The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

by Robert Fagles

  he defeats himself; he’s doomed to failure here,

  no matter how raucously he raves and blusters on.

  For how can you know, my friend, if I surpass

  all women in thoughtfulness and shrewd good sense,

  if I’d allow you to take your meals at hall

  so weatherbeaten, clad in rags and tatters?

  Our lives are much too brief . . .

  If a man is cruel by nature, cruel in action,

  the mortal world will call down curses on his head

  380 while he is alive, and all will mock his memory after death.

  But then if a man is kind by nature, kind in action,

  his guests will carry his fame across the earth

  and people all will praise him from the heart.”

  “Wait, my queen,” the crafty man objected,

  “noble wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus —

  blankets and glossy spreads? They’re not my style.

  Not from the day I launched out in my long-oared ship

  and the snowy peaks of Crete went fading far astern.

  I’ll lie as I’ve done through sleepless nights before.

  390 Many a night I’ve spent on rugged beds afield,

  waiting for Dawn to mount her lovely throne.

  Nor do I pine for any footbaths either.

  Of all the women who serve your household here,

  not one will touch my feet. Unless, perhaps,

  there is some old retainer, the soul of trust,

  someone who’s borne as much as I have borne . . .

  I wouldn’t mind if she would touch my feet.”

  “Dear friend,”

  the discreet Penelope replied, “never has any man

  so thoughtful —of all the guests in my palace

  400 come from foreign parts —been as welcome as you . . .

  so sensible, so apt, is every word you say.

  I have just such an old woman, seasoned, wise,

  who carefully tended my unlucky husband, reared him,

  took him into her arms the day his mother bore him —

  frail as the woman is, she’ll wash your feet.

  Up with you now, my good old Eurycleia,

  407 come and wash your master’s . . . equal in years.

  Odysseus must have feet and hands like his by now —

  hardship can age a person overnight.”

  At that name

  410 the old retainer buried her face in both hands,

  burst into warm tears and wailed out in grief,

  “Oh my child, how helpless I am to help you now!

  How Zeus despised you, more than all other men,

  god-fearing man that you were . . .

  Never did any mortal burn the Old Thunderer

  such rich thighbones —offerings charred and choice —

  never as many as you did, praying always to reach

  a ripe old age and raise a son to glory. Now,

  you alone he’s robbed of your home-coming day!

  420 Just so, the women must have mocked my king,

  far away, when he’d stopped at some fine house —

  just as all these bitches, stranger, mock you here.

  And because you shrink from their taunts, their wicked barbs,

  you will not let them wash you. The work is mine —

  Icarius’ daughter, wise Penelope, bids me now

  and I am all too glad. I will wash your feet,

  both for my own dear queen and for yourself —

  your sorrows wring my heart . . . and why?

  Listen to me closely, mark my words.

  430 Many a wayworn guest has landed here

  but never, I swear, has one so struck my eyes —

  your build, your voice, your feet —you’re like Odysseus . . .

  to the life!”

  “Old woman,” wily Odysseus countered,

  “that’s what they all say who’ve seen us both.

  We bear a striking resemblance to each other,

  as you have had the wit to say yourself.”

  The old woman took up a burnished basin

  she used for washing feet and poured in bowls

  of fresh cold water before she stirred in hot.

  440 Odysseus, sitting full in the firelight, suddenly

  swerved round to the dark, gripped by a quick misgiving —

  soon as she touched him she might spot the scar!

  The truth would all come out.

  Bending closer

  she started to bathe her master . . . then,

  in a flash, she knew the scar —

  that old wound

  made years ago by a boar’s white tusk when Odysseus

  447 went to Parnassus, out to see Autolycus and his sons.

  The man was his mother’s noble father, one who excelled

  the world at thievery, that and subtle, shifty oaths.

  450 Hermes gave him the gift, overjoyed by the thighs

  of lambs and kids he burned in the god’s honor —

  Hermes the ready partner in his crimes. Now,

  Autolycus once visited Ithaca’s fertile land,

  to find his daughter’s son had just been born.

  Eurycleia set him down on the old man’s knees

  as he finished dinner, urging him, “Autolycus,

  you must find a name for your daughter’s darling son.

  The baby comes as the answer to her prayers.”

  “You,

  my daughter, and you, my son-in-law,” Autolycus replied,

  460 “give the boy the name I tell you now. Just as I

  have come from afar, creating pain for many —

  men and women across the good green earth —

  463 so let his name be Odysseus . . .

  the Son of Pain, a name he’ll earn in full.

  And when he has come of age and pays his visit

  to Parnassus —the great estate of his mother’s line

  where all my treasures lie —I will give him enough

  to cheer his heart, then speed him home to you.”

  And so,

  in time, Odysseus went to collect the splendid gifts.

  470 Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus warmed him in

  with eager handclasps, hearty words of welcome.

  472 His mother’s mother, Amphithea, hugged the boy

  and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes.

  Autolycus told his well-bred sons to prepare

  a princely feast. They followed orders gladly,

  herded an ox inside at once, five years old,

  skinned it and split the carcass into quarters,

  deftly cut it in pieces, skewered these on spits,

  roasted all to a turn and served the portions out.

  480 So all day long till the sun went down they feasted,

  consuming equal shares to their hearts’ content.

  Then when the sun had set and night came on

  they turned to bed and took the gift of sleep.

  As soon

  as young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more

  they all moved out for the hunt, hounds in the lead,

  Autolycus’ sons and Prince Odysseus in their ranks.

  Climbing Parnassus’ ridges, thick with timber,

  they quickly reached the mountain’s windy folds

  and just as the sun began to strike the plowlands,

  490 rising out of the deep calm flow of the Ocean River,

  the beaters came to a wooded glen, the hounds broke,

  hot on a trail, and right behind the pack they came,

  Autolycus’ sons —Odysseus out in front now,

  pressing the dogs, brandishing high his spear

  with its long shadow waving. Then and there

  a great boar lay in wait, in a thicket lair so dense

  that the sodden gusty winds could never pierce it,

  nor could the sun’s sharp rays invad
e its depths

  nor a downpour drench it through and through,

  500 so dense, so dark, and piled with fallen leaves.

  Here, as the hunters closed in for the kill,

  crowding the hounds, the tramp of men and dogs

  came drumming round the boar —he crashed from his lair,

  his razor back bristling, his eyes flashing fire

  and charging up to the hunt he stopped, at bay —

  and Odysseus rushed him first,

  shaking his long spear in a sturdy hand,

  wild to strike but the boar struck faster,

  lunging in on the slant, a tusk thrusting up

  510 over the boy’s knee, gouging a deep strip of flesh

  but it never hit the bone —

  Odysseus thrust and struck,

  stabbing the beast’s right shoulder —

  a glint of bronze —

  the point ripped clean through and down in the dust he dropped,

  grunting out his breath as his life winged away.

  The sons of Autolycus, working over Odysseus,

  skillfully binding up his open wound —

  the gallant, godlike prince —

  chanted an old spell that stanched the blood

  and quickly bore him home to their father’s palace.

  520 There, in no time, Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus

  healed him well and, showering him with splendid gifts,

  sped Odysseus back to his native land, to Ithaca,

  a young man filled with joy. His happy parents,

  his father and noble mother, welcomed him home

  and asked him of all his exploits, blow-by-blow:

  how did he get that wound? He told his tale with style,

  how the white tusk of a wild boar had gashed his leg,

  hunting on Parnassus with Autolycus and his sons . . .

  That scar —

  as the old nurse cradled his leg and her hands passed down

  530 she felt it, knew it, suddenly let his foot fall —

  down it dropped in the basin —the bronze clanged,

  tipping over, spilling water across the floor.

  Joy and torment gripped her heart at once,

  tears rushed to her eyes —voice choked in her throat

  she reached for Odysseus’ chin and whispered quickly,

  “Yes, yes! you are Odysseus —oh dear boy —

  I couldn’t know you before . . .

  not till I touched the body of my king!”

  She glanced at Penelope, keen to signal her

  540 that here was her own dear husband, here and now,

  but she could not catch the glance, she took no heed,

  Athena turned her attention elsewhere. But Odysseus —

  his right hand shot out, clutching the nurse’s throat,

  with his left he hugged her to himself and muttered,

  “Nurse, you want to kill me? You suckled me yourself

  at your own breast —and now I’m home, at last,

  after bearing twenty years of brutal hardship,

  home, on native ground. But now you know,

  now that a god has flashed it in your mind,

  550 quiet! not a word to anyone in the house.

  Or else, I warn you —and I mean business too —

  if a god beats down these brazen suitors at my hands,

  I will not spare you —my old nurse that you are —

  when I kill the other women in my house.”

  “Child,” shrewd old Eurycleia protested,

  “what nonsense you let slip through your teeth!

  You know me —I’m stubborn, never give an inch —

  I’ll keep still as solid rock or iron.

  One more thing. Take it to heart, I tell you.

  560 If a god beats down these brazen suitors at your hands,

  I’ll report in full on the women in your house:

  who are disloyal to you, who are guiltless.”

  “Nurse,” the cool tactician Odysseus said,

  “why bother to count them off? A waste of breath.

  I’ll observe them, judge each one myself.

  Just be quiet. Keep your tales to yourself.

  Leave the rest to the gods.”

  Hushed so,

  the old nurse went padding along the halls

  to fetch more water —her basin had all spilled —

  570 and once she’d bathed and rubbed him down with oil,

  Odysseus drew his chair up near the fire again,

  trying to keep warm,

  but he hid his scar beneath his beggar’s rags

  as cautious Penelope resumed their conversation:

  “My friend, I have only one more question for you,

  something slight, now the hour draws on for welcome sleep —

  for those who can yield to sweet repose, that is,

  heartsick as they are. As for myself, though,

  some god has sent me pain that knows no bounds.

  580 All day long I indulge myself in sighs and tears

  as I see to my tasks, direct the household women.

  When night falls and the world lies lost in sleep,

  I take to my bed, my heart throbbing, about to break,

  anxieties swarming, piercing —I may go mad with grief.

  585 Like Pandareus’ daughter, the nightingale in the green woods

  lifting her lovely song at the first warm rush of spring,

  perched in the treetops’ rustling leaves and pouring forth

  her music shifting, trilling and sinking, rippling high to burst

  589 in grief for Itylus, her beloved boy, King Zethus’ son

  590 whom she in innocence once cut down with bronze . . .

  so my wavering heart goes shuttling, back and forth:

  Do I stay beside my son and keep all things secure —

  my lands, my serving-women, the grand high-roofed house —

  true to my husband’s bed, the people’s voice as well?

  Or do I follow, at last, the best man who courts me

  here in the halls, who gives the greatest gifts?

  My son —when he was a boy and lighthearted —

  urged me not to marry and leave my husband’s house.

  But now he has grown and reached his young prime,

  600 he begs me to leave our palace, travel home.

  Telemachus, so obsessed with his own estate,

  the wealth my princely suitors bleed away.

  But please,

  read this dream for me, won’t you? Listen closely . . .

  I keep twenty geese in the house, from the water trough

  they come and peck their wheat —I love to watch them all.

  But down from a mountain swooped this great hook-beaked eagle,

  yes, and he snapped their necks and killed them one and all

  and they lay in heaps throughout the halls while he,

  back to the clear blue sky he soared at once.

  610 But I wept and wailed —only a dream, of course —

  and our well-groomed ladies came and clustered round me,

  sobbing, stricken: the eagle killed my geese. But down

  he swooped again and settling onto a jutting rafter

  called out in a human voice that dried my tears,

  ‘Courage, daughter of famous King Icarius!

  This is no dream but a happy waking vision,

  real as day, that will come true for you.

  The geese were your suitors —I was once the eagle

  but now I am your husband, back again at last,

  620 about to launch a terrible fate against them all!’

  So he vowed, and the soothing sleep released me.

  I peered around and saw my geese in the house,

  pecking at their wheat, at the same trough

  where they always took their meal.”

  “Dear woman,”

  quick Odysseus answered, “twist it h
owever you like,

  your dream can only mean one thing. Odysseus

  told you himself —he’ll make it come to pass.

  Destruction is clear for each and every suitor;

  not a soul escapes his death and doom.”

  630 “Ah my friend,” seasoned Penelope dissented,

  “dreams are hard to unravel, wayward, drifting things —

  not all we glimpse in them will come to pass . . .

  633 Two gates there are for our evanescent dreams,

  one is made of ivory, the other made of horn.

  Those that pass through the ivory cleanly carved

  are will-o’-the-wisps, their message bears no fruit.

  The dreams that pass through the gates of polished horn

  are fraught with truth, for the dreamer who can see them.

  But I can’t believe my strange dream has come that way,

  640 much as my son and I would love to have it so.

  One more thing I’ll tell you —weigh it well.

  The day that dawns today, this cursed day,

  will cut me off from Odysseus’ house. Now,

  644 I mean to announce a contest with those axes,

  the ones he would often line up here inside the hall,

  twelve in a straight unbroken row like blocks to shore a keel,

  then stand well back and whip an arrow through the lot.

  Now I will bring them on as a trial for my suitors.

  The hand that can string the bow with greatest ease,

  650 that shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes —

  he’s the man I follow, yes, forsaking this house

  where I was once a bride, this gracious house

  so filled with the best that life can offer —

  I shall always remember it, that I know . . .

  even in my dreams.”

  “Oh my queen,”

  Odysseus, man of exploits, urged her on,

  “royal wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus, now,

  don’t put off this test in the halls a moment.

  Before that crew can handle the polished bow,

  660 string it taut and shoot through all those axes —

  Odysseus, man of exploits, will be home with you!”

  “If only, my friend,” the wise Penelope replied,

  “you were willing to sit beside me in the house,

  indulging me in the comfort of your presence,

  sleep would never drift across my eyes.

  But one can’t go without one’s sleep forever.

  The immortals give each thing its proper place

  in our mortal lives throughout the good green earth.

  So now I’m going back to my room upstairs

  670 and lie down on my bed,