“Here —it’s all too true —here’s the dog of a man
who died in foreign parts. But if he had now
the form and flair he had in his glory days —
as Odysseus left him, sailing off to Troy —
you’d be amazed to see such speed, such strength.
No quarry he chased in the deepest, darkest woods
could ever slip this hound. A champion tracker too!
350 Ah, but he’s run out of luck now, poor fellow . . .
his master’s dead and gone, so far from home,
and the heartless women tend him not at all. Slaves,
with their lords no longer there to crack the whip,
lose all zest to perform their duties well. Zeus,
the Old Thunderer, robs a man of half his virtue
the day the yoke clamps down around his neck.”
With that he entered the well-constructed palace,
strode through the halls and joined the proud suitors.
But the dark shadow of death closed down on Argos’ eyes
360 the instant he saw Odysseus, twenty years away.
Now Prince Telemachus, first by far to note
the swineherd coming down the hall, nodded briskly,
called and waved him on. Eumaeus, glancing about,
picked up a handy stool where the carver always sat,
slicing meat for the suitors feasting through the house.
He took and put it beside the prince’s table, facing him,
straddled it himself as a steward set a plate of meat
before the man and served him bread from trays.
Right behind him came Odysseus, into his own house,
370 looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar
hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags.
Just in the doorway, just at the ashwood threshold,
there he settled down . . .
leaning against the cypress post a master joiner
planed smooth and hung with a plumb line years ago.
Telemachus motioned the swineherd over now,
and choosing a whole loaf from a fine wicker tray
and as much meat as his outstretched hands could hold,
he said, “Now take these to the stranger, tell him too
380 to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all.
Bashfulness, for a man in need, is no great friend.”
And Eumaeus did his bidding, went straight up
to the guest and winged a greeting: “Here, stranger,
Prince Telemachus sends you these, and tells you too
to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all.
Bashfulness for a beggar, he says, is no great friend.”
“Powerful Zeus!” the crafty king responded,
“grant that your prince be blest among mankind —
and all his heart’s desires come to pass!”
390 Taking the food in both hands, setting it down,
spread out on his filthy sack before his feet,
the beggar fell to his meal
as the singer raised a song throughout the house.
Once he’d supped and the stirring bard had closed,
the suitors broke into uproar down along the hall.
And now Athena came to the side of Laertes’ royal son
and urged him, “Go now, gather crusts from all the suitors,
test them, so we can tell the innocent from the guilty.”
But not even so would Athena save one man from death.
400 Still, off he went, begging from each in turn,
circling left to right, reaching out his hand
like a beggar from the day that he was born.
They pitied him, gave him scraps, were puzzled too,
asking each other, “Who is this?” “Where’s he from?”
Till the goatherd Melanthius shouted out in their midst,
“Listen to me, you lords who court our noble queen —
I’ll tell you about the stranger. I’ve seen him before.
I know for a fact the swineherd led him in,
though I have no idea who the fellow is
or where he thinks he comes from.”
410 At that
Antinous wheeled on Eumaeus, lashing out at him:
“Your highness, swineherd —why drag this to town?
Haven’t we got our share of vagabonds to deal with,
disgusting beggars who lick the feasters’ plates?
Isn’t it quite enough, these swarming crowds
consuming your master’s bounty —
must you invite this rascal in the bargain?”
“Antinous,
highborn as you are,” you told the man, Eumaeus,
“that was a mean low speech!
420 Now who’d go out, who on his own hook —
not I —and ask a stranger in from nowhere
unless he had some skills to serve the house?
A prophet, a healer who cures disease, a worker in wood
or even a god-inspired bard whose singing warms the heart —
they’re the ones asked in around the world. A beggar?
Who’d invite a beggar to bleed his household white?
You, you of all the suitors are always roughest
on the servants of our king, on me most of all.
Not that I care, no, so long as his queen,
430 his wise queen, is still alive in the palace,
Prince Telemachus too.”
“Stop, Eumaeus,”
poised Telemachus broke in quickly now,
“don’t waste so much breath on Antinous here.
It’s just his habit to bait a man with abuse
and spur the rest as well.”
He wheeled on the suitor,
letting loose: “How kind you are to me, Antinous,
kind as a father to his son! Encouraging me
to send this stranger packing from my house
with a harsh command! I’d never do it. God forbid.
440 Take and give to the beggar. I don’t grudge it —
I’d even urge you on. No scruples now,
never fear your gifts will upset my mother
or any servant in King Odysseus’ royal house.
But no such qualm could enter that head of yours,
bent on feeding your own face, not feeding strangers!”
Antinous countered the young prince in kind:
“So high and mighty, Telemachus —such unbridled rage!
If all the suitors gave him the sort of gift I’ll give,
the house would be rid of him for three whole months!”
450 With that, from under his table he seized the stool
that propped his smooth feet as he reveled on —
just lifting it into view . . .
But as for the rest,
all gave to the beggar, filled his sack with handouts,
bread and meat. And Odysseus seemed at the point
of getting back to his doorsill,
done with testing suitors, home free himself
when he stopped beside Antinous, begging face-to-face:
“Give me a morsel, friend. You’re hardly the worst
Achaean here, it seems. The noblest one, in fact.
460 You look like a king to me!
So you should give a bigger crust than the rest
and I will sing your praises all across the earth.
I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired;
rolling in wealth, I’d often give to a vagabond like myself,
whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door.
And crowds of servants I had, and lots of all it takes
to live the life of ease, to make men call you rich.
But Zeus ruined it all —god’s will, no doubt —
when he shipped me off with a roving band of pirates
470 boun
d for Egypt, a long hard sail, to wreck my life.
There in the Nile delta I moored our ships of war.
God knows I ordered my trusty crews to stand by,
just where they were, and guard the anchored fleet
and I sent a patrol to scout things out from higher ground.
But swept away by their own reckless fury, the crew went berserk —
they promptly began to plunder the lush Egyptian farms,
dragged off the women and children, killed the men.
Outcries reached the city in no time —stirred by shouts
the entire town came streaming down at the break of day,
480 filling the river plain with chariots, ranks of infantry
and the gleam of bronze. Zeus who loves the lightning
flung down murderous panic on all my men-at-arms —
no one dared to stand his ground and fight,
disaster ringed us round from every quarter.
Droves of my men they hacked down with swords,
led off the rest alive, to labor for them as slaves.
Myself? They passed me on to a stranger come their way,
488 to ship me to Cyprus —Iasus’ son Dmetor it was,
who ruled Cyprus then with an iron fist.
490 And from there I sailed to Ithaca,
just as you see me now, ground down by pain and sorrow —”
“Good god almighty!” Antinous cut the beggar short.
“What spirit brought this pest to plague our feast?
Back off! Into the open, clear of my table, or you,
you’ll soon land in an Egypt, Cyprus, to break your heart!
What a brazen, shameless beggar! Scrounging food
from each man in turn, and look at their handouts,
reckless, never a qualm, no holding back, not
when making free with the next man’s goods —
each one’s got plenty here.”
500 “Pity, pity,”
the wry Odysseus countered, drawing away.
“No sense in your head to match your handsome looks.
You’d grudge your servant a pinch of salt from your own larder,
you who lounge at the next man’s board but lack the heart
to tear a crust of bread and hand it on to me,
though there’s god’s plenty here.”
Boiling over
Antinous gave him a scathing look and let fly,
“Now you won’t get out of the hall unscarred, I swear,
not after such a filthy string of insults!”
With that
he seized the stool and hurled it —
510 Square in the back
it struck Odysseus, just under the right shoulder
but he stood up against it —steady as a rock,
unstaggered by Antinous’ blow —just shook his head,
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work.
Back he went to the doorsill, crouched, and setting down
his sack about to burst, he faced the suitors, saying,
“Hear me out, you lords who court the noble queen,
I must say what the heart inside me urges.
There’s nothing to groan about, no hurt, when a man
520 takes a blow as he fights to save his own possessions,
cattle or shining flocks. But Antinous struck me
all because of my good-for-nothing belly —that,
that curse that makes such pain for us poor men.
But if beggars have their gods and Furies too,
let Antinous meet his death before he meets his bride!”
“Enough, stranger!” Antinous volleyed back.
“Sit there and eat in peace —or go get lost! Or else,
for the way you talk, these young men will hale you
up and down the halls by your hands or feet
until you’re skinned alive!”
530 Naked threats —
but the rest were outraged, even those brash suitors.
One would say to another, “Look, Antinous,
that was a crime, to strike the luckless beggar!”
“Your fate is sealed if he’s some god from the blue.”
“And the gods do take on the look of strangers
dropping in from abroad —”
“Disguised in every way
as they roam and haunt our cities, watching over us —”
“All our foul play, all our fair play too!”
So they warned, but Antinous paid no heed.
540 And the anguish welled up in Telemachus’ breast
for the blow his father took, yet he let no tears
go rolling down his face —he just shook his head,
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work.
But then, when cautious Queen Penelope heard
how Antinous struck the stranger, there in the halls,
she cried out, with her serving-women round her,
“May Apollo the Archer strike you just as hard!”
548 And her housekeeper Eurynome added quickly,
“If only our prayers were granted —
550 then not one of the lot would live to see
Dawn climb her throne tomorrow!”
“Dear old woman,”
alert Penelope replied, “they’re all hateful,
plotting their vicious plots. But Antinous
is the worst of all —he’s black death itself.
Here’s this luckless stranger, wandering down
the halls and begging scraps —hard-pressed by need —
and the rest all give the man his fill of food
but that one gives him a footstool
hurled at his right shoulder, hits his back!”
560 While she exclaimed among her household women,
sitting there in her room, Odysseus bent to supper.
Penelope called the swineherd in and gave instructions:
“Go, good Eumaeus, tell the stranger to come at once.
I’d like to give him a warm welcome, ask the man
if he’s heard some news about my gallant husband
or seen him in the flesh . . .
He seems like one who’s roved around the world.”
“My queen,” you answered, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
“if only the lords would hold their peace a moment!
570 Such stories he tells —he’d charm you to your depths.
Three nights, three days I kept him in my shelter;
I was the first the fellow stumbled onto,
fleeing from some ship. But not even so
could he bring his tale of troubles to an end.
You know how you can stare at a bard in wonder —
trained by the gods to sing and hold men spellbound —
how you can long to sit there, listening, all your life
when the man begins to sing. So he charmed my heart,
I tell you, huddling there beside me at my fire.
580 He and Odysseus’ father go way back, he says,
sworn friends, and the stranger hails from Crete
where the stock of old King Minos still lives on,
and from Crete he made his way, racked by hardship,
tumbling on like a rolling stone until he turned up here.
He swears he’s heard of Odysseus —just in reach,
in rich Thesprotian country —still alive,
laden with treasure, heading home at last!”
“Go,”
the cautious queen responded, “call him here
so he can tell me his own tale face-to-face.
590 Our friends can sit at the gates or down the halls
and play their games, debauched to their hearts’ content.
Why not? Their own stores, their bread and seasoned wine,
lie intact at home; food for their serving-men alone.
But they, they infest our palace day and night,
t
hey butcher our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats,
feasting themselves sick, swilling our glowing wine
as if there’s no tomorrow —all of it, squandered.
No, there is no man like Odysseus in command
to drive this curse from the house. Dear god,
600 if only Odysseus came back home to native soil now,
he and his son would avenge the outrage of these men —like that!”
602 At her last words Telemachus shook with a lusty sneeze
like a thunderclap resounding up and down the halls.
The queen was seized with laughter, calling out
to Eumaeus winged words: “Quickly, go!
Bring me this stranger now, face-to-face!
You hear how my son sealed all I said with a sneeze?
So let death come down with grim finality on these suitors —
one and all —not a single man escape his sudden doom!
610 And another thing. Mark my words, I tell you.
If I’m convinced that all he says is true,
I’ll dress him in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes.”
Off the swineherd went, following her instructions,
made his way to the stranger’s side and winged a word:
“Old friend —our queen, wise Penelope, summons you,
the prince’s mother! The spirit moves her now,
heartsick as she is,
to ask a question or two about her husband.
And if she’s convinced that all you say is true,
620 she’ll dress you in shirt and cloak. That’s what you need,
that most of all now. Bread you can always beg
around the country, fill your belly well —
they’ll give you food, whoever has a mind to.”
“Gladly, Eumaeus,” the patient man replied,
“I’ll tell her the whole truth and nothing but,
Icarius’ daughter, your wise queen Penelope.
I know all about that man . . .
it’s been my lot to suffer what he’s suffered.
But I fear the mob’s abuse, those rough young bucks,
630 their pride and violence hit the iron skies!
Just now that scoundrel —as I went down the halls,
harming no one —up and dealt me a jolting blow,
and who would raise a hand to save me? Telemachus?
Anyone else? No one. So tell Penelope now,
anxious as she may be, to wait in the halls
until the sun goes down. Then she can ask me
all she likes about her husband’s journey home.
The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) Page 42