The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (116 page)

So sharp the string sung when he gave it touch,

Once having bent and drawn it. Which so much

Amaz’d the wooers, that their colours went

And came most grievously. And then Jove rent

The air with thunder; which at heart did cheer

The now-enough-sustaining traveller,

That Jove again would his attempt enable.

Then took he into hand, from off the table,

The first drawn arrow – and a number more

Spent shortly on the wooers – but this one

He measured by his arm, as if not known

The length were to him, nock’d it then, and drew;

And through the axes, at the first hole, flew

The steel-charg’d arrow; which when he had done

He thus bespake the prince: ‘You have not won

Disgrace yet by your guest; for I have strook

The mark I shot at, and no such toil took

In wearying the bow with fat and fire

As did the wooers. Yet reserv’d entire,

Thank heav’n, my strength is, and myself am tried,

No man to be so basely vilified

As these men pleas’d to think me. But free way

Take that and all their pleasures; and while day

Holds her torch to you, and the hour of feast

Hath now full date, give banquet, and the rest,

Poem and harp, that grace a well-fill’d board.’

This said, he beckon’d to his son; whose sword

He straight girt to him, took to hand his lance,

And complete arm’d did to his sire advance.

The end of the twenty-first book

Book 22

The Argument

The wooers in Minerva’s sight

Slain by Ulysses; all the light

And lustful housewives by his son

And servants are to slaughter done.

Another Argument

Chi

The end of pride,

And lawless lust,

Is wretched tried

With slaughters just.

Book 22

T
h
e u
pper
rags that wise Ulysses wore

Cast off, he rusheth to the great hall door

With bow and quiver full of shafts, which down

He pour’d before his feet, and thus made known

His true state to the wooers: ‘This strife thus

Hath harmless been decided; now for us

There rests another mark, more hard to hit,

And such as never man before hath smit;

Whose full point likewise my hands shall assay,

And try if Phoebus will give me his day.’

He said, and off his bitter arrow thrust

Right at Antinous, that struck him just

As he was lifting up the bowl, to show

That ’twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow.

Death touch’d not at his thoughts at feast; for who

Would think that he alone could perish so

Amongst so many, and he best of all?

The arrow in his throat took full his fall,

And thrust his head far through the other side.

Down fell his cup, down he, down all his pride;

Straight from his nostrils gush’d the human gore

And, as he fell, his feet far overbore

The feastful table, all the roast and bread

About the house strew’d. When his highborn head

The rest beheld so low, up rush’d they all,

And ransack’d every corner of the hall

For shields and darts; but all fled far their reach.

Then fell they foul on him with terrible speech,

And told him it should prove the dearest shaft

That ever pass’d him, and that now was sav’d

No shift for him but sure and sudden death;

For he had slain a man whose like did breathe

In no part of the kingdom, and that now

He should no more for games strive with his bow,

But vultures eat him there. These threats they spent,

Yet every man believ’d that stern event

Chanc’d ’gainst the author’s will. O fools, to think

That all their rest had any cup to drink

But what their great Antinous began!

He, frowning, said: ‘Dogs, see in me the man

Ye all held dead at Troy. My house it is

That thus ye spoil, and thus your luxuries

File with my womens’ rapes; in which ye woo

The wife of one that lives, and no thought show

Of man’s fit fear, or god’s, your present fame,

Or any fair sense of your future name;

And, therefore, present and eternal death

Shall end your base life.’ This made fresh fears breathe

Their former boldness. Every man had eye

On all the means, and studied ways to fly

So deep deaths imminent. But seeing none,

Eurymachus began with suppliant moan

To move his pity, saying: ‘If you be

This isle’s Ulysses, we must all agree,

In grant of your reproo
f
’
s integrity,

The Greeks have done you many a wrong at home,

At field as many. But of all the sum

Lies here contract in death; for only he

Impos’d the whole ill-offices that we

Are now made guilty of, and not so much

Sought his endeavours, or in thought did touch

At any nuptials, but a greater thing

Employ’d his forces; for to be our king

Was his chief object; his sole plot it was

To kill your son, which Jove’s hand would not pass,

But set it to his own most merited end.

In which, end your just anger, nor extend

Your stern wreak further; spend your royal powers

In mild ruth of your people; we are yours,

And whatsoever waste of wine or food

Our liberties have made, we’ll make all good

In restitutions. Call a court, and pass

A fine of twenty oxen, gold, and brass,

On every head, and raise your most rates still,

Till you are pleas’d with your confessed fill.

Which if we fail to tender, all your wrath

It shall be justice in our bloods to bathe.’

‘Eurymachus,’ said he, ‘if you would give

All that your fathers hoard, to make ye live,

And all that ever you yourselves possess,

Or shall by any industry increase,

I would not cease from slaughter, till your bloods

Had bought out your intemperance in my goods.

It rests now for you that you either fight

That will ’scape death, or make your way by flight.

In whose best choice, my thoughts conceive, not one

Shall shun the death your first hath undergone.’

This quite dissolv’d their knees. Eurymachus,

Enforcing all their fears, yet counsell’d thus:

‘O friends! This man, now he hath got the bow

And quiver by him, ever will bestow

His most inaccessible hands at us,

And never leave, if we avoid him thus,

Till he hath strewn the pavement with us all;

And, therefore, join we swords, and on him fall

With tables forc’d up, and borne in oppos’d

Against his sharp shafts; when, being round enclos’d

By all our onsets, we shall either take

His horrid person, or for safety make

His rage retire from out the hall and gates;

And then, if he escape, we’ll make our states

Known to the city by our general cry.

And thus this man shall let his last shaft fly

That ever this hand vaunted.’ Thus he drew

His sharp-edg’d sword, and with a table flew

In on Ulysses, with a terrible throat

His fierce charge urging. But Ulysses smote

The board, and cleft it through from end to end

Borne at his breast, and made his shaft extend

His sharp head to his liver, his broad breast

Pierc’d at his nipple; when his hand releas’d

Forthwith his sword, that fell and kiss’d the ground,

With cups and victuals lying scatter’d round

About the pavement; amongst which his brow

Knock’d the imbru’d earth, while in pains did flow

His vital spirits, till his heels shook out

His feastful life, and hurl’d a throne about

That way-laid death’s convulsions in his feet;

When from his tender eyes the light did fleet.

Then charg’d Amphinomus with his drawn blade

The glorious king, in purpose to have made

His feet forsake the house; but his assay

The prince prevented, and his lance gave way

Quite through his shoulder, at his back, his breast

The fierce pile letting forth. His ruin press’d

Groans from the pavement, which his forehead strook.

Telemachus his long lance then forsook –

Left in Amphinomus – and to his sire

Made fiery pass, not staying to acquire

His lance again, in doubt that, while he drew

The fixed pile, some other might renew

Fierce charge upon him, and his unarm’d head

Cleave with his back-drawn sword; for which he fled

Close to his father, bade him arm, and he

Would bring him shield and javelins instantly,

His own head arming, more arms laying by

To serve the swine-herd and the oxen-herd.

Valour well arm’d is ever most preferr’d.

‘Run then,’ said he, ‘and come before the last

Of these auxiliary shafts are past,

For fear lest, left alone, they force my stand

From forth the ports.’ He flew, and brought to hand

Eight darts, four shields, four helms. His own parts then

First put in arms, he furnish’d both his men,

That to their king stood close; but he, as long

As he had shafts to friend, enough was strong

For all the wooers, and some one man still

He made make ev’n with earth, till all a hill

Had raised in th’ ev’n-floor’d hall. His last shaft spent,

He set his bow against a beam, and went

To arm at all parts, while the other three

Kept off the wooers, who, unarm’d, could be

No great assailants. In the well-built wall

A window was thrust out, at end of all

The house’s entry; on whose outer side

There lay a way to town, and in it wide

And two-leav’d folds were forg’d, that gave fit mean

For flyers out; and therefore, at it then

Ulysses placed Eumaeus in close guard;

One only pass ope to it, which (prepar’d

In this sort by Ulysses ’gainst all pass)

By Agelaus’ tardy memory was

In question call’d, who bade some one ascend

At such a window, and bring straight to friend

The city with his clamour, that this man

Might quickly shoot his last. ‘This no one can

Make safe access to,’ said Melanthius,

‘For ’tis too near the hall’s fair doors, whence thus

The man afflicts ye; for from thence there lies

But one strait passage to it, that denies

Access to all, if any one man stand,

Being one of courage, and will countermand

Our offer to it. But I know a way

To bring you arms, from where the king doth lay

His whole munition – and believe there is

No other place to all the armories

Both of himself and son.’ This said, a pair

Of lofty stairs he climb’d, and to th’ affair

Twelve shields, twelve lances brought, as many casques

With horsehair plumes; and set to bitter tasks

Both son and sire. Then shrunk Ulysses’ knees,

And his lov’d heart, when thus in arms he sees

So many wooers, and their shaken darts;

For then the work show’d as it ask’d more parts

To safe performance, and he told his son

That or Melanthius or his maids had done

A deed that foul war to their hands conferr’d.

‘O father,’ he replied, ‘tis I have err’d

In this caus’d labour: I, and none but I,

That left the door ope of your armoury.

But some, it seems, hath set a sharper eye

On that important place. Eumaeus! Haste

And shut the door, observing who hath pass’d

To this false action: any maid, or one

That I suspect more, which is Dolius’ son.’

While these spake thus, Melanthius went again

For more fair arms; whom the renowned swain

Eumaeus saw, and told Ulysses straight

It was the hateful man that his conceit

Before suspected, who had done that ill;

And, being again there, ask’d if he should kill,

If his power serv’d, or he should bring the swain

To him, t’ inflict on him a several pain

For every forfeit he had made his house.

He answer’d: ‘I and my Telemachus

Will here contain these proud ones in despite,

How much soever these stolen arms excite

Their guilty courages, while you two take

Possession of the chamber. The doors make

Sure at your back, and then, surprising him,

His feet and hands bind, wrapping every limb

In pliant chains; and with a halter cast

Above the wind-beam – at himself made fast –

Aloft the column draw him; where alive

He long may hang, and pains enough deprive

His vexed life before his death succeed.’

This charge, soon heard, as soon they put to deed,

Stole on his stealth, and at the further end

Of all the chamber saw him busily bend

His hands to more arms, when they, still at door,

Watch’d his return. At last he came, and bore

In one hand a fair helm, in th’ other held

A broad and ancient rusty-rested shield,

That old Laertes in his youth had worn,

Of which the cheek-bands had with age been torn.

They rush’d upon him, caught him by the hair,

And dragg’d him in again; whom, crying out,

They cast upon the pavement, wrapp’d about

With sure and pinching cords both foot and hand,

And then, in full act of their king’s command,

A pliant chain bestow’d on him, and hal’d

His body up the column, till he scal’d

The highest wind-beam; where made firmly fast,

Eumaeus on his just infliction pass’d

This pleasurable cavil: ‘Now you may

All night keep watch here, and the earliest day

Discern, being hung so high, to rouse from rest

Your dainty cattle to the wooers’ feast.

There, as befits a man of means so fair,

Soft may you sleep, nought under you but air;

And so long hang you.’ Thus they left him there,

Made fast the door, and with Ulysses were

All arm’d in th’ instant. Then they all stood close,

Their minds fire breath’d in flames against their foes,

Four in th’ entry fighting all alone,

When from the hall charged many a mighty one.

But to them then Jove’s seed, Minerva, came,

Resembling Mentor both in voice and frame

Of manly person. Passing well apaid

Ulysses was, and said: ‘Now, Mentor, aid

’Gainst these odd mischiefs; call to memory now

My often good to thee, and that we two

Of one year’s life are.’ Thus he said, but thought

It was Minerva, that had ever brought

To her side safety. On the other part,

The wooers threaten’d; but the chief in heart

Was Agelaus, who to Mentor spake:

‘Mentor! Let no words of Ulysses make

Thy hand a fighter on his feeble side

’Gainst all us wooers; for we firm abide

In this persuasion, that when sire and son

Our swords have slain, thy life is sure to run

One fortune with them. What strange acts hast thou

Conceit to form here? Thy head must bestow

The wreak of theirs on us. And when thy pow’rs

Are taken down by these fierce steels of ours,

All thy possessions, in doors and without,

Must raise on heap with his, and all thy rout

Of sons and daughters in thy turrets bleed

Wreak offerings to us, and our town stand freed

Of all charge with thy wife.’ Minerva’s heart