The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

by Robert Fagles

  and the cups from which the raucous lords had drunk.

  Raking embers from the braziers onto the ground,

  they piled them high again with seasoned wood,

  providing light and warmth.

  70 And yet again

  Melantho lashed out at Odysseus: “You still here? —

  you pest, slinking around the house all night,

  leering up at the women?

  Get out, you tramp —be glad of the food you got —

  or we’ll sling a torch at you, rout you out at once!”

  A killing glance, and the old trooper countered,

  “What’s possessed you, woman? Why lay into me? Such abuse!

  Just because I’m filthy, because I wear such rags,

  roving round the country, living hand-to-mouth.

  80 But it’s fate that drives me on:

  that’s the lot of beggars, homeless drifters.

  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.

  So beware, woman, or one day you may lose it all,

  all your glitter that puts your work-mates in the shade.

  90 Or your mistress may just fly in a rage and dress you down

  or Odysseus may return —there’s still room for hope!

  Or if he’s dead as you think and never coming home,

  well there’s his son, Telemachus . . .

  94 like father, like son —thanks to god Apollo.

  No women’s wildness here in the house escapes

  the prince’s eye. He’s come of age at last.”

  So he warned, and alert Penelope heard him,

  wheeled on the maid and tongue-lashed her smartly:

  “Make no mistake, you brazen, shameless bitch,

  100 none of your ugly work escapes me either —

  you will pay for it with your life, you will!

  How well you knew —you heard from my own lips —

  that I meant to probe this stranger in our house

  and ask about my husband . . . my heart breaks for him.”

  She turned to her housekeeper Eurynome and said,

  “Now bring us a chair and spread it soft with fleece,

  so our guest can sit and tell me his whole story

  and hear me out as well.

  I’d like to ask him questions, point by point.”

  110 Eurynome bustled off to fetch a polished chair

  and set it down and spread it soft with fleece.

  Here Odysseus sat, the man of many trials,

  as cautious Penelope began the conversation:

  “Stranger, let me start our questioning myself . . .

  Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?”

  “My good woman,” Odysseus, master of craft, replied,

  “no man on the face of the earth could find fault with you.

  Your fame, believe me, has reached the vaulting skies.

  Fame like a flawless king’s who dreads the gods,

  120 who governs a kingdom vast, proud and strong —

  who upholds justice, true, and the black earth

  bears wheat and barley, trees bow down with fruit

  and the sheep drop lambs and never fail and the sea

  teems with fish —thanks to his decent, upright rule,

  and under his sovereign sway the people flourish.

  So then, here in your house, ask me anything else

  but don’t, please, search out my birth, my land,

  or you’ll fill my heart to overflowing even more

  as I bring back the past . . .

  130 I am a man who’s had his share of sorrows.

  It’s wrong for me, in someone else’s house,

  to sit here moaning and groaning, sobbing so —

  it makes things worse, this grieving on and on.

  One of your maids, or you yourself, might scold me,

  think it’s just the wine that had doused my wits

  and made me drown in tears.”

  “No, no, stranger,” wise Penelope demurred,

  “whatever form and feature I had, what praise I’d won,

  the deathless gods destroyed that day the Achaeans

  140 sailed away to Troy, my husband in their ships,

  Odysseus —if he could return to tend my life

  the renown I had would only grow in glory.

  Now my life is torment . . .

  look at the griefs some god has loosed against me!

  All the nobles who rule the islands round about,

  Dulichion, Same, and wooded Zacynthus too,

  and all who lord it in sunny Ithaca itself —

  they court me against my will, they lay waste my house.

  So I pay no heed to strangers, suppliants at my door,

  150 not even heralds out on their public errands here —

  I yearn for Odysseus, always, my heart pines away.

  They rush the marriage on, and I spin out my wiles.

  A god from the blue it was inspired me first

  to set up a great loom in our royal halls

  and I began to weave, and the weaving finespun,

  the yarns endless, and I would lead them on: ‘Young men,

  my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more,

  go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until

  I can finish off this web . . .

  160 so my weaving won’t all fray and come to nothing.

  This is a shroud for old lord Laertes, for that day

  when the deadly fate that lays us out at last will take him down.

  I dread the shame my countrywomen would heap upon me,

  yes, if a man of such wealth should lie in state

  without a shroud for cover.’

  My very words,

  and despite their pride and passion they believed me.

  So by day I’d weave at my great and growing web —

  by night, by the light of torches set beside me,

  I would unravel all I’d done. Three whole years

  170 I deceived them blind, seduced them with this scheme.

  Then, when the wheeling seasons brought the fourth year on

  and the months waned and the long days came round once more,

  then, thanks to my maids —the shameless, reckless creatures —

  the suitors caught me in the act, denounced me harshly.

  So I finished it off. Against my will. They forced me.

  And now I cannot escape a marriage, nor can I contrive

  177 a deft way out. My parents urge me to tie the knot

  and my son is galled as they squander his estate —

  he sees it all. He’s a grown man by now, equipped

  180 to tend to his own royal house and tend it well:

  Zeus grants my son that honor . . .

  But for all that —now tell me who you are.

  Where do you come from? You’ve hardly sprung

  from a rock or oak like some old man of legend.”

  The master improviser answered, slowly,

  “My lady . . . wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus,

  will your questions about my family never end?

  All right then. Here’s my story. Even though

  it plunges me into deeper grief than I feel now.

  190 But that’s the way of the world, when one has been

  so far from home, so long away as I, roving over

  many cities of men, enduring many hardships.

  Still,

  my story will tell you all you need to know.

  There is a land called Crete . . .

  ringed by the wine-dark sea with rolling whitecaps —

&
nbsp; handsome country, fertile, thronged with people

  well past counting —boasting ninety cities,

  language mixing with language side-by-side.

  First come the Achaeans, then the native Cretans,

  200 hardy, gallant in action, then Cydonian clansmen,

  201 Dorians living in three tribes, and proud Pelasgians last.

  202 Central to all their cities is magnificent Cnossos,

  203 the site where Minos ruled and each ninth year

  conferred with almighty Zeus himself. Minos,

  205 father of my father, Deucalion, that bold heart.

  Besides myself Deucalion sired Prince Idomeneus,

  who set sail for Troy in his beaked ships of war,

  208 escorting Atreus’ sons. My own name is Aethon.

  I am the younger-born;

  210 my older brother’s a better man than I am.

  Now, it was there in Cnossos that I saw him . . .

  Odysseus —and we traded gifts of friendship.

  A heavy gale had landed him on our coast,

  driven him way off course, rounding Malea’s cape

  215 when he was bound for Troy. He anchored in Amnisus,

  hard by the goddess’ cave of childbirth and labor,

  that rough harbor —barely riding out the storm.

  218 He came into town at once, asking for Idomeneus,

  claiming to be my brother’s close, respected friend.

  220 Too late. Ten or eleven days had already passed

  since he set sail for Troy in his beaked ships.

  So I took Odysseus back to my own house,

  gave him a hero’s welcome, treated him in style —

  stores in our palace made for princely entertainment.

  As for his comrades, all who’d shipped with him,

  I dipped into public stock to give them barley,

  ruddy wine and fine cattle for slaughter,

  beef to their hearts’ content. A dozen days

  they stayed with me there, those brave Achaeans,

  230 penned up by a North Wind so stiff that a man,

  even on dry land, could never keep his feet —

  some angry spirit raised that blast, I’d say.

  Then on the thirteenth day the wind died down

  and they set sail for Troy.”

  Falsehoods all,

  but he gave his falsehoods all the ring of truth.

  As she listened on, her tears flowed and soaked her cheeks

  as the heavy snow melts down from the high mountain ridges,

  snow the West Wind piles there and the warm East Wind thaws

  and the snow, melting, swells the rivers to overflow their banks —

  240 so she dissolved in tears, streaming down her lovely cheeks,

  weeping for him, her husband, sitting there beside her.

  Odysseus’ heart went out to his grief-stricken wife

  but under his lids his eyes remained stock-still —

  they might have been horn or iron —

  his guile fought back his tears. And she,

  once she’d had her fill of grief and weeping,

  turned again to her guest with this reply:

  “Now, stranger, I think I’ll test you, just to see

  if there in your house, with all his friends-in-arms,

  250 you actually entertained my husband as you say.

  Come, tell me what sort of clothing he wore,

  what cut of man was he?

  What of the men who followed in his train?”

  “Ah good woman,”

  Odysseus, the great master of subtlety, returned,

  “how hard it is to speak, after so much time

  apart . . . why, some twenty years have passed

  since he left my house and put my land behind him.

  Even so, imagine the man as I portray him —

  I can see him now.

  King Odysseus . . .

  260 he was wearing a heavy woolen cape, sea-purple

  in double folds, with a golden brooch to clasp it,

  twin sheaths for the pins, on the face a work of art:

  a hound clenching a dappled fawn in its front paws,

  slashing it as it writhed. All marveled to see it,

  solid gold as it was, the hound slashing, throttling

  the fawn in its death-throes, hoofs flailing to break free.

  I noticed his glossy tunic too, clinging to his skin

  like the thin glistening skin of a dried onion,

  silky, soft, the glint of the sun itself.

  270 Women galore would gaze on it with relish.

  And this too. Bear it in mind, won’t you?

  I’ve no idea if Odysseus wore these things at home

  or a comrade gave him them as he boarded ship,

  or a host perhaps —the man was loved by many.

  There were few Achaeans to equal him . . . and I?

  I gave him a bronze sword myself, a lined cloak,

  elegant, deep red, and a fringed shirt as well,

  and I saw him off in his long benched ship of war

  in lordly style.

  Something else. He kept a herald

  280 beside him, a man a little older than himself.

  I’ll try to describe him to you, best I can.

  Round-shouldered he was, swarthy, curly-haired.

  283 His name? Eurybates. And Odysseus prized him

  most of all his men. Their minds worked as one.”

  His words renewed her deep desire to weep,

  recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered.

  But as soon as she’d had her fill of tears and grief,

  Penelope turned again to her guest and said,

  “Now, stranger, much as I pitied you before,

  290 now in my house you’ll be my special friend,

  my honored guest. I am the one, myself,

  who gave him the very clothes that you describe.

  I brought them up from the storeroom, folded them neatly,

  fastened the golden brooch to adorn my husband,

  Odysseus —never again will I embrace him,

  striding home to his own native land.

  A black day it was

  when he took ship to see that cursed city . . .

  299 Destroy, I call it —I hate to say its name!”

  300 “Ah my queen,” the man of craft assured her,

  “noble wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus,

  ravage no more your lovely face with tears

  or consume your heart with grieving for your husband.

  Not that I’d blame you, ever. Any woman will mourn

  the bridegroom she has lost, lain with in love

  and borne his children too. Even though he

  was no Odysseus —a man like a god, they say.

  But dry your tears and take my words to heart.

  I will tell you the whole truth and hide nothing:

  310 I have heard that Odysseus now, at last, is on his way,

  he’s just in reach, in rich Thesprotian country —

  the man is still alive

  and he’s bringing home a royal hoard of treasure,

  gifts he won from the people of those parts.

  His crew? He’s lost his crew and hollow ship

  on the wine-dark waters off Thrinacia Island.

  317 Zeus and Helios raged, dead set against Odysseus

  for his men-at-arms had killed the cattle of the Sun,

  so down to the last hand they drowned in crashing seas.

  320 But not Odysseus, clinging tight to his ship’s keel —

  the breakers flung him out onto dry land, on Scheria,

  the land of Phaeacians, close kin to the gods themselves,

  and with all their hearts they prized him like a god,

  showered the man with gifts, and they’d have gladly

  sailed him home unscathed. In fact Odysseus

  would have been here be
side you long ago

  but he thought it the better, shrewder course

  to recoup his fortunes roving through the world.

  At sly profit-turning there’s not a man alive

  330 to touch Odysseus. He’s got no rival there.

  So I learned from Phidon, king of Thesprotia,

  who swore to me as he poured libations in his house,

  ‘The ship’s hauled down and the shipmates set to sail,

  to take Odysseus home to native land.’

  But I . . .

  he shipped me off before. A Thesprotian cutter

  chanced to be heading for Dulichion rich in wheat.

  But he showed me all the treasure Odysseus had amassed,

  enough to last a man and ten generations of his heirs —

  so great the wealth stored up for him in the king’s vaults!

  340 But Odysseus, he made clear, was off at Dodona then

  to hear the will of Zeus that rustles forth

  from the god’s tall leafy oak: how should he return,

  after all the years away, to his own beloved Ithaca,

  openly or in secret?

  And so the man is safe,

  as you can see, and he’s coming home, soon,

  he’s close, close at hand —

  he won’t be severed long from kin and country,

  no, not now. I give you my solemn, binding oath.

  I swear by Zeus, the first, the greatest god —

  350 by Odysseus’ hearth, where I have come for help:

  all will come to pass, I swear, exactly as I say.

  True, this very month —just as the old moon dies

  and the new moon rises into life —Odysseus will return!”

  “If only, my friend,” reserved Penelope exclaimed,

  “everything you say would come to pass!

  You’d soon know my affection, know my gifts.

  Any man you meet would call you blest.

  But my heart can sense the way it all will go.

  Odysseus, I tell you, is never coming back,

  360 nor will you ever gain your passage home,

  for we have no masters in our house like him

  at welcoming in or sending off an honored guest.

  Odysseus. There was a man, or was he all a dream?

  But come, women, wash the stranger and make his bed,

  with bedding, blankets and lustrous spreads to keep him warm

  till Dawn comes up and takes her golden throne.

  Then, tomorrow at daybreak, bathe him well

  and rub him down with oil, so he can sit beside

  Telemachus in the hall, enjoy his breakfast there.

  370 And anyone who offends our guest beyond endurance —