The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (107 page)

As would for three months serve his far-off way

From troubling your house with more cause of stay.’

This said, he took a stool up, that did rest,

Beneath the board, his spangled feet at feast,

And offer’d at him; but the rest gave all,

And fill’d his fulsome scrip with festival.

And so Ulysses for the present was,

And for the future, furnish’d, and his pass

Bent to the door to eat – yet could not leave

Antinous so, but said: ‘Do you too give,

Lov’d lord; your presence makes a show to me

As you not worst were of the company,

But best, and so much that you seem the king,

And therefore you should give some better thing

Than bread, like others. I will spread your praise

Through all the wide world, that have in my days

Kept house myself, and trod the wealthy ways

Of other men even to the title Blest;

And often have I giv’n an erring guest

(How mean soever) to the utmost gain

Of what he wanted, kept whole troops of men,

And had all other comings in, with which

Men live so well, and gain the fame of rich.

Yet Jove consum’d all; he would have it so;

To which, his mean was this: he made me go

Far off, for Egypt, in the rude consort

Of all-ways-wand’ring pirates; where, in port,

I bade my lov’d men draw their ships ashore,

And dwell amongst them; sent out some t’ explore

Up to the mountains, who, intemperate,

And their inflam’d bloods bent to satiate,

Forag’d the rich fields, hal’d the women thence,

And unwean’d children, with the foul expence

Both of their fames and bloods. The cry then flew

Straight to the city, and the great fields grew

With horse and foot, and flam’d with iron arms;

When Jove (that breaks the thunder in alarms)

An ill flight cast amongst my men, not one

Inspir’d with spirit to stand, and turn upon

The fierce pursuing foe; and therefore stood

Their ill fate thick about them, some in blood,

And some in bondage, toils led by constraint

Fast’ning upon them. Me along they sent

To Cyprus with a stranger prince they met,

Dmetor Iasides, who th’ imperial seat

Of that sweet island sway’d in strong command.

And thus feel I here need’s contemned hand.’

‘And what god sent,’ said he, ‘this suffering bane

To vex our banquet? Stand off, nor profane

My board so boldly, lest I show thee here

Cyprus and Egypt made more sour than there.

You are a saucy set-faced vagabond.

About with all you go, and they, beyond

Discretion, give thee, since they find not here

The least proportion set down to their cheer.

But every fountain hath his under-floods.

It is no bounty to give others’ goods.’

‘O gods,’ replied Ulysses, ‘I see now,

You bear no soul in this your goodly show.

Beggars at your board, I perceive, should get

Scarce salt from your hands, if themselves brought meat,

Since sitting where another’s board is spread,

That flows with feast, not to the broken bread

Will your allowance reach.’ ‘Nay then,’ said he,

And look’d austerely, ‘if so saucy be

Your suffer’d language, I suppose that clear

You shall not ’scape without some broken cheer.’

Thus rapt he up a stool, with which he smit

The king’s right shoulder, ’twixt his neck and it.

He stood him like a rock. Antinous’ dart

Not stirr’d Ulysses; who in his great heart

Deep ills projected, which, for time yet, close

He bound in silence, shook his head, and went

Out to the entry, where he then gave vent

To his full scrip, sat on the earth, and eat,

And talk’d still to the wooers: ‘Hear me yet,

Ye wooers of the queen. It never grieves

A man to take blows, where for sheep, or beeves,

Or other main possessions, a man fights;

But for his harmful belly this man smites,

Whose love to many a man breeds many a woe.

And if the poor have gods, and furies too,

Before Antinous wear his nuptial wreath,

He shall be worn upon the dart of death.’

‘Harsh guest,’ said he, ‘sit silent at your meat,

Or seek your desperate plight some safer seat,

Lest by the hands or heels youths drag your years,

And rend your rotten rags about your ears.’

This made the rest as highly hate his folly,

As he had violated something holy.

When one, ev’n of the proudest, thus began:

‘Thou dost not nobly, thus to play the man

On such an errant wretch. O, ill dispos’d!

Perhaps some sacred godhead goes enclos’d

Even in his abject outside; for the gods

Have often visited these rich abodes

Like such poor stranger pilgrims, since their pow’rs

(Being always shapeful) glide through towns and tow’rs,

Observing, as they pass still, who they be

That piety love, and who impiety.’

This all men said, but he held sayings cheap.

And all this time Telemachus did heap

Sorrow on sorrow on his beating heart,

To see his father stricken; yet let part

No tear to earth, but shook his head, and thought

As deep as those ills that were after wrought.

The queen now, hearing of her poor guest’s stroke,

Said to her maid (as to her wooer she spoke),

‘I wish the famous-for-his-bow, the Sun,

Would strike thy heart so.’ Her wish, thus begun,

Her lady, fair Eurynome, pursu’d

Her execration, and did thus conclude:

‘So may our vows call down from heav’n his end,

And let no one life of the rest extend

His life till morning.’ ‘O Eurynome,’

Replied the queen, ‘may all gods speak in thee,

For all the wooers we should rate as foes,

Since all their weals they place in others’ woes!

But this Antinous we past all should hate,

As one resembling black and cruel fate.

A poor strange wretch begg’d here, compell’d by need,

Ask’d all, and every one gave in his deed,

Fill’d his sad scrip, and eas’d his heavy wants;

Only this man bestow’d unmanly taunts,

And with a cruel blow, his force let fly,

’Twixt neck and shoulders show’d his charity.’

These minds, above, she and her maids did show,

While, at his scrip, Ulysses sat below.

In which time she Eumaeus call’d, and said:

‘Go, good Eumaeus, and see soon convey’d

The stranger to me; bid him come and take

My salutations for his welcome’s sake,

And my desire serve, if he hath not heard

Or seen distress’d Ulysses, who hath err’d

Like such a man, and therefore chance may fall

He hath by him been met and spoke withal?’

‘O queen,’ said he, ‘I wish to heav’n your ear

Were quit of this unreverend noise you hear

From these rude wooers, when I bring the guest;

Such words your ear would let into your breast

As would delight it to your very heart.

Three nights and days I did my roof impart

To his fruition (for he came to me

The first of all men since he fled the sea)

And yet he had not given a perfect end

To his relation of what woes did spend

The spite of fate on him; but as you see

A singer, breathing out of deity

Love-kindling lines, when all men seated near

Are rapt with endless thirst to ever hear:

So sweeten’d he my bosom at my meat,

Affirming that Ulysses was in Crete,

Where first the memories of Minos were,

A guest to him there dwelling then, as dear

As his true father; and from thence came he

Tired on with sorrows, toss’d from sea to sea,

To cast himself in dust, and tumble here,

At wooers’ feet, for blows and broken cheer.

But of Ulysses, where the Thesprots dwell,

A wealthy people, Fame, he says, did tell

The still survival; who his native light

Was bound for now, with treasure infinite.’

‘Call him,’ said she, ‘that he himself may say

This over to me. We shall soon have way

Giv’n by the wooers; they, as well at gate

As set within doors, use to recreate

Their high-fed spirits. As their humours lead

They follow – and may well, for still they tread

Uncharg’d ways here, their own wealth lying unwasted

In poor-kept houses, only something tasted

Their bread and wine is by their household swains,

But they themselves let loose continual reins

To our expenses, making slaughter still

Of sheep, goats, oxen, feeding past their fill,

And vainly lavishing our richest wine –

All these extending past the sacred line,

For here lives no man like Ulysses now

To curb these ruins. But should he once show

His country light his presence, he and his

Would soon revenge these wooers’ injuries.’

This said, about the house, in echoes round,

Her son’s strange sneezings made a horrid sound;

At which the queen yet laugh’d, and said: ‘Go call

The stranger to me. Heard’st thou not, to all

My words last utter’d, what a sneezing brake

From my Telemachus? From whence I make

This sure conclusion: that the death and fate

Of every wooer here is near his date.

Call, then, the guest, and if he tell as true

What I shall ask him, coat, cloak, all things new,

These hands shall yield him.’ This said, down he went,

And told Ulysses, that the queen had sent

To call him to her, that she might enquire

About her husband what her sad desire

Urg’d her to ask; and, if she found him true,

Both coat and cassock (which he needed) new

Her hands would put on him; and that the bread,

Which now he begg’d amongst the common tread,

Should freely feed his hunger now from her,

Who all he wish’d would to his wants prefer.’

His answer was: ‘I will with fit speed tell

The whole truth to the queen; for passing well

I know her lord, since he and I have shar’d

In equal sorrows. But I much am scar’d

With this rude multitude of wooers here,

The rage of whose pride smites heav’n’s brazen sphere.

Of whose rout when one struck me for no fault,

Telemachus nor none else turn’d th’ assault

From my poor shoulders. Therefore, though she haste,

Beseech the queen her patience will see past

The day’s broad light, and then may she enquire.

’Tis but my closer pressing to the fire

In th’ evening’s cold, because my weeds, you know,

Are passing thin; for I made bold to show

Their bracks to you, and pray’d your kind supply.’

He heard, and hasted; and met instantly

The queen upon the pavement in his way,

Who ask’d: ‘What! Bring’st thou not? What cause of stay

Find his austere supposes? Takes he fear

Of th’ unjust wooers? Or thus hard doth bear

On any other doubt the house objects?

He does me wrong, and gives too nice respects

To his fear’d safety.’ ‘He does right,’ said he,

‘And what he fears should move the policy

Of any wise one, taking care to shun

The violent wooers. He bids bide, till sun

Hath hid his broad light. And, believe it, queen,

’Twill make your best course, since you two, unseen,

May pass th’ encounter – you to speak more free,

And he your ear gain less distractedly.’

‘The guest is wise,’ said she, ‘and well doth give

The right thought use. Of all the men that live,

Life serves none such as these proud wooers are,

To give a good man cause to use his care.’

Thus, all agreed, amongst the wooers goes

Eumaeus to the prince, and, whisp’ring close,

Said: ‘Now, my love, my charge shall take up me

(Your goods and mine). What here is, you must see

In fit protection. But, in chief, regard

Your own dear safeguard; whose state study hard,

Lest suf
f
’
rance seize you. Many a wicked thought

Conceal these wooers; whom just Jove see brought

To utter ruin, ere it touch at us.’

‘So chance it, friend,’ replied Telemachus,

‘Your bever taken, go. In first of day

Come, and bring sacrifice the best you may.

To me and to th’ immortals be the care

Of whatsoever here the safeties are.’

This said, he sat in his elaborate throne.

Eumaeus (fed to satisfaction)

Went to his charge, left both the court and walls

Full of secure and fatal festivals,

In which the wooers’ pleasures still would sway.

And now begun the ev’n’s near-ending day.

The end of the seventeenth book

Book 18

The Argument

Ulysses and rogue Irus fight.

Penelope vouchsafes her sight

To all her wooers; who present

Gifts to her, ravish’d with content.

A certain parlé then we sing

Betwixt a wooer and the king.

Another Argument

Sigma

The beggar’s glee,

The king’s high fame.

Gifts giv’n to see

A virtuous dame.

Book 18

T
h
ere
ca
m
e a common beggar to the court,

Who in the city begg’d of all resort,

Excell’d in madness of the gut, drunk, ate

Past intermission, was most hugely great,

Yet had no fibres in him nor no force,

In sight a man, in mind a living corse.

His true name was Arnaeus, for his mother

Impos’d it from his birth, and yet another

The city youth would give him (from the course

He after took, deriv’d out of the force

That need held on him, which was up and down

To run on all men’s errands through the town),

Which sounded Irus. When whose gut was come,

He needs would bar Ulysses his own home,

And fell to chiding him: ‘Old man,’ said he,

‘Your way out of the entry quickly see

Be with fair language taken, lest your stay

But little longer see you dragg’d away.

See, sir, observe you not how all these make

Direct signs at me, charging me to take

Your heels, and drag you out? But I take shame.

Rise yet, y’ are best, lest we two play a game

At cuffs together.’ He bent brows, and said:

‘Wretch! I do thee no ill, nor once upbraid

Thy presence with a word, nor, what mine eye

By all hands sees thee giv’n, one thought envy.

Nor shouldst thou envy others. Thou may’st see

The place will hold us both, and seem’st to me

A beggar like myself; which who can mend?

The gods give most to whom they least are friend.

The chief goods gods give, is in good to end.

But to the hands’ strife, of which y’ are so free,

Provoke me not, for fear you anger me,

And lest the old man, on whose scorn you stood,

Your lips and bosom make shake hands in blood.

I love my quiet well, and more will love

Tomorrow than to day. But if you move

My peace beyond my right, the war you make

Will never after give you will to take

Ulysses’ house into your begging walk.’

‘O gods,’ said he, ‘how volubly doth talk

This eating gulf! And how his fume breaks out,

As from an old crack’d ov’n! Whom I will clout

So bitterly, and so with both hands mall

His chaps together, that his teeth shall fall

As plain seen on the earth as any sow’s,

That ruts the cornfields, or devours the mows.

Come, close we now, that all may see what wrong

An old man tempts that takes at cuffs a young.’

Thus in the entry of those lofty tow’rs

These two, with all spleen, spent their jarring pow’rs.

Antinous took it, laugh’d, and said: ‘O friends,

We never had such sport! This guest contends

With this vast beggar at the buffets’ fight.

Come, join we hands, and screw up all their spite.’

All rose in laughters, and about them bore

All the ragg’d rout of beggars at the door.

Then moved Antinous the victor’s hire

To all the wooers thus: ‘There are now at fire

Two breasts of goat; both which let law set down

Before the man that wins the day’s renown,

With all their fat and gravy. And of both

The glorious victor shall prefer his tooth,

To which he makes his choice of, from us all,

And ever after banquet in our hall,

With what our boards yield; not a beggar more

Allow’d to share, but all keep out at door.’

This he proposed; and this they all approv’d.

To which Ulysses answer’d: ‘O most lov’d,

By no means should an old man, and one old

In chief with sorrows, be so over-bold

To combat with his younger; but, alas,

Man’s own-ill-working belly needs will pass

This work upon me, and enforce me, too,

To beat this fellow. But then, you must do

My age no wrong, to take my younger’s part,

And play me foul play, making your strokes’ smart

Help his to conquer; for you easily may

With your strengths crush me. Do then right, and lay

Your honours on it in your oaths, to yield

His part no aid, but equal leave the field.’

All swore his will. But then Telemachus

His father’s scoffs with comforts serious

Could not but answer, and made this reply:

‘Guest! If thine own pow’rs cheer thy victory,

Fear no man’s else that will not pass it free.

He fights with many that shall touch but thee.

I’ll see thy guest-right paid. Thou here art come

In my protection; and to this the sum

Of all these wooers (which Antinous are

And King Eurymachus) conjoin their care.’

Both vow’d it; when Ulysses, laying by

His upper weed, his inner beggary

Near show’d his shame, which he with rags prevented

Pluck’d from about his thighs, and so presented

Their goodly sight, which were so white and great,

And his large shoulders were to view so set

By his bare rags, his arms, his breast and all,

So broad and brawny – their grace natural

Being kept by Pallas, ever standing near –

That all the wooers his admirers were

Beyond all measure, mutual whispers driv’n

Through all their cluster, saying: ‘Sure as heav’n

Poor Irus pull’d upon him bitter blows.

Through his thin garment what a thigh he shows!’

They said; but Irus felt. His coward mind

Was mov’d at root. But now he needs must find

Facts to his brags; and forth at all parts fit

The servants brought him, all his arteries smit

With fears and tremblings. Which Antinous saw,

And said: ‘Nay, now too late comes fear. No law

Thou shouldst at first have giv’n thy braggart vein,

Nor should it so have swell’d, if terrors strain

Thy spirits to this pass, for a man so old,

And worn with penuries that still lay hold

On his ragg’d person. Howsoever, take

This vow from me for firm: that if he make

Thy forces stoop, and prove his own supreme,

I’ll put thee in a ship, and down the stream

Send thee ashore where King Echetus reigns

(The roughest tyrant that the world contains),

And he will slit thy nostrils, crop each ear,

Thy shame cut off, and give it dogs to tear.’

This shook his nerves the more. But both were now

Brought to the lists, and up did either throw

His heavy fists – Ulysses in suspense,

To strike so home that he should fright from thence

His coward soul, his trunk laid prostrate there,

Or let him take more leisure to his fear,

And stoop him by degrees. The last show’d best,

To strike him slightly, out of fear the rest

Would else discover him. But, peace now broke,

On his right shoulder Irus laid his stroke.

Ulysses struck him just beneath the ear,

His jawbone broke, and made the blood appear;

When straight he strew’d the dust, and made his cry

Stand for himself; with whom his teeth did lie,

Spit with his blood out; and against the ground

His heels lay sprawling. Up the hands went round

Of all the wooers, all at point to die

With violent laughters. Then the king did ply

The beggar’s feet, and dragg’d him forth the hall,

Along the entry, to the gates and wall;

Where leaving him, he put into his hand

A staff, and bade him there use his command

On swine and dogs, and not presume to be

Lord of the guests, or of the beggary,

Since he of all men was the scum and curse;

And so bade please with that, or fare yet worse.

Then cast he on his scrip, all patch’d and rent,

Hung by a rotten cord, and back he went

To greet the entry’s threshold with his seat.

The wooers throng’d to him, and did entreat

With gentle words his conquest, laughing still,

Pray’d Jove and all the gods to give his will

What most it wish’d him and would joy him most,

Since he so happily had clear’d their coast

Of that unsavoury morsel; whom they vow’d

To see with all their utmost haste bestow’d

Aboard a ship, and for Epirus sent

To King Echetus, on whose throne was spent

The worst man’s seat that breath’d. And thus was grac’d

Divine Ulysses, who with joy embrac’d

Ev’n that poor conquest. Then was set to him

The goodly goat’s breast promis’d (that did swim

In fat and gravy) by Antinous.

And from a basket, by Amphinomus,

Were two breads giv’n him; who, besides, renown’d

His banquet with a golden goblet crown’d,

And this high salutation: ‘Frolic, guest,

And be those riches that you first possest

Restored again with full as many joys,

As in your poor state I see now annoys.’

‘Amphinomus,’ said he, ‘you seem to me

Exceeding wise, as being the progeny

Of such a father as authentic fame

Hath told me was so, one of honour’d name,

And great revenues in Dulichius,

His fair name Nisus. He is blazon’d thus,

And you to be his son, his wisdom heiring,

As well as wealth, his state in nought impairing.

To prove which, always, let me tell you this

(As warning you to shun the miseries

That follow full states, if they be not held

With wisdom still at full, and so compell’d

To courses that abode not in their brows,

By too much swing, their sudden overthrows):

Of all things breathing, or that creep on earth,

Nought is more wretched than a human birth.

Bless’d men think never they can cursed be,

While any power lasts to move a knee.

But when the bless’d gods make them feel that smart,

That fled their faith so, as they had no heart

They bear their suf
f
’
rings, and, what well they might

Have clearly shunn’d, they then meet in despite.

The mind of man flies still out of his way,

Unless god guide and prompt it every day.

I thought me once a blessed man with men,

And fashion’d me to all so counted then,

Did all injustice like them, what for lust

Or any pleasure never so unjust,

I could by pow’r or violence obtain,

And gave them both in all their pow’rs the rein,

Bold of my fathers and my brothers still;

While which held good, my arts seem’d never ill.

And thus is none held simply good or bad,

But as his will is either miss’d or had.

All goods god’s gifts man calls, howe’er he gets them,

And so takes all, what price soe’er god sets them,

Says nought how ill they come, nor will control

That ravine in him, though it cost his soul.

And these parts here I see these wooers play,

Take all that falls, and all dishonours lay

On that man’s queen, that, tell your friends, doth bear

No long time’s absence, but is passing near.

Let god then guide thee home, lest he may meet

In his return thy undeparted feet;

For when he enters, and sees men so rude,

The quarrel cannot but in blood conclude.’

This said, he sacrific’d, then drunk, and then

Referr’d the giv’n bowl to the guide of men;

Who walk’d away, afflicted at his heart,

Shook head, and fear’d that these facts would convert

To ill in th’ end; yet had not grace to fly –

Minerva stay’d him, being ordain’d to die

Upon the lance of young Ulyssides.

So down he sat; and then did Pallas please

T’ incline the queen’s affections to appear

To all the wooers, to extend their cheer

To th’ utmost lightning that still ushers death,

And made her put on as the painted sheath,

That might both set her wooers’ fancies high,

And get her greater honour in the eye

Ev’n of her son and sovereign than before.

Who laughing yet, to show her humour bore

No serious appetite to that light show,

She told Eurynome, that not till now

She ever knew her entertain desire

To please her wooers’ eyes, but oft on fire

She set their hate, in keeping from them still;

Yet now she pleased t’ appear, though from no will

To do them honour, vowing she would tell

Her son that of them that should fit him well

To make use of; which was, not to converse

Too freely with their pride, nor to disperse

His thoughts amongst them, since they us’d to give

Good words, but through them ill intents did drive.

Eurynome replied: ‘With good advise

You vow his counsel, and your open guise.

Go then, advise your son, nor keep more close

Your cheeks, still drown’d in your eyes’ overflows,

But bathe your body, and with balms make clear

Your thicken’d count’nance. Uncomposed cheer,

And ever mourning, will the marrow wear.

Nor have you cause to mourn; your son hath now

Put on that virtue which in chief your vow

Wish’d, as your blessing at his birth, might deck

His blood and person.’ ‘But forbear to speak

Of baths, or balmings, or of beauty, now,’

The queen replied, ‘lest, urging comforts, you

Discomfort much, because the gods have won

The spoil of my looks since my lord was gone.

But these must serve. Call hither then to me

Hippodamia and Autonoë,

That those our train additions may supply

Our own deserts. And yet, besides, not I,

With all my age, have learn’d the boldness yet

T’ expose myself to men, unless I get

Some other gracers.’ This said, forth she went

To call the ladies, and much spirit spent