer

Their lusts to all spoil, that dishonour her.

Nor doth she, though she loathes, deny their suits,

Nor they denials take, though taste their fruits.

But all this time the state of all things there

Their throats devour, and I must shortly bear

A part in all. And yet the periods

Of these designs lie in the knees of gods.

Of all loves then, Eumaeus, make quick way

To wise Penelope, and to her say

My safe return from Pylos, and alone

Return thou hither, having made it known.

Nor let, besides my mother, any ear

Partake thy message, since a number bear

My safe return displeasure.’ He replied:

‘I know, and comprehend you. You divide

Your mind with one that understands you well.

But, all in one yet, may I not reveal

To th’ old hard-fated Arcesiades

Your safe return? Who, through his whole distress

Felt for Ulysses, did not yet so grieve,

But with his household he had will to live,

And serv’d his appetite with wine and food,

Survey’d his husbandry, and did his blood

Some comforts fitting life; but since you took

Your ship for Pylos, he would never brook

Or wine or food, they say, nor cast an eye

On any labour, but sits weeping by,

And sighing out his sorrows, ceaseless moans

Wasting his body, turn’d all skin and bones.’

‘More sad news still,’ said he, ‘yet, mourn he still;

For if the rule of all men’s works be will,

And his will his way goes, mine stands inclin’d

T’ attend the home-turn of my nearer kind.

Do then what I enjoin; which giv’n effect,

Err not to field to him, but turn direct,

Entreating first my mother, with most speed,

And all the secrecy that now serves need,

To send this way their store-house guardian,

And she shall tell all to the aged man.’

He took his shoes up, put them on, and went.

Nor was his absence hid from Jove’s descent,

Divine Minerva, who took straight to view

A goodly woman’s shape, that all works knew.

And, standing in the entry, did prefer

Her sight t’ Ulysses; but, though meeting her,

His son Telemachus nor saw nor knew.

The gods’ clear presences are known to few.

Yet, with Ulysses, ev’n the dogs did see,

And would not bark, but, whining lovingly,

Fled to the stall’s far side; when she her eyne

Mov’d to Ulysses. He knew her design,

And left the house, pass’d the great sheep-cote’s wall,

And stood before her. She bade utter all

Now to his son, nor keep the least unloos’d,

That, all the wooers’ deaths being now dispos’d,

They might approach the town, affirming she

Not long would fail t’ assist to victory.

This said, she laid her golden rod on him,

And with his late-worn weeds grac’d every limb,

His body straighten’d, and his youth instill’d,

His fresh blood call’d up, every wrinkle fill’d

About his broken eyes, and on his chin

The brown hair spread. When his whole trim wrought in,

She issu’d, and he enter’d to his son,

Who stood amaz’d, and thought some god had done

His house that honour, turn’d away his eyes,

And said: ‘Now guest, you grace another guise

Than suits your late show. Other weeds you wear,

And other person. Of the starry sphere

You certainly present some deathless god.

Be pleased, that to your here vouchsa
f
’
d abode

We may give sacred rites, and offer gold,

To do us favour.’ He replied: ‘I hold

No deified state. Why put you thus on me

A god’s resemblance? I am only he

That bears thy father’s name; for whose lov’d sake

Thy youth so grieves, whose absence makes thee take

Such wrongs of men.’ Thus kiss’d he him, nor could

Forbear those tears that in such mighty hold

He held before, still held, still issuing ever;

And now, the shores once broke, the springtide never

Forbore earth from the cheeks he kiss’d. His son,

By all these violent arguments not won

To credit him his father, did deny

His kind assumpt, and said, some deity

Feign’d that joy’s cause, to make him grieve the more;

Affirming, that no man, whoever wore

The garment of mortality, could take,

By any utmost pow’r his soul could make,

Such change into it, since, at so much will,

Not Jove himself could both remove and fill

Old age with youth, and youth with age so spoil,

In such an instant. ‘You wore all the soil

Of age but now, and were old; and but now

You bear that young grace that the gods endow

Their heav’n-born forms withal.’ His father said:

‘Telemachus! Admire, nor stand dismay’d,

But know thy solid father; since within

He answers all parts that adorn his skin.

There shall no more Ulysseses come here.

I am the man, that now this twentieth year

(Still under suf
f
’
rance of a world of ill)