A Guide to the Odyssey: A Commentary on the English Translation of Robert Fitzgerald

by Ralph J. Hexter;Robert Fitzgerald

  174 holiday catches part of the tone of the Greek “festival” [156], although it misses the religious overtones of “holy day” (see XXI.293). Festivals had ceremonial and cultic aspects. It is doubtful that most household slaves ever had the leisure time “holiday” implies; if anything, they would have had more work to do on such days. Stanford adds, “We may guess that part of [Eurýkleia’s] excitement was also due to her knowledge of Odysseus’ presence now” (2.348 [XV. 149ff.]).

  Ancient scholars suggested that the festival was that of the new moon, holy to Apollo. However fitting it might be for the archery contest to follow, and however closely the new moon festival can be made to square with a reconstructed chronology of the days of Odysseus’ return (see XIV.539), if Homer had expected his audience to make such a connection, it is hard to believe that he wouldn’t have made a more explicit reference than the delayed mention of Apollo at 305–6 (see 305–6, below).

  175ff. Dawn had come at line 102. Here Homer depicts the practical break of day, as servants begin to bustle about their chores and members of the household who live on the land and others arrive, bringing—or driving—their produce to the great house.

  194–201 Once again Odysseus must restrain his anger.

  202 A third man came up now …: In contrast to the nasty Melánthios, a new man, Philoítios, a much more agreeable sort, arrives. There are honest people alongside the rotten. His name means something like “desirable fate.”

  203 the cattle foreman: We now have assembled a swineherd, a goatherd, and a cowherd. For a complete quartet of ancient herdsmen, we lack only a shepherd. Rivalries between and among representatives of each group are traditional in Greek poetry and presumably reflect the competition for grazing space in which the real-life counterparts of these literary herdsmen engaged. Goatherds are usually presented as the rudest and crudest of the lot, and Melánthios stands at the head of this literary tradition. (After Homer, swineherds appear less frequently than the others; indeed, swine tended to be kept closer to home.)

  219–48 Welcome, Sir …: Philoítios’ speech shows him to be a pious man and above all a loyal and courageous retainer of his master, courageous because he shows his loyalty to Odysseus before establishing what if any ties the stranger has to the suitors. In Greek, his first words (219–20 [199–200]) are identical to those spoken in Book XVIII (154–55 [122–23]).

  230–33 The multiplication of Odysseus’ herds Philoítios describes is an indication both of his good husbandry and of Odysseus’ prosperity, itself a token of good kingship.

  252–54 This oath recalls the words Odysseus spoke to Eumaios in Book XIV (189–90 [XX.230–31 = XIV. 158–59]). They are also twice addressed to Penélopê (XVII. 194–95 [155–56] and XIX.356–58 [303–4], the last time slightly varied).

  260 The point of the introduction of Philoítios at this juncture now becomes clear: Homer is gathering a group of loyal retainers, fit but few, to join Odysseus and Telémakhos in the fight. Even though Athena has assured Odysseus that her aid alone would guarantee him victory (see 54–57), it is characteristic of both Odysseus and Homer to recruit a few more characters: characteristic of the former, because, as Athena herself noted (e.g., in the same spot), he never puts his trust entirely in her—no doubt one of the reasons she is so fond of him, according to the principle that “God helps those who help themselves.” And it is characteristic of a Homer who seeks opportunities of variety and movement: as we will see, the battle with four against the massed suitors is more interesting and varied than it could have been with only two champions. It is also slightly more credible, a significant factor, although perhaps the least important of the ones mentioned here.

  266–71 for Telémakhos? …: Once again (as at XVI.483–93), Amphínomos’ combination of real or feigned piety and cowardice saves the day for Telémakhos. The other suitors, however, are only too happy to continue feasting (271). On the significance of “from the left” (266), see XV.197, above.

  294–300 Antínoös, bolder than ever, alludes to designs on Telémakhos’ life not only in public but in Telémakhos’ presence.

  305–6 The reference to Apollo the Archer, while a traditional epithet [hekatêbolou, 278], is not accidental here. Odysseus will invoke Apollo just before he shoots the first of the suitors (XXII.7). Indeed, the entire scene of the animals being led to sacrifice (303–4; see Eurýkleia’s “holiday,” 174, above) seems to have a largely symbolic significance: note the juxtaposition of islanders sacrificing beasts (303–6) with the suitors eating meat (306–8). Soon the suitors will be slaughtered (if not technically sacrificed), many dying by Odysseus’ and Telémakhos’ arrows.

  312–14 But Athena / had no desire …: Compare XVIII. 194–96. Athena, in other words Homer, wants the injuries against Odysseus and outrages against the gods to be fresh in the minds of one and all, so that retribution appears both swift and just.

  315–55 The third in the series of scenes of objects being hurled at Odysseus (compare XVII.605–12 and XVIII.481–88). The distinguishing features of this episode are that the assault is unprovoked and that it leads to a heated debate about the suitors’ prerogatives (see also XVII.605–12, above). Ktésippos’ sarcasm is memorable, and not very appealing.

  340 This foreshadows the general action of Book XXII, even if in the end it is Philoítios who kills Ktésippos (XXII.315–22), where the justice of the cowherd acting as Odysseus’ avenger is made abundantly clear.

  351–55 Granted you mean at last to cut me down: Telémakhos openly acknowledges the threats against his life, a provocative and generally risky maneuver, since it removes secrecy as a reason for the suitors to delay their plot to assassinate him. Yet it is a calculated risk and provocation. Is he hoping that open conflict will break out at once?

  360 like a fishwife: A comparison introduced by the translator. The original is less colorful [“with hostile words,” 323].

  386–92 The suitors’ fit of laughter does not follow logically on Telémakhos’ speech. Some have argued that the “natural glee” of the suitors, who “have just heard what sounds like the fulfillment of their long-deferred hope” (Stanford 2.353 [on XX.345ff.]), is the starting point of the laughter which ensues, but that mistakes the situation. First, while Telémakhos says he will not oppose the marriage, he leaves the decision to Penélopê: he will not force her (384–85). This isn’t substantially different from the position he told the suitors he would adopt after at most a year of hearing nothing about his father (II.229–34). Rather, it is the disjunction of Telémakhos’ speech and the suitors’ reaction which is the point of this memorable and uncanny episode. Athena inspires this crazed laughter, a sign less of the suitors’ folly than of their impending doom. This is the reading of the prophet Theoklýmenos, whose function in the poem is to pronounce sentence on the suitors.

  388 uncontrollable: Or “unextinguishable,” as of flame or light [asbeston, 346].

  393–427 Theoklýmenos, “the visionary,” sees clearly the doom of the suitors and leaves. There is plenty of drama in the scene, but Homer opts for realistic rather than melodramatic touches by having the suitors continue their joking (402–6, 417–27). They make fun of the seer’s vision—the motivation of their laughter (402) is once again in the realm of the comprehensible—yet it is clear that they are the ones who are blind. (For a Biblical analogue with full melodramatic development, see Daniel at Belshazzar’s feast, Daniel 5.)

  404 In the Greek, Eurýmakhos adds the xenophobic charge “from another country” [allothen eilêlouthas, 360].

  427 The Sikels were the “natives” whom the Greeks of Homer’s day, during the first era of intensive Hellenic westward expansion and colonization, encountered in Sicily. (Modern scholars doubt they were indigenous Sicilians but rather believe they had come to Sicily from elsewhere; then again, there are few truly indigenous—in the sense of autochthonous or aboriginal—peoples in historic times.)

  428–29 Homer keeps us in suspense: how will the battle begin? Tel�
�makhos doesn’t know, and it may be that Odysseus doesn’t either—yet.

  433 father and son: In fact true, but she can only think “newly arrived guest whom I very much admire and son.” Once again, the often described narrative device of Homer sharing his omniscient perspective with a major character may also function as a means to convey intuitions or thoughts held just below the level of what we call consciousness (see XVIII.351, above, and XXI.5 and XXIII.94–100, below).

  BOOK XXI

  The Test of the Bow

  1ff. Penélopê acts according to the plan she herself devised and described to the disguised Odysseus in Book XIX (660–73). Athena’s role is to prompt her at the advantageous moment.

  5 to usher bloody slaughter in: This is of course not Penélopê’s thought, although she might wish it (see XVIII.351 and XX.433, above, and XXIII.94–100, below).

  12 double-torsion bow: The Greek word Homer uses to describe the bow at this point, palintonon [11], means “stretching back” and seems less technical than Fitzgerald’s rendering. Odysseus’ bow is unusual, and describing it is almost as difficult as stringing it. It was certainly a composite bow, constructed of wood, animal sinews, and horn. (The word Fitzgerald translates “weapon” at 449 is in fact “horn” in Greek [kera, 395].) Due to the combination and shaping of materials “such bows … are more powerful than the ordinary bow: to string them is difficult, and it cannot be accomplished by one pair of hands unless the stringer sits or squats and braces the bow under one thigh and over the other knee. The type was familiar in classical Greece as the characteristic weapon of the Scythians” and was known earlier “as a foreign weapon…. The suitors could not string Odysseus’ bow because it was of this unfamiliar type. They stood up to try, and failed. Odysseus did it sitting down—not because he was stronger, but because he knew the way” (Frank H. Stubbings, in W&S, pp. 520–21; see also HWH 3.138–40; both have helpful sketches of such a bow). On Odysseus’ seated position for the shot, see 480. There may be a hint of the bow’s Scythian provenance, or at least its foreign connotations, in “polished bowcase” (see 56, below).

  15–41 Like Odysseus’ wound (see XIX.456–541), his bow and arrows have a history—as the weapons of epic heroes often do.

  20–23 This raid sounds almost state sponsored. The Ithakans sent Prince Odysseus as a representative to settle the dispute. In those days, Odysseus was in the position Telémakhos is now, a young man who must learn by doing.

  24–41 But Íphitos …: The chronology of this seems confused because of lines 26–31, a note on Íphitos’ fate, sparked by mention of the mares and colts (25). His fate does not come to pass until he continues tracking the mares and is killed by Heraklês (36–37). Íphitos was a guest at Messenia at the same time as Odysseus and gave the future hero the bow of his own father, Eurýtos. (On further complications involving Messênê, see under “Messenians” in Who’s Who, below).

  41 It served him well at home in Ithaka: litotes (see IV.215, above).

  46–53 Perhaps because of the heightened drama of the context, this is the fullest treatment of the unlocking of a door, complete with simile (51). For a description of the actual mechanics of the Homeric lock and key, see IV.854, above.

  53–63 Homer heightens the impiausibility of this death-dealing weapon (symbol of the male’s role in war and hunt) in Penélopê’s hands, emphasizing her pale arms (54)—a sign of beauty and a marker that the woman is a proper lady, not a worker. After she weeps at the memories of Odysseus the bow brings her (57–60), she shoulders the bow—an intentionally incongruous image—and proceeds to the hall. The only females regularly depicted with weapons are goddesses (e.g., Artemis) and Amazons; Penélopê is neither.

  56 its own polished bowcase: the Greek for “bowcase” (gôrytos, 54) is hapax and “refer[s] to the case of metal”—“polished” is literally “shiny” (phaeinos)—“carried by the Scythians and other nomad tribes to protect their bows in cold northern climates” (Fernández-Galiano, HWH 3.137). On the possible significance of a Scythian provenance for the bow, see XXI.12, above.

  71–83 My lords, hear me: The opening part of Penélopê’s speech (71–76), in which she once again upbraids the suitors, hardly sounds like a preamble to the second part (“Stand up, then,” 76–81), in which she establishes the terms by which one of the men can win her as bride. The concluding fines (79–83 [75–79]) repeat her original description of the contest (XIX.669–73 [577–81]) and underscore her reluctance to proceed on her present course. Conspicuously and intentionally absent is any remark between parts one and two to the effect of “But now that my Lord Odysseus is surely dead, never to return,” which the suitors would probably infer.

  87–104 Tears came to the swineherd’s eyes …: Eumaios and Philoítios sob. Antínoös, surprisingly, seems concerned for Penélopê’s feelings. A nice touch: perhaps he’s a lady’s man. Yet he may care less for Penélopê’s feelings than for the fact that the retainers’ tears might give her pause and lead her to change her mind again about remarrying. Indeed, after his modest words (101–4), Homer confirms that it has all been for show (105).

  105–12 Homer prepares us again for Book XXII, here referring explicitly to XXII.5–21.

  112–14 Now they heard a gay snort …: Fitzgerald follows a long line of scholars who assume that Telémakhos laughs or smiles openly at the ironies implicit in Antínoös’ speech and the thought of the suitors’ imminent comeuppance. To explain this Telémakhos devises the speech that follows (“A queer thing, that!,” 115ff.); hence also Fitzgerald’s “brilliantly” (114).

  115–31 A queer thing, that! …: Telémakhos’ praise of his mother, as if he were an auctioneer talking up his wares to inspire a lukewarm audience of bidders, would be quite odd were it not spoken with the knowledge that Odysseus himself is in the hall.

  132–37 Telémakhos sets up the blades for the contest. There has been much controversy about exactly what the shot consisted of, controversy based on difficulties in interpreting the Greek, which the translator has quite rightly smoothed. Even more than a commentator, at controversial points a translator must decide on one interpretation and present it coherently. Fitzgerald has discussed the difficulties of the passage in his “Postscript” (pp. 474–78). In short, he agrees with those who argue that twelve ax heads, handles removed, are set up in a long earthen barrow, so that the sockets in which handles would be fit form what Denys Page fairly describes (though he is criticizing the view) as “a discontinuous tunnel” (Folktales, 99). For a sketch of this, see Figure 8. This is a view of great antiquity, recently championed with great intelligence and learning by Fernández-Galiano (HWH 3.143–47; readers may consult his “Introduction to Book XXI” in HWH 3.131–47, esp. 140ff., for a full recent discussion with several line drawings). But I am not inclined to accept it, largely because it involves too much special pleading to get Homer’s words to describe such a contest.

  There are some controversies on which the book will never be closed, and Odysseus’ shot is likely to belong to that group. Nonetheless, Page makes a case for two other explanations—neither of them original with him, as he makes clear—which do less violence to the Greek. In both the axes have handles attached. In the one, the successful shot goes through all twelve ax handles, that is, it pierces the wood and goes out the other side with enough strength to do the same thing eleven more times. Of course this is physically impossible, and no one who had any experience of archery even as spectator would think otherwise. Nonetheless, remarkably similar parallels in ancient Sanskrit epics support this theory. Part of the persuasive power of these analogues comes from the similarity of contexts: in the Indian Mahābhārata, a disguised suitor is required to make an amazing shot to win the hand of a princess; in the Rāmāyana, Rāma bends and strings a fantastically large and powerful bow (thereby winning a king’s daughter). Rama then takes this bow and shoots an arrow through the trunks of seven palm trees.

  The existence of these analogues makes us entertain a hy
pothesis for the shot in The Odyssey that we would otherwise throw out on the ground of improbability. There is no reason why in this episode traces of more fairy-tale-like stories (which The Odyssey presents in Books IX-XII but generally not elsewhere) cannot be present. Scholars of Indo-European folklore often hypothesize on the basis of such parallels that there was a very old tale in circulation among the “Indo-European” peoples which descended in parallel lines in Sanskrit and Greek; while this is entirely possible, students of folklore know that there are many other explanations for similarities, ranging from borrowing of stories to polygenesis. Nearer home are legendary shots by Egyptian pharoahs.

  There is another, more rational explanation, perhaps quite old, bolstered with more up-to-date archeological evidence in the version championed by Page. In this account, the axes would be cult axes, of the sort displayed in abundance in Minoan and Mycenaean palaces. Most of these are entirely of metal, and many have a ring at the base of the handle from which they could be suspended (see Figure 7). If a series of these cult axes were arranged with ax blade down and handle up, a series of rings would be on top, through which a truly outstanding archer could make a prize shot (Page, Folktales, pp. 103–13).

  Of course, enjoyment of the shot and our understanding of its place in the larger narrative is not dependent on our having an absolutely clear, much less a certain, picture of the technical details.