The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (99 page)

The mighty Pillager, with life convent

My person home, and to my sav’d decease

Of my loved son’s sight add the sweet increase.’

‘Be confident,’ said Pallas, ‘nor oppress

Thy spirits with care of these performances,

But these thy fortunes let us straight repose

In this divine cave’s bosom, that may close

Reserve their value; and we then may see

How best to order other acts to thee.’

Thus enter’d she the light-excluding cave,

And through it sought some inmost nook to save

The gold, the great brass, and robes richly wrought,

Giv
’
n to Ulysses. All which in he brought,

Laid down in heap; and she impos’d a stone

Close to the cavern’s mouth. Then sat they on

The sacred olive’s root, consulting how

To act th’ insulting wooers’ overthrow;

When Pallas said: ‘Examine now the means

That best may lay hands on the impudence

Of those proud wooers, that have now three years

Thy roo
f
’
s rule sway’d, and been bold offerers

Of suit and gifts to thy renowned wife,

Who for thy absence all her desolate life

Dissolves in tears till thy desir’d return;

Yet all her wooers, while she thus doth mourn,

She holds in hope, and every one affords

(In fore-sent message) promise; but her words

Bear other utterance than her heart approves.’

‘O gods,’ said Ithacus, ‘it now behoves

My fate to end me in the ill decease

That Agamemnon underwent, unless

You tell me, and in time, their close intents.

Advise then means to the reveng’d events

We both resolve on. Be thyself so kind

To stand close to me, and but such a mind

Breathe in my bosom, as when th’ Ilion tow
’
rs

We tore in cinders. O if equal pow’rs

Thou wouldst enflame amids my nerves as then,

I could encounter with three hundred men –

Thy only self, great goddess, had to friend

In those brave ardours thou wert wont t’ extend!’

‘I will be strongly with thee,’ answer’d she,

‘Nor must thou fail, but do thy part with me.

When both whose pow’rs combine, I hope the bloods

And brains of some of these that waste thy goods

Shall strew thy goodly pavements. Join we then:

I first will render thee unknown to men,

And on thy solid lineaments make dry

Thy now smooth skin; thy bright-brown curls imply

In hoary mattings; thy broad shoulders clothe

In such a cloak as every eye shall loathe;

Thy bright eyes blear and wrinkle; and so change

Thy form at all parts, that thou shalt be strange

To all the wooers, thy young son, and wife.

But to thy herdsman first present thy life,

That guards thy swine, and wisheth well to thee,

That loves thy son and wife Penelope.

Thy search shall find him set aside his herd,

That are with taste-delighting acorns rear’d,

And drink the dark-deep water of the spring,

Bright Arethusa, the most nourishing

Raiser of herds. There stay, and, taking seat

Aside thy herdsman, of the whole state treat

Of home occurrents, while I make access

To fair-dame-breeding Sparta for regress

Of lov’d Telemachus, who went in quest

Of thy lov’d fame, and liv’d the welcome guest

Of Menelaus.’ The much-knower said:

‘Why wouldst not thou, in whose grave breast is bred

The art to order all acts, tell in this

His error to him? Let those years of his

Amids the rude seas wander, and sustain

The woes there raging, while unworthy men

Devour his fortunes?’ ‘Let not care extend

Thy heart for him,’ said she, ‘myself did send

His person in thy search, to set his worth,

By good fame blown, to such a distance forth.

Nor suffers he in any least degree

The grief you fear, but all variety

That Plenty can yield in her quiet’st fare,

In Menelaus’ court, doth sit and share.

In whose return from home, the wooers yet

Lay bloody ambush, and a ship have set

To sea, to intercept his life, before

He touch again his birth’s attempted shore.

All which, my thoughts say, they shall never do,

But rather, that the earth shall overgo

Some one at least of these love-making men,

By which thy goods so much impair sustain.’

Thus using certain secret words to him,

She touch
’
d him with her rod; and every limb

Was hid all over with a wither’d skin;

His bright eyes blear’d; his brow curls white and thin;

And all things did an aged man present.

Then, for his own weeds, shirt and coat, all rent,

Tann’d, and all sootiëd with noisome smoke,

She put him on; and, over all, a cloak

Made of a stag’s huge hide, of which was worn

The hair quite off; a scrip, all patch’d and torn,

Hung by a cord, oft broke and knit again;

And with a staff did his old limbs sustain.

Thus having both consulted of th’ event,

They parted both; and forth to Sparta went

The gray-eyed goddess, to see all things done

That appertain’d to wise Ulysses’ son.

The end of the thirteenth book

Book 14

The Argument

Ulysses meets amids the field

His swain Eumaeus; who doth yield

Kind guest-rites to him, and relate

Occurrents of his wrong’d estate.

Another Argument

Xi

Ulysses feigns

For his true good.

His pious swain’s

Faith understood.

Book 14

B
u
t
he
the rough way took from forth the port,

Through woods and hill tops, seeking the resort

Where Pallas said divine Eumaeus liv’d;

Who of the fortunes, that were first achiev’d

By god-like Ithacus in household rights,

Had more true care than all his prosylites.

He found him sitting in his cottage door,

Where he had rais’d to every airy blore

A front of great height, and in such a place

That round ye might behold, of circular grace

A walk so wound about it; which the swain

(In absence of his far-gone sovereign)

Had built himself, without his queen’s supply,

Or old Laertes’, to see safely lie

His housed herd. The inner part he wrought

Of stones, that thither his own labours brought,

Which with an hedge of thorn he fenc’d about,

And compass’d all the hedge with pales cleft out

Of sable oak, that here and there he fix’d

Frequent and thick. Within his yard he mix’d

Twelve styes to lodge his herd; and every stye

Had room and use for fifty swine to lie;

But those were females all. The male swine slept

Without doors ever; nor was their herd kept

Fair like the females, since they suffer’d still

Great diminution, he being forc
’
d to kill

And send the fattest to the dainty feasts

Affected by th’ ungodly wooing guests.

Their number therefore but three hundred were

And sixty. By them mastiffs, as austere

As savage beasts, lay ever, their fierce strain

Bred by the herdsman, a mere prince of men,

Their number four. Himself was then applied

In cutting forth a fair-hu’d ox’s hide,

To fit his feet with shoes. His servants held

Guard of his swine; three, here and there, at field,

The fourth he sent to city with a sow,

Which must of force be offer’d to the vow

The wooers made to all satiety,

To serve which still they did those of
f
’
rings ply.

The fate-born-dogs-to-bark took sudden view

Of Odyssëus, and upon him flew

With open mouth. He, cunning to appal

A fierce dog’s fury, from his hand let fall

His staff to earth, and sat him careless down.

And yet to him had one foul wrong been shown

Where most his right lay, had not instantly

The herdsman let his hide fall, and his cry

(With frequent stones flung at the dogs) repell’d,

This way and that, their eager course they held;

When through the entry pass’d, he thus did mourn:

‘O father! How soon had you near been torn

By these rude dogs, whose hurt had branded me

With much neglect of you! But deity

Hath giv
’
n so many other sighs and cares

To my attendant state, that well unwares

You might be hurt for me, for here I lie

Grieving and mourning for the majesty

That, godlike, wonted to be ruling here,

Since now I fat his swine for others’ cheer,

Where he, perhaps, errs hungry up and down,

In countries, nations, cities, all unknown

If any where he lives yet, and doth see

The sun’s sweet beams. But, father, follow me,

That, cheer’d with wine and food, you may disclose

From whence you truly are, and all the woes

Your age is subject to.’ This said, he led

Into his cottage, and of osiers spread

A thicken’d hurdle, on whose top he strow’d

A wild goat’s shaggy skin, and then bestow’d

His own couch on it, that was soft and great.

Ulysses joy’d to see him so entreat

His uncouth presence, saying: ‘Jove requite,

And all th’ immortal gods, with that delight

Thou most desir
’
st, thy kind receipt of me,

O friend to human hospitality!’

Eumaeus answer’d: ‘Guest! If one much worse

Arriv
’
d here than thyself, it were a curse

To my poor means, to let a stranger taste

Contempt for fit food. Poor men, and unplac’d

In free seats of their own, are all from Jove

Commended to our entertaining love.

But poor is th’ entertainment I can give,

Yet free and loving. Of such men as live

The lives of servants, and are still in fear

Where young lords govern, this is all the cheer

They can afford a stranger. There was one

That used to manage this now desert throne,

To whom the gods deny return, that show’d

His curious favour to me, and bestow’d

Possessions on me, a most wished wife,

A house, and portion, and a servant’s life

Fit for the gift a gracious king should give;

Who still took pains himself, and god made thrive

His personal endeavour, and to me

His work the more increas’d, in which you see

I now am conversant. And therefore much

His hand had help’d me, had heav’n’s will been such

He might have here grown old. But he is gone,

And would to god the whole succession

Of Helen might go with him, since for her

So many men died, whose fate did confer

My liege to Troy, in Agamemnon’s grace,

To spoil her people, and her turrets rase!’

This said, his coat to him he straight did gird,

And to his styes went, that contain’d his herd;

From whence he took out two, slew both, and cut

Both fairly up; a fire enflam’d, and put

To spit the joints; which roasted well, he set

With spit and all to him, that he might eat

From thence his food in all the singeing heat,

Yet dredg’d it first with flour; then fill’d his cup

With good sweet wine; sat then, and cheer’d him up:

‘Eat now, my guest, such lean swine as are meat

For us poor swains; the fat the wooers eat,

In whose minds no shame, no remorse, doth move,

Though well they know the bless’d gods do not love

Ungodly actions, but respect the right,

And in the works of pious men delight.

But these are worse than impious, for those

That vow t’ injustice, and profess them foes

To other nations, enter on their land,

And Jupiter (to show his punishing hand

Upon th’ invaded, for their penance then)

Gives favour to their foes, though wicked men,

To make their prey on them; who, having freight

Their ships with spoil enough, weigh anchor straight,

And each man to his house (and yet ev
’
n these

Doth pow’rful fear of god’s just vengeance seize,

Even for that prize in which they so rejoice)

But these men, knowing (having heard the voice

Of god by some means) that sad death hath reft

The ruler here, will never suffer left

Their unjust wooing of his wife, nor take

Her often answer, and their own roofs make

Their fit retreats, but (since uncheck’d they may)

They therefore will make still his goods their prey,

Without all spare or end. There is no day

Nor night, sent out from god, that ever they

Profane with one beast’s blood, or only two,

But more make spoil of; and the wrongs they do

In meat’s excess to wine as well extend,

Which as excessively their riots spend,

Yet still leave store, for sure his means were great,

And no heroë, that hath choicest seat

Upon the fruitful neighbour continent,

Or in this isle itself, so opulent

Was as Ulysses; no, nor twenty such,

Put altogether, did possess so much.

Whose herds and flocks I’ll tell to every head:

Upon the continent he daily fed

Twelve herds of oxen, no less flocks of sheep,

As many herds of swine, stalls large and steep,

And equal sorts of goats, which tenants there,

And his own shepherds, kept. Then fed he here

Eleven fair stalls of goats, whose food hath yield

In the extreme part of a neighbour field.

Each stall his herdsman hath, an honest swain,

Yet every one must every day sustain

The load of one beast (the most fat, and best

Of all the stall-fed) to the wooers’ feast.

And I, for my part, of the swine I keep

(With four more herdsmen) every day help steep

The wooers’ appetites in blood of one,

The most select our choice can full upon.’

To this Ulysses gave good ear, and fed,

And drunk his wine, and vex’d, and ravished

His food for mere vexation. Seeds of ill

His stomach sow’d, to hear his goods go still

To glut of wooers. But, his dinner done,

And stomach fed to satisfaction,

He drunk a full bowl, all of only wine,

And gave it to the guardian of his swine,

Who took it, and rejoic’d; to whom he said:

‘O friend, who is it that, so rich, hath paid

Price for thy service, whose commended pow’r,

Thou sayst, to grace the Grecian conqueror,

At Ilion perish’d? Tell me. It may fall

I knew some such. The great god knows, and all

The other deathless godheads, if I can,

Far having travell’d, tell of such a man.’

Eumaeus answer’d: ‘Father, never one,

Of all the strangers that have touch’d upon

This coast, with his life’s news could ever yet

Of queen, or lov’d son, any credit get.

These travellers, for clothes, or for a meal,

At all adventures, any lie will tell.

Nor do they trade for truth. Not any man,

That saw the people Ithacensian,

Of all their sort, and had the queen’s supplies,

Did ever tell her any news but lies.

She graciously receives them yet, inquires

Of all she can, and all in tears expires.

It is th’ accustom’d law, that women keep,

Their husbands elsewhere dead, at home to weep.

But do thou quickly, father, forge a tale,

Some coat or cloak to keep thee warm withal,

Perhaps some one may yield thee; but for him,

Vultures and dogs have torn from every limb

His porous skin, and forth his soul is fled,

His corse at sea to fishes forfeited,

Or on the shore lies hid in heaps of sand,

And there hath he his ebb, his native strand

With friends’ tears flowing. But to me past all

Were tears created, for I never shall

Find so humane a royal master more,

Whatever sea I seek, whatever shore.

Nay, to my father or my mother’s love

Should I return, by whom I breathe and move,

Could I so much joy offer; nor these eyes

(Though my desires sustain extremities

For their sad absence) would so fain be blest

With sight of their lives, in my native nest,

As with Ulysses dead; in whose last rest,

O friend, my soul shall love him. He’s not here,

Nor do I name him like a flatterer,

But as one thankful for his love and care

To me a poor man – in the rich so rare.

And be he past all shores where sun can shine,

I will invoke him as a soul divine.’

‘O friend,’ said he, ‘to say, and to believe,

He cannot live, doth too much license give

To incredulity; for, not to speak

At needy random, but my breath to break

In sacred oath, Ulysses shall return.

And when his sight recomforts those that mourn

In his own roofs, then give me cloak and coat,

And garments worthy of a man of note.

Before which, though need urg’d me never so,

I’ll not receive a thread, but naked go.

No less I hate him than the gates of hell,

That poorness can force an untruth to tell.

Let Jove then (heav
’
n’s chief god) just witness bear,

And this thy hospitable table here,

Together with unblam’d Ulysses’ house,

In which I find receipt so gracious,

What I affirm’d of him shall all be true.

This instant year thine eyes ev’n here shall view

Thy lord Ulysses. Nay, ere this month’s end,

Return’d full home, he shall revenge extend

To every one, whose ever deed hath done

Wrong to his wife and his illustrious son.’

‘O father,’ he replied, ‘I’ll neither give

Thy news reward, nor doth Ulysses live.

But come, enough of this, let’s drink and eat,

And never more his memory repeat.

It grieves my heart to be remember’d thus

By any one of one so glorious.

But stand your oath in your assertion strong,

And let Ulysses come, for whom I long,

For whom his wife, for whom his aged sire,

For whom his son consumes his godlike fire,

Whose chance I now must mourn, and ever shall.

Whom when the gods had brought to be as tall

As any upright plant, and I had said

He would amongst a court of men have sway’d

In counsels, and for form have been admir’d

Ev
’
n with his father, some god misinspir’d,

Or man took from him his own equal mind,

And pass’d him for the Pylian shore to find

His
long-lost father. In return from whence,

The wooers’ pride way-lays his innocence,

That of divine Arcesius all the race

May fade to Ithaca, and not the grace

Of any name left to it. But leave we

His state, however, if surpris’d he be,

Or if he ’scape. And may Saturnius’ hand

Protect him safely to his native land.

Do thou then, father, show your griefs, and cause

Of your arrival here; nor break the laws

That truth prescribes you, but relate your name,

And of what race you are, your father’s fame,