The <I>Odyssey</I>
Page 56
plenty of fresh logs at the stands for lighting and warming.
Another Bitter Scolding
The maid Melantho scolded Odysseus again now.
“Are you still here, stranger, to pester us all night,
wander around the house and peer at the women?
Get outdoors, you dirt! Be glad you were fed here
or soon you’ll be going outside battered by torches.”
Odysseus, full of designs, glared darkly and answered,
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“Some Power has crazed you. Why is your heart so against me?
Because I’m grimy and throw bad clothes on my body?
I beg in your land this way because of my own need.
My ways are those of a poor, wandering scraper,
though I once lived myself in a wealthy and happy
house among men. I often gave to a pauper,
whoever he was, whatever need he arrived with.
I owned slaves by the thousand and plenty of other
goods that men live well by—we call them the rich men.
But Zeus, the son of Kronos, willing it somehow,
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wrecked my life. Beware woman: you too could be losing
all that glow that makes you shine among maids now.
What if your lady also hardens her anger?
Odysseus too may arrive—there’s something of hope there.
Yet if the man is lost and will never return home,
already the son, Telemakhos, helped by Apollo,
is like the father. No reckless maid in the great hall
escapes his notice. The man is a baby no longer.”
Those were his words. Mind-full Penelopeia
listened and called the maid herself to upbraid her.
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“You bold and shameless bitch, your acts are an outrage
I know well: you’ll pay for it all with your own head.
You knew this too, you heard it all from my own mouth,
how I would ask the stranger soon in our great hall
about my husband because I’ve ached for him so much.”
Husband and Wife Speaking
♦ She spoke to Eurunome quickly, the housekeeper close by:
“Eurunome, bring us a chair and fleece in a hurry
to seat our guest. He’ll tell his tale from the outset.
He’ll hear me too, I want to ask him my questions.”
Those were her words. Eurunome hurried and brought them
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a polished chair. She placed it and threw on a sheepskin.
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus sat down
and mind-full Penelopeia started by saying,
“Stranger, the first question I’ll ask you is this one:
who are you, where do you hail from, what city and parents?”
High Praise for a Woman
An answer came from Odysseus, full of his own plans.
“No one alive on the endless earth could dispraise you,
lady: truly your name has arrived in the broad sky
♦ like that of a faultless king’s, a man who has dreaded
the Gods and mastered many powerful humans
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while holding justice high. Black soil on his farmland
yields barley and wheat, his groves are heavy with ripe fruit,
livestock breeding always, the waters are fish-filled
thanks to his rule, and under him people are thriving.
But ask me now about anything else in your great hall,
not my birth or bloodline, the land of my Fathers.
Don’t be filling my heart with more and more sadness
recalling all that. I’ve grieved so much and it’s not right
to moan and cry as I sit in the home of another.
Surely it’s bad to bemoan things over and over.
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Let me not irk your maids, trouble your own self
or say that I swam in tears with wine-heavy feelings.”
Memories and Longing
Thought-filled now, Penelopeia answered by saying,
“Stranger, the deathless Gods ravaged my body’s
goodness and beauty the day those Argives boarded
for Troy, my husband Odysseus boarding among them.
If only he came back home and cared for my life here!
My name would be greater then, my face would be fairer.
But now I mourn beneath the harm some Power has let loose.
All the nobles around us, ruling the islands
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of Same, Doulikhion, densely wooded Zakunthos
and men with homes in clear-view Ithakan country
all are unwanted suitors wearing my house down.
So I don’t fret about strangers, men who approach me
humbly or heralds doing the work of the people.
I still long for Odysseus, wearing my heart down.
The Loom
“Suitors press me to marry; I’m winding my own guile.
♦ The shroud came first, breathed in my heart by some Power.
I stood a huge loom in the palace for weaving,
a broad and fine-threaded web. I spoke to them shortly:
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‘Young men, my suitors, now that godlike Odysseus
died you’re anxious to marry. Wait till I’ve ended
my shroud-work: don’t let yarn be useless and wasted.
The shroud’s for a war-chief, Laertes, after a deadly
portion cuts him down—remorseless death is the matter.
May no Akhaian blame me now in this country
because he lies unshrouded, a winner of great wealth.’
“Those were my words. Their hearts were proud but they nodded.
So every day at the huge loom I was weaving.
And every night with a torch nearby I unwove it!
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Three years I had them fooled: the Akhaians did not know.
But then the fourth year came with its rolling of seasons,
waning months and all of the daylight ending.
The suitors got my maids, heartless bitches, to help them.
They all came, they caught me and scolded me harshly.
“So I ended my work, not willing but forced to.
I cannot avoid a marriage now and I cannot
plan otherwise. My parents have urged me to marry.
My son smarts when all our goods are devoured here.
He knows things now as a man, he cares for his own house
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greatly for ours was a household honored by great Zeus.
Not from Oak or Stone
“But tell me your own bloodline: where did you come from?
♦ You’re not from storied oak, I’m sure, or an old stone.”
Odysseus, full of designs, answered by saying,
“Honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes,
you’ll never stop that, will you, asking my birthplace?
I’ll tell you now, though you turn me over to still more
pain than I’m gripped by. That’s the way when a man goes
far from his father’s home as long as I’m gone for,
rambling through plenty of men’s cities in deep pain.
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Even so I’ll answer all of your questions.
Off Course at Krete
♦ “Krete’s a lovely land in the midst of the wine-dark
sea with its soil circled by water. No one can count them,
the people who live there—ninety cities in all now!
Tongues mingle with tongues, here are Akhaians,
there Kudones; great-souled Kretans from old times;
three clear strains of Dorians; godlike Pelasgians.
Knosos is there, the greatest city where Minos
ruled from the age of nine. He spoke with Zeus and he fathered
my own Father, the great-hearted Deukalion.
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Deukalion also fathered lordly Idomeneus,
who sailed for Troy with Atreus’s sons in their horn-prow
♦ ships. My name is Aithon. Then it was well known
though I was younger. My brother was older and stronger.
“I saw Odysseus there and I gave him the welcome
due to strangers. Strong winds had brought him to Krete.
He’d headed for Troy and was far off course from Maleia.
♦ He stopped at Amnisos. The cave of Eileithuie is right there
but no good harbor—he barely escaped from the high wind.
He came to the city fast and he sought out Idomeneus.
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He claimed as a stranger-guest to be honored and loved there.
But that was the tenth or eleventh dawn since my brother
had left in his horn-prow ship for Ilion’s country.
I brought Odysseus home myself, entertained him
gladly and warmly—my house had plenty inside it.
For those who’d joined him, all the rest of his war-friends,
I gathered from people and gave out barley, some glowing
wine and bulls to slaughter for Gods—and replenish their own hearts.
For twelve long days the godlike Akhaians remained there,
checked by the powerful Northwind. No one could keep both
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feet on the ground! Some menacing Power disturbed it.
But winds fell on the thirteenth day and they sailed off.”
Snows Melting
He told her all those lies, making them seem true.
She listened and tears flowed, her face as if thawing
far-off snow-melt high on the ridge of a mountain—
the Westwind piles up snow and Southeasterly melts it,
making for streams and widening rivers that rush down.
Her lovely cheeks were a melt of tears in the same way.
She cried for her man—and he sat nearby. But Odysseus,
with heartfelt pity for all the sobs of this woman,
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kept his eyes unmoving, as though they were iron
or polished horn. He checked his tears and beguiled her.
A Test of Memory
After she’d taken her fill of wailing and sobbing
the lady spoke once more. She answered by asking,
♦ “Stranger, now I’m thinking of testing you closely.
If all that’s true, your entertaining my husband
and godlike friends in your hall just as you said now,
tell me the sort of clothes he wore on his body,
the kind of man he was, and the men who had joined him.”
An answer came from Odysseus, full of the best plans:
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“It’s hard to say, woman, being away so
long a time. The twentieth year has already
arrived since he sailed and left the land of my Fathers.
Yet I’ll tell you how he looks in my mind now.
Godlike Odysseus wore a mantle of thick wool,
purple and doubled around. Its gold brooch had a double
working of clasps and the face design was a beauty:
a dog was holding a spotted fawn in its front paws,
it glared at its trembling prey and everyone marveled
how the dog, though of gold, kept glaring and throttling
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the fawn which flailed its hooves, anxious to race off.
Yes and I closely noted the tunic circling his body,
its shine resembling the dried-out skin of an onion—
that fine and soft—at times it glowed like the sunlight.
Plenty of women gazed at the tunic in wonder.
Clothes for a Great Guest
“I’ll say this too, thrust in your heart what I tell you:
I’m not sure if Odysseus’s clothes came from his own house
or whether a war-friend gave them, boarding their fast ship,
or maybe a host elsewhere. Odysseus often
befriended people—few Akhaians could match him.
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I gave him a bronze sword myself, a beautiful purple
mantle that doubled around and a tunic with fringes.
I sent him off on his firm-decked vessel with honor.
The Closest War-Friend
“His men? A slightly older herald had joined him.
I’ll tell you now what sort of man was the herald.
Round-shouldered, with dark complexion and thick hair,
his name was Eurubates. Odysseus prized him
more than all his war-friends. Both had the same thoughts.”
Evil, Unspeakable Troy
He spoke that way and aroused her longing to cry more.
She knew the signs were true the beggar had told her.
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After she took her fill of moaning and sobbing,
she spoke to the man once more. She answered by pledging,
“Now my guest, although you were pitied before this,