The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

by Robert Fagles

  three times his power flagged —but his hopes ran high

  he’d string his father’s bow and shoot through every iron

  and now, struggling with all his might for the fourth time,

  he would have strung the bow, but Odysseus shook his head

  and stopped him short despite his tensing zeal.

  “God help me,” the inspired prince cried out,

  150 “must I be a weakling, a failure all my life?

  Unless I’m just too young to trust my hands

  to fight off any man who rises up against me.

  Come, my betters, so much stronger than I am —

  try the bow and finish off the contest.”

  He propped his father’s weapon on the ground,

  tilting it up against the polished well-hung doors

  and resting a shaft aslant the bow’s fine horn,

  then back he went to the seat that he had left.

  “Up, friends!” Antinous called, taking over.

  160 “One man after another, left to right,

  starting from where the steward pours the wine.”

  So Antinous urged and all agreed.

  163 The first man up was Leodes, Oenops’ son,

  a seer who could see their futures in the smoke,

  who always sat by the glowing winebowl, well back,

  the one man in the group who loathed their reckless ways,

  appalled by all their outrage. His turn first . . .

  Picking up the weapon now and the swift arrow,

  he stood at the threshold, poised to try the bow

  170 but failed to bend it. As soon as he tugged the string

  his hands went slack, his soft, uncallused hands,

  and he called back to the suitors, “Friends,

  I can’t bend it. Take it, someone —try.

  Here is a bow to rob our best of life and breath,

  all our best contenders! Still, better be dead

  than live on here, never winning the prize

  that tempts us all —forever in pursuit,

  burning with expectation every day.

  If there’s still a suitor here who hopes,

  180 who aches to marry Penelope, Odysseus’ wife,

  just let him try the bow; he’ll see the truth!

  He’ll soon lay siege to another Argive woman

  trailing her long robes, and shower her with gifts —

  and then our queen can marry the one who offers most,

  the man marked out by fate to be her husband.”

  With those words he thrust the bow aside,

  tilting it up against the polished well-hung doors

  and resting a shaft aslant the bow’s fine horn,

  then back he went to the seat that he had left.

  190 But Antinous turned on the seer, abuses flying:

  “Leodes! what are you saying? what’s got past your lips?

  What awful, grisly nonsense —it shocks me to hear it —

  ‘here is a bow to rob our best of life and breath!’

  Just because you can’t string it, you’re so weak?

  Clearly your genteel mother never bred her boy

  for the work of bending bows and shooting arrows.

  We have champions in our ranks to string it quickly.

  Hop to it, Melanthius!” —he barked at the goatherd —

  “Rake the fire in the hall, pull up a big stool,

  200 heap it with fleece and fetch that hefty ball

  of lard from the stores inside. So we young lords

  can heat and limber the bow and rub it down with grease

  before we try again and finish off the contest!”

  The goatherd bustled about to rake the fire

  still going strong. He pulled up a big stool,

  heaped it with fleece and fetched the hefty ball

  of lard from the stores inside. And the young men

  limbered the bow, rubbing it down with hot grease,

  then struggled to bend it back but failed. No use —

  210 they fell far short of the strength the bow required.

  Antinous still held off, dashing Eurymachus too,

  the ringleaders of all the suitors,

  head and shoulders the strongest of the lot.

  But now

  the king’s two men, the cowherd and the swineherd,

  had slipped out of the palace side-by-side

  and great Odysseus left the house to join them.

  Once they were past the courtyard and the gates

  he probed them deftly, surely: “Cowherd, swineherd,

  what, shall I blurt this out or keep it to myself?

  220 No, speak out. The heart inside me says so.

  How far would you go to fight beside Odysseus?

  Say he dropped like that from a clear blue sky

  and a god brought him back —

  would you fight for the suitors or your king?

  Tell me how you feel inside your hearts.”

  “Father Zeus,” the trusty cowherd shouted,

  “bring my prayer to pass! Let the master come —

  some god guide him now! You’d see my power,

  my fighting arms in action!”

  230 Eumaeus echoed his prayer to all the gods

  that their wise king would soon come home again.

  Certain at least these two were loyal to the death,

  Odysseus reassured them quickly: “I’m right here,

  here in the flesh —myself —and home at last,

  after bearing twenty years of brutal hardship.

  Now I know that of all my men you two alone

  longed for my return. From the rest I’ve heard

  not one real prayer that I come back again.

  So now I’ll tell you what’s in store for you.

  240 If a god beats down the lofty suitors at my hands,

  I’ll find you wives, both of you, grant you property,

  sturdy houses beside my own, and in my eyes you’ll be

  comrades to Prince Telemachus, brothers from then on.

  Come, I’ll show you something —living proof —

  know me for certain, put your minds at rest.

  This scar,

  look, where a boar’s white tusk gored me, years ago,

  hunting on Parnassus, Autolycus’ sons and I.”

  With that,

  pushing back his rags, he revealed the great scar . . .

  And the men gazed at it, scanned it, knew it well,

  250 broke into tears and threw their arms around their master —

  lost in affection, kissing his head and shoulders,

  and so Odysseus kissed their heads and hands.

  Now the sun would have set upon their tears

  if Odysseus had not called a halt himself.

  “No more weeping. Coming out of the house

  a man might see us, tell the men inside.

  Let’s slip back in —singly, not in a pack.

  I’ll go first. You’re next. Here’s our signal.

  When all the rest in there, our lordly friends,

  260 are dead against my having the bow and quiver,

  good Eumaeus, carry the weapon down the hall

  and put it in my hands. Then tell the serving-women

  to lock the snugly fitted doors to their own rooms.

  If anyone hears from there the jolting blows

  and groans of men, caught in our huge net,

  not one of them show her face —

  sit tight, keep to her weaving, not a sound.

  You, my good Philoetius, here are your orders.

  Shoot the bolt of the courtyard’s outer gate,

  lock it, lash it fast.”

  270 With that command

  the master entered his well-constructed house

  and back he went to the stool that he had left.

  The king’s two men, in turn, slipped in as well.

  Just now Eurymachus held th
e bow in his hands,

  turning it over, tip to tip, before the blazing fire

  to heat the weapon. But he failed to bend it even so

  and the suitor’s high heart groaned to bursting.

  “A black day,” he exclaimed in wounded pride,

  “a blow to myself, a blow to each man here!

  280 It’s less the marriage that mortifies me now —

  that’s galling too, but lots of women are left,

  some in seagirt Ithaca, some in other cities.

  What breaks my heart is the fact we fall so short

  of great Odysseus’ strength we cannot string his bow.

  285 A disgrace to ring in the ears of men to come.”

  “Eurymachus,” Eupithes’ son Antinous countered,

  “it will never come to that, as you well know.

  Today is a feast-day up and down the island

  in honor of the Archer God. Who flexes bows today?

  290 Set it aside. Rest easy now. And all the axes,

  let’s just leave them planted where they are.

  Trust me, no one’s about to crash the gates

  of Laertes’ son and carry off these trophies.

  Steward, pour some drops for the god in every cup,

  we’ll tip the wine, then put the bow to bed.

  And first thing in the morning have Melanthius

  bring the pick of his goats from all his herds

  so we can burn the thighs to Apollo, god of archers —

  then try the bow and finish off the contest.”

  300 Welcome advice. And again they all agreed.

  Heralds sprinkled water over their hands for rinsing,

  the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine,

  they tipped first drops for the god in every cup,

  then poured full rounds for all. And now, once

  they’d tipped libations out and drunk their fill,

  the king of craft, Odysseus, said with all his cunning,

  “Listen to me, you lords who court the noble queen.

  I have to say what the heart inside me urges.

  I appeal especially to Eurymachus, and you,

  310 brilliant Antinous, who spoke so shrewdly now.

  Give the bow a rest for today, leave it to the gods —

  at dawn the Archer God will grant a victory

  to the man he favors most.

  For the moment,

  give me the polished bow now, won’t you? So,

  to amuse you all, I can try my hand, my strength . . .

  is the old force still alive inside these gnarled limbs?

  Or has a life of roaming, years of rough neglect,

  destroyed it long ago?”

  Modest words

  that sent them all into hot, indignant rage,

  320 fearing he just might string the polished bow.

  So Antinous rounded on him, dressed him down:

  “Not a shred of sense in your head, you filthy drifter!

  Not content to feast at your ease with us, the island’s pride?

  Never denied your full share of the banquet, never,

  you can listen in on our secrets. No one else

  can eavesdrop on our talk, no tramp, no beggar.

  The wine has overpowered you, heady wine —

  the ruin of many another man, whoever

  gulps it down and drinks beyond his limit.

  330 Wine —it drove the Centaur, famous Eurytion,

  331 mad in the halls of lionhearted Pirithous.

  332 There to visit the Lapiths, crazed with wine

  the headlong Centaur bent to his ugly work

  in the prince’s own house! His hosts sprang up,

  seized with fury, dragged him across the forecourt,

  flung him out of doors, hacking his nose and ears off

  with their knives, no mercy. The creature reeled away,

  still blind with drink, his heart like a wild storm,

  loaded with all the frenzy in his mind!

  And so

  340 the feud between mortal men and Centaurs had its start.

  But the drunk was first to bring disaster on himself

  by drowning in his cups. You too, I promise you

  no end of trouble if you should string that bow.

  You’ll meet no kindness in our part of the world —

  we’ll sail you off in a black ship to Echetus,

  the mainland king who wrecks all men alive.

  Nothing can save you from his royal grip!

  So drink, but hold your peace,

  don’t take on the younger, stronger men.”

  350 “Antinous,” watchful Penelope stepped in,

  “how impolite it would be, how wrong, to scant

  whatever guest Telemachus welcomes to his house.

  You really think —if the stranger trusts so to his hands

  and strength that he strings Odysseus’ great bow —

  he’ll take me home and claim me as his bride?

  He never dreamed of such a thing, I’m sure.

  Don’t let that ruin the feast for any reveler here.

  Unthinkable —nothing, nothing could be worse.”

  Polybus’ son Eurymachus had an answer:

  360 “Wise Penelope, daughter of Icarius, do we really

  expect the man to wed you? Unthinkable, I know.

  But we do recoil at the talk of men and women.

  One of the island’s meaner sort will mutter,

  ‘Look at the riffraff courting a king’s wife.

  Weaklings, look, they can’t even string his bow.

  But along came this beggar, drifting out of the blue —

  strung his bow with ease and shot through all the axes!’

  Gossip will fly. We’ll hang our heads in shame.”

  “Shame?” alert Penelope protested —

  370 “How can you hope for any public fame at all?

  You who disgrace, devour a great man’s house and home!

  Why hang your heads in shame over next to nothing?

  Our friend here is a strapping, well-built man

  and claims to be the son of a noble father.

  Come, hand him the bow now, let’s just see . . .

  I tell you this —and I’ll make good my word —

  if he strings the bow and Apollo grants him glory,

  I’ll dress him in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes,

  I’ll give him a good sharp lance to fight off men and dogs,

  380 give him a two-edged sword and sandals for his feet

  and send him off, wherever his heart desires.”

  “Mother,”

  poised Telemachus broke in now, “my father’s bow —

  no Achaean on earth has more right than I

  to give it or withhold it, as I please.

  Of all the lords in Ithaca’s rocky heights

  or the islands facing Elis grazed by horses,

  not a single one will force or thwart my will,

  even if I decide to give our guest this bow —

  a gift outright —to carry off himself.

  So, mother,

  390 go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks,

  the distaff and the loom, and keep the women

  working hard as well. As for the bow now,

  men will see to that, but I most of all:

  I hold the reins of power in this house.”

  Astonished,

  she withdrew to her own room. She took to heart

  the clear good sense in what her son had said.

  Climbing up to the lofty chamber with her women,

  she fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband,

  till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep.

  400 And now the loyal swineherd had lifted up the bow,

  was taking it toward the king, when all the suitors

  burst out in an ugly uproar through the palace —

  brash young bullies, t
his or that one heckling,

  “Where on earth are you going with that bow?”

  “You, you grubby swineherd, are you crazy?”

  “The speedy dogs you reared will eat your corpse —”

  “Out there with your pigs, out in the cold, alone!”

  “If only Apollo and all the gods shine down on us!”

  Eumaeus froze in his tracks, put down the bow,

  410 panicked by every outcry in the hall.

  Telemachus shouted too, from the other side,

  and full of threats: “Carry on with the bow, old boy!

  If you serve too many masters, you’ll soon suffer.

  Look sharp, or I’ll pelt you back to your farm

  with flying rocks. I may be younger than you

  but I’m much stronger. If only I had that edge

  in fists and brawn over all this courting crowd,

  I’d soon dispatch them —licking their wounds at last —

  clear of our palace where they plot their vicious plots!”

  420 His outburst sent them all into gales of laughter,

  blithe and oblivious, that dissolved their pique

  against the prince. The swineherd took the bow,

  carried it down the hall to his ready, waiting king

  and standing by him, placed it in his hands,

  then he called the nurse aside and whispered,

  “Good Eurycleia —Telemachus commands you now

  to lock the snugly fitted doors to your own rooms.

  If anyone hears from there the jolting blows

  and groans of men, caught in our huge net,

  430 not one of you show your face —

  sit tight, keep to your weaving, not a sound.”

  That silenced the old nurse —

  she barred the doors that led from the long hall.

  The cowherd quietly bounded out of the house

  to lock the gates of the high-stockaded court.

  Under the portico lay a cable, ship’s tough gear:

  he lashed the gates with this, then slipped back in

  and ran and sat on the stool that he’d just left,

  eyes riveted on Odysseus.

  Now he held the bow

  440 in his own hands, turning it over, tip to tip,

  testing it, this way, that way . . . fearing worms

  had bored through the weapon’s horn with the master gone abroad.

  A suitor would glance at his neighbor, jeering, taunting,

  “Look at our connoisseur of bows!”

  “Sly old fox —