The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

by Robert Fagles

  “Of course, stranger,” the forthright prince responded,

  “I will tell you everything, clearly as I can.

  Ithaca is my country. Odysseus is my father —

  there was a man, or was he all a dream? . . .

  but he’s surely died a wretched death by now.

  300 Yet here I’ve come with my crew and black ship,

  out for news of my father, lost and gone so long.”

  And the godlike seer Theoclymenus replied,

  “Just like you, I too have left my land —

  I because I killed a man of my own tribe.

  But he has many brothers and kin in Argos,

  stallion-land, who rule the plains in force.

  Fleeing death at their hands, a dismal fate,

  I am a fugitive now,

  doomed to wander across this mortal world.

  310 So take me aboard, hear a fugitive’s prayer:

  don’t let them kill me —they’re after me, well I know!”

  “So desperate!” thoughtful Telemachus exclaimed.

  “How could I drive you from my ship? Come sail with us,

  we’ll tend you at home, with all we can provide.”

  And he took the prophet’s honed bronze spear,

  laid it down full-length on the rolling deck,

  swung aboard the deep-sea craft himself,

  assuming the pilot’s seat reserved astern

  and put the seer beside him. Cables cast off,

  320 Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates:

  “All lay hands to tackle!” They sprang to orders,

  hoisting the pinewood mast, they stepped it firm

  in its block amidships, lashed it fast with stays

  and with braided rawhide halyards hauled the white sail high.

  Now bright-eyed Athena sent them a stiff following wind

  blustering out of a clear sky, gusting on so the ship

  might run its course through the salt sea at top speed —

  328 and past the Springs she raced and the Chalcis’ rushing stream

  as the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark and

  330 on she pressed for Pheae, driven on by a wind from Zeus

  and flew past lovely Elis, where Epeans rule in power,

  332 and then Telemachus veered for the Jagged Islands,

  wondering all the way —

  would he sweep clear of death or be cut down?

  The king and loyal swineherd, just that night,

  were supping with other fieldhands in the lodge.

  And once they’d put aside desire for food and drink,

  Odysseus spoke up, eager to test the swineherd,

  see if he’d stretch out his warm welcome now,

  340 invite him to stay on in the farmstead here

  or send him off to town. “Listen, Eumaeus,

  all you comrades here —at the crack of dawn

  I mean to go to town and do my begging,

  not be a drain on you and all your men.

  But advise me well, give me a trusty guide

  to see me there. And then I’m on my own

  to roam the streets —I must, I have no choice —

  hoping to find a handout, just a crust or cupful.

  I’d really like to go to the house of King Odysseus

  350 and give my news to his cautious queen, Penelope.

  Why, I’d even mix with those overweening suitors —

  would they spare me a plateful? Look at all they have!

  I’d do good work for them, promptly, anything they want.

  Let me tell you, listen closely, catch my drift . . .

  Thanks to Hermes the guide, who gives all work

  of our hands the grace and fame that it deserves,

  no one alive can match me at household chores:

  building a good fire, splitting kindling neatly,

  carving, roasting meat and pouring rounds of wine . . .

  360 anything menials do to serve their noble masters.”

  “God’s sake, my friend!” you broke in now,

  Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, deeply troubled.

  “What’s got into your head, what crazy plan?

  You must be hell-bent on destruction, on the spot,

  if you’re keen to mingle with that mob of suitors —

  their pride and violence hit the iron skies!

  They’re a far cry from you,

  the men who do their bidding. Young bucks,

  all rigged out in their fine robes and shirts,

  370 hair sleeked down with oil, faces always beaming,

  the ones who slave for them! The tables polished,

  sagging under the bread and meat and wine.

  No, stay here. No one finds you a burden,

  surely not I, nor any comrade here.

  You wait till Odysseus’ dear son comes back —

  that boy will deck you out in a cloak and shirt

  and send you off, wherever your heart desires!”

  “If only, Eumaeus,” the wayworn exile said,

  “you were as dear to Father Zeus as you are to me!

  380 You who stopped my pain, my endless, homesick roving.

  Tramping about the world —there’s nothing worse for a man.

  But the fact is that men put up with misery

  to stuff their cursed bellies.

  But seeing you hold me here, urging me now

  to wait for him, the prince who’s on his way,

  tell me about the mother of King Odysseus, please,

  the father he left as well —on the threshold of old age —

  when he sailed off to war. Are they still alive,

  perhaps, still looking into the light of day?

  Or dead by now, and down in Death’s long house?”

  390 “Friend,”

  the swineherd, foreman of men, assured his guest,

  “I’ll tell you the whole story, point by point.

  Laertes is still alive, but night and day

  he prays to Zeus, waiting there in his house,

  for the life breath to slip away and leave his body.

  His heart’s so racked for his son, lost and gone these years,

  for his wife so fine, so wise —her death is the worst blow

  he’s had to suffer —it made him old before his time.

  She died of grief for her boy, her glorious boy,

  400 it wore her down, a wretched way to go.

  I pray that no one I love dies such a death,

  no island neighbor of mine who treats me kindly!

  While she was still alive, heartsick as she was,

  it always moved me to ask about her, learn the news.

  She’d reared me herself, and right beside her daughter,

  406 Ctimene, graceful girl with her long light gown,

  the youngest one she’d borne . . .

  Just the two of us, growing up together,

  the woman tending me almost like her child,

  410 till we both reached the lovely flush of youth

  and then her parents gave her away in marriage, yes,

  to a Samian man, and a haul of gifts they got.

  But her mother decked me out in cloak and shirt,

  good clothing she wrapped about me —gave me sandals,

  sent me here, this farm. She loved me from the heart.

  Oh how I miss her kindness now! The happy gods

  speed the work that I labor at, that gives me

  food and drink to spare for the ones I value.

  But from Queen Penelope I never get a thing,

  420 never a winning word, no friendly gesture,

  not since this, this plague has hit the house —

  these high and mighty suitors. Servants miss it,

  terribly, gossiping back and forth with the mistress,

  gathering scraps of news, a snack and a cup or two,

  then taking home to the fields some little gift.
<
br />   It never fails to cheer a servant’s heart.”

  “Imagine that,” his canny master said,

  “you must have been just a little fellow, Eumaeus,

  when you were swept so far from home and parents.

  430 Come, tell me the whole story, truly too.

  Was your city sacked? —

  some city filled with people and wide streets

  where your father and your mother made their home?

  Or were you all alone, herding your sheep and cattle,

  when pirates kidnapped, shipped and sold you off

  to this man’s house, who paid a healthy price?”

  “My friend,” the swineherd answered, foreman of men,

  “you really want my story? So many questions —well,

  listen in quiet, then, and take your ease, sit back

  440 and drink your wine. The nights are endless now.

  We’ve plenty of time to sleep or savor a long tale.

  No need, you know, to turn in before the hour.

  Even too much sleep can be a bore.

  But anyone else who feels the urge

  can go to bed and then, at the crack of dawn,

  break bread, turn out and tend our master’s pigs.

  We two will keep to the shelter here, eat and drink

  and take some joy in each other’s heartbreaking sorrows,

  sharing each other’s memories. Over the years, you know,

  450 a man finds solace even in old sorrows, true, a man

  who’s weathered many blows and wandered many miles.

  My own story? This will answer all your questions . . .

  453 There’s an island, Syrie —you may have heard of it —

  454 off above Ortygia, out where the sun wheels around.

  Not so packed with people, still a good place, though,

  fine for sheep and cattle, rich in wine and wheat.

  Hunger never attacks the land, no sickness either,

  that always stalks the lives of us poor men.

  No, as each generation grows old on the island,

  460 down Apollo comes with his silver bow, with Artemis,

  and they shoot them all to death with gentle arrows.

  Two cities there are, that split the land in half,

  and over them both my father ruled in force —

  464 Ormenus’ son Ctesius, a man like a deathless god.

  One day

  a band of Phoenicians landed there. The famous sea-dogs,

  sharp bargainers too, the holds of their black ship

  brimful with a hoard of flashy baubles. Now,

  my father kept a Phoenician woman in his house,

  beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things,

  470 and her rascal countrymen lusted to seduce her, yes,

  and lost no time —she was washing clothes when one of them

  waylaid her beside their ship, in a long deep embrace

  that can break a woman’s will, even the best alive.

  And then he asked her questions . . .

  her name, who was she, where did she come from?

  She waved at once to my father’s high-roofed house —

  ‘But I’m proud to hail from Sidon paved in bronze,’ she said,

  478 ‘and Arybas was my father, a man who rolled in wealth.

  I was heading home from the fields when Taphian pirates

  480 snatched me away, and they shipped and sold me here

  to this man’s house. He paid a good stiff price!’

  The sailor, her secret lover, lured her on:

  ‘Well then, why don’t you sail back home with us? —

  see your own high house, your father and mother there.

  They’re still alive, and people say they’re rich!’

  ‘Now there’s a tempting offer,’ she said in haste,

  ‘if only you sailors here would swear an oath

  you’ll land me safe at home without a scratch.’

  Those were her terms, and once they vowed to keep them,

  490 swore their oaths they’d never do her harm,

  the woman hatched a plan: ‘Now not a word!

  Let none of your shipmates say a thing to me,

  meeting me on the street or at the springs.

  Someone might go running off to the house

  and tell the old king —he’d think the worst,

  clap me in cruel chains and find a way to kill you.

  So keep it a secret, down deep, get on with buying

  your home cargo, quickly. But once your holds

  are loaded up with goods, then fast as you can

  500 you send the word to me over there at the palace.

  I’ll bring you all the gold I can lay my hands on

  and something else I’ll give you in the bargain,

  fare for passage home . . .

  I’m nurse to my master’s son in the palace now —

  such a precious toddler, scampering round outside,

  always at my heels. I’ll bring him aboard as well.

  Wherever you sell him off, whatever foreign parts,

  he’ll fetch you quite a price!’

  Bargain struck,

  back the woman went to our lofty halls

  510 and the rovers stayed on with us one whole year,

  bartering, piling up big hoards in their hollow ship,

  and once their holds were loaded full for sailing

  they sent a messenger, fast, to alert the woman.

  This crafty bandit came to my father’s house,

  dangling a golden choker linked with amber beads,

  and while the maids at hall and my noble mother

  kept on fondling it —dazzled, feasting their eyes

  and making bids —he gave a quiet nod to my nurse,

  he gave her the nod and slunk back to his ship.

  520 Grabbing my hand, she swept me through the house

  and there in the porch she came on cups and tables

  left by the latest feasters, father’s men of council

  just gone off to the meeting grounds for full debate —

  and quick as a flash she snatched up three goblets,

  tucked them into her bosom, whisked them off

  and I tagged along, lost in all my innocence!

  The sun sank, the roads of the world grew dark

  and both on the run, we reached the bay at once

  where the swift Phoenician ship lay set to sail.

  530 Handing us up on board, the crewmen launched out

  on the foaming lanes and Zeus sent wind astern.

  Six whole days we sailed, six nights, nonstop

  and then, when the god brought on the seventh day,

  Artemis showering arrows came and shot the woman —

  headfirst into the bilge she splashed like a diving tern

  and the crewmen heaved her body over, a nice treat

  for the seals and fish, but left me all alone,

  cowering, sick at heart . . .

  Until, at last,

  the wind and current bore us on to Ithaca,

  540 here where Laertes bought me with his wealth.

  And so I first laid eyes on this good land.”

  And royal King Odysseus answered warmly,

  “Eumaeus, so much misery! You’ve moved my heart,

  deeply, with your long tale —such pain, such sorrow.

  True, but look at the good fortune Zeus sends you,

  hand-in-hand with the bad. After all your toil

  you reached the house of a decent, kindly man

  who gives you all you need in meat and drink —

  he’s seen to that, I’d say —

  550 it’s a fine life you lead! Better than mine . . .

  I’ve been drifting through cities up and down the earth

  and now I’ve landed here.”

  So guest and host

  confided through the night until they slept,

  a littl
e at least, not long.

  Dawn soon rose and took her golden throne.

  That hour

  Telemachus and his shipmates raised the coasts of home,

  they struck sail and lowered the mast, smartly,

  rowed her into a mooring under oars.

  Out went the bow-stones, cables fast astern,

  560 the crew themselves swung out in the breaking surf,

  they got a meal together and mixed some ruddy wine.

  And once they’d put aside desire for food and drink,

  clear-headed Telemachus gave the men commands:

  “Pull our black ship round to the city now —

  I’m off to my herdsmen and my farms. By nightfall,

  once I’ve seen to my holdings, I’ll be down in town.

  In the morning I’ll give you wages for the voyage,

  a handsome feast of meat and hearty wine.”

  The seer Theoclymenus broke in quickly,

  570 “Where shall I go, dear boy? Of all the lords

  in rocky Ithaca, whose house shall I head for now?

  Or do I go straight to your mother’s house and yours?”

  “Surely in better times,” discreet Telemachus replied,

  “I would invite you home. Our hospitality never fails

  but now, I fear, it could only serve you poorly.

  I’ll be away, and mother would never see you.

  She rarely appears these days,

  what with those suitors milling in the hall;

  she keeps to her upper story, weaving at her loom.

  580 But I’ll mention someone else you might just visit:

  Eurymachus, wise Polybus’ fine, upstanding son.

  He’s the man of the hour! Our island people

  look on him like a god —the prince of suitors,

  hottest to wed my mother, seize my father’s powers.

  But god knows —Zeus up there in his bright Olympus —

  whether or not before that wedding day arrives

  he’ll bring the day of death on all their heads!”

  588 At his last words a bird flew past on the right,

  a hawk, Apollo’s wind-swift herald —tight in his claws

  590 a struggling dove, and he ripped its feathers out

  and they drifted down to earth between the ship

  and the young prince himself . . .

  The prophet called him aside, clear of his men,

  and grasped his hand, exclaiming, “Look, Telemachus,

  the will of god just winged that bird on your right!

  Why, the moment I saw it, here before my eyes,