The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

by Homer

  Book 23

  The Argument

  Ulysses to his wife is known,

  A brief sum of his travels shown.

  Himself, his son, and servants go

  T’ approve the wooers’ overthrow.

  Another Argument

  Psi

  For all annoys

  Sustain’d before,

  The true wife’s joys

  Now made the more.

  Book 23

  The servants thus inform’d, the matron goes

  Up where the queen was cast in such repose,

  Affected with a fervent joy to tell

  What all this time she did with pain conceal.

  Her knees revok’d their first strength, and her feet

  Were borne above the ground with wings to greet

  The long-griev’d queen with news her king was come;

  And, near her, said: ‘Wake, leave this withdrawn room,

  That now your eyes may see at length, though late,

  The man return’d, which all the heavy date

  Your woes have rack’d out, you have long’d to see.

  Ulysses is come home, and hath set free

  His court of all your wooers, slaughtering all

  For wasting so his goods with festival,

  His house so vexing, and for violence done

  So all ways varied to his only son.’

  She answer’d her: ‘The gods have made thee mad,

  Of whose pow’r now thy pow’rs such proof have had.

  The gods can blind with follies wisest eyes,

  And make men foolish, so to make them wise.

  For they have hurt ev’n thy grave brain, that bore

  An understanding spirit heretofore.

  Why hast thou wak’d me to more tears, when moan

  Hath turn’d my mind with tears into her own?

  Thy madness much more blameful, that with lies

  Thy haste is laden, and both robs mine eyes

  Of most delightsome sleep, and sleep of them,

  That now had bound me in his sweet extreme,

  T’ embrace my lids and close my visual spheres.

  I have not slept so much this twenty years,

  Since first my dearest sleeping-mate was gone

  For that too-ill-to-speak-of Ilion.

  Hence, take your mad steps back. If any maid

  Of all my train besides a part had play’d

  So bold to wake, and tell mine ears such lies,

  I had return’d her to her housewif’ries

  With good proof of my wrath to such rude dames.

  But go, your years have sav’d their younger blames.’

  She answer’d her: ‘I nothing wrong your ear,

  But tell the truth. Your long-miss’d lord is here,

  And with the wooers’ slaughter his own hand,

  In chief exploit, hath to his own command

  Reduc’d his house; and that poor guest was he

  That all those wooers wrought such injury.

  Telemachus had knowledge long ago

  That ’twas his father, but his wisdom so

  Observ’d his counsels, to give surer end

  To that great work to which they did contend.’

  This call’d her spirits to their conceiving places;

  She sprung for joy from blames into embraces

  Of her grave nurse, wip’d every tear away

  From her fair cheeks, and then began to say

  What nurse said over thus: ‘O nurse, can this

  Be true thou say’st? How could that hand of his

  Alone destroy so many? They would still

  Troop all together. How could he then kill

  Such numbers so united?’ ‘How,’ said she,

  ‘I have not seen nor heard, but certainly

  The deed is done. We sat within in fear,

  The doors shut on us, and from thence might hear

  The sighs and groans of every man he slew,

  But heard nor saw more, till at length there flew

  Your son’s voice to mine ear, that call’d to me,

  And bade me then come forth, and then I see

  Ulysses standing in the midst of all

  Your slaughter’d wooers, heap’d up like a wall,

  One on another round about his side.

  It would have done you good to have descried

  Your conquering lord all smear’d with blood and gore

  So like a lion. Straight, then, off they bore

  The slaughter’d carcasses, that now before

  The forecourt gates lie, one on another pil’d.

  And now your victor all the hall, defil’d

  With stench of hot death, is perfuming round,

  And with a mighty fire the hearth hath crown’d.

  Thus, all the death remov’d, and every room

  Made sweet and sightly, that yourself should come

  His pleasure sent me. Come, then, take you now

  Your mutual fills of comfort. Grief on you

  Hath long and many suff’rings laid; which length,

  Which many suff’rings, now your virtuous strength

  Of uncorrupted chasteness hath conferr’d

  A happy end to. He that long hath err’d

  Is safe arriv’d at home; his wife, his son,

  Found safe and good; all ill that hath been done

  On all the doers’ heads, though long prolong’d,

  His right hath wreak’d, and in the place they wrong’d.’

  She answer’d: ‘Do not you now laugh and boast

  As you had done some great act, seeing most

  Into his being; for you know he won

  (Ev’n through his poor and vile condition)

  A kind of prompted thought that there was plac’d

  Some virtue in him fit to be embrac’d –

  By all the house, but most of all by me,

  And by my son that was the progeny

  Of both our loves. And yet it is not he,

  For all the likely proofs ye plead to me.

  Some god hath slain the wooers in disdain

  Of the abhorred pride he saw so reign

  In those base works they did. No man alive,

  Or good or bad, whoever did arrive

  At their abodes once, ever could obtain

  Regard of them; and therefore their so vain

  And vile deserts have found as vile an end.

  But for Ulysses, never will extend

  His wish’d return to Greece, nor he yet lives.’

  ‘How strange a queen are you,’ said she, ‘that gives

  No truth your credit; that your husband, set

  Close in his house at fire, can purchase yet

  No faith of you, but that he still is far

  From any home of his! Your wit’s at war

  With all credulity ever! And yet now

  I’ll name a sign shall force belief from you:

  I bath’d him lately, and beheld the scar

  That still remains a mark too ocular

  To leave your heart yet blinded; and I then

  Had run and told you, but his hand was fain

  To close my lips from th’ acclamation

  My heart was breathing, and his wisdom won

  My still retention, till he gave me leave

  And charge to tell you this. Now then receive

  My life for gage of his return; which take

  In any cruel fashion, if I make

  All thi
s not clear to you.’ ‘Lov’d nurse,’ said she,

  ‘Though many things thou know’st, yet these things be

  Veil’d in the counsels th’ uncreated gods

  Have long time mask’d in; whose dark periods

  ’Tis hard for thee to see into. But come,

  Let’s see my son, the slain, and him by whom

  They had their slaughter.’ This said, down they went;

  When, on the queen’s part, divers thoughts were spent:

  If, all this giv’n no faith, she still should stand

  Aloof, and question more, or his hugg’d hand

  And loved head she should at first assay

  With free-giv’n kisses. When her doubtful way

  Had pass’d the stony pavement, she took seat

  Against her husband, in the opposite heat

  The fire then cast upon the other wall.

  Himself set by the column of the hall,

  His looks cast downwards, and expected still

  When her incredulous and curious will

  To shun ridiculous error, and the shame

  To kiss a husband that was not the same,

  Would down, and win enough faith from his sight.

  She silent sat, and her perplexed plight

  Amaze encounter’d. Sometimes she stood clear

  He was her husband; sometimes the ill wear

  His person had put on transform’d him so

  That yet his stamp would hardly current go.

  Her son, her strangeness seeing, blam’d her thus:

  ‘Mother, ungentle mother! Tyrannous

  In this too curious modesty you show!

  Why sit you from my father, nor bestow

  A word on me t’ enquire and clear such doubt

  As may perplex you? Found man ever out

  One other such a wife that could forbear

  Her lov’d lord’s welcome home, when twenty year

  In infinite suff’rance he had spent apart.

  No flint so hard is as a woman’s heart.’

  ‘My son,’ said she, ‘amaze contains my mind,

  Nor can I speak and use the common kind

  Of those enquiries, nor sustain to see

  With opposite looks his count’nance. If this be

  My true Ulysses now return’d, there are

  Tokens betwixt us of more fitness far

  To give me argument he is my lord;

  And my assurance of him may afford

  My proofs of joy for him from all these eyes

  With more decorum than object their guise

  To public notice.’ The much-sufferer brake

  In laughter out, and to his son said: ‘Take

  Your mother from the prease, that she may make

  Her own proofs of me, which perhaps may give

  More cause to the acknowledgments that drive

  Their show thus off. But now, because I go

  So poorly clad, she takes disdain to know

  So loath’d a creature for her loved lord.

  Let us consult, then, how we may accord

  The town to our late action. Some one slain

  Hath made the all-left slaught’rer of him fain

  To fly his friends and country; but our swords

  Have slain a city’s most supportful lords,

  The chief peers of the kingdom; therefore see

  You use wise means t’ uphold your victory.’

  ‘See you to that, good father,’ said the son,

  ‘Whose counsels have the sov’reign glory won

  From all men living. None will strive with you,

  But with unquestion’d garlands grace your brow,

  To whom our whole alacrities we vow

  In free attendance. Nor shall our hands leave

  Your onsets needy of supplies to give

  All the effects that in our pow’rs can fall.’

  ‘Then this,’ said he, ‘to me seems capital

  Of all choice courses: bathe we first, and then

  Attire we freshly, all our maids and men

  Enjoining likewise to their best attire.

  The sacred singer then let touch his lyre,

  And go before us all in graceful dance,

  That all without, to whose ears shall advance

  Our cheerful accents, or of travellers by,

  Or firm inhabitants, solemnity

  Of frolic nuptials may imagine here.

  And this perform we, lest the massacre

  Of all our wooers be divulg’d about

  The ample city, ere ourselves get out

  And greet my father in his grove of trees;

  Where, after, we will prove what policies

  Olympius shall suggest to overcome

  Our latest toils, and crown our welcome home.’

  This all obey’d; bath’d, put on fresh attire

  Both men and women did. Then took his lyre

  The holy singer, and set thirst on fire

  With songs and faultless dances; all the court

  Rung with the footings that the numerous sport

  From jocund men drew and fair-girdled dames;

  Which heard abroad, thus flew the common fames:

  ‘This sure the day is when the much-woo’d queen

  Is richly wed. O wretch, that hath not been

  So constant as to keep her ample house

  Till th’ utmost hour had brought her foremost spouse.’

  Thus some conceiv’d, but little knew the thing.

  And now Eurynome had bath’d the king,

  Smooth’d him with oils, and he himself attir’d

  In vestures royal. Her part then inspir’d,

  The goddess Pallas deck’d his head and face

  With infinite beauties, gave a goodly grace

  Of stature to him, a much plumper plight

  Through all his body breath’d, curls soft and bright

  Adorn’d his head withal, and made it show

  As if the flowery hyacinth did grow

  In all his pride there, in the general trim

  Of every lock and every curious limb.

  Look how a skilful artizan, well seen

  In all arts metalline, as having been

  Taught by Minerva and the god of fire,

  Doth gold with silver mix so that entire

  They keep their self-distinction, and yet so

  That to the silver from the gold doth flow

  A much more artificial lustre than his own,

  And thereby to the gold itself is grown

  A greater glory than if wrought alone,

  Both being stuck off by either’s mixtion:

  So did Minerva her’s and his combine;

  He more in her, she more in him, did shine.

  Like an immortal from the bath he rose,

  And to his wife did all his grace dispose,

  Encount’ring thus her strangeness: ‘Cruel dame,

  Of all that breathe, the gods past steel and flame

  Have made thee ruthless. Life retains not one

  Of all dames else that bears so overgrown

  A mind with abstinence, as twenty years

  To miss her husband, drown’d in woes and tears,

  And at his coming keep aloof, and fare

  As of his so long absence and his care

  No sense had seiz’d her. Go, nurse, make a bed,

  That I alone may sleep; her heart is dead

  To all reflection!’ To him thus replied

  The
wise Penelope: ‘Man half deified,

  ’Tis not my fashion to be taken straight

  With bravest men, nor poorest use to slight.

  Your mean appearance made not me retire,

  Nor this your rich show makes me now admire,

  Nor moves at all; for what is all to me

  If not my husband? All his certainty

  I knew at parting; but, so long apart,

  The outward likeness holds no full desert

  For me to trust to. Go, nurse, see address’d

  A soft bed for him, and the single rest

  Himself affects so. Let it be the bed

  That stands within our bridal chamber-stead,

  Which he himself made. Bring it forth from thence,

  And see it furnish’d with magnificence.’

  This said she to assay him, and did stir

  Ev’n his establish’d patience, and to her;

  Whom thus he answer’d: ‘Woman! Your words prove

  My patience strangely. Who is it can move

  My bed out of his place? It shall oppress

  Earth’s greatest understander; and, unless

  Ev’n god himself come, that can easily grace

  Men in their most skills, it shall hold his place;

  For man, he lives not that (as not most skill’d,

  So not most young) shall easily make it yield,

  If, building on the strength in which he flows,

  He adds both levers too and iron crows.

  For in the fixture of the bed is shown

  A masterpiece, a wonder; and ’twas done

  By me, and none but me, and thus was wrought:

  There was an olive-tree that had his growth

  Amidst a hedge, and was of shadow proud,

  Fresh, and the prime age of his verdure show’d,

  His leaves and arms so thick that to the eye

  It show’d a column for solidity.

  To this had I a comprehension

  To build my bridal bow’r; which all of stone,

  Thick as the tree of leaves, I rais’d, and cast

  A roof about it nothing meanly grac’d,

  Put glu’d doors to it, that op’d art enough.

  Then from the olive every broad-leav’d bough

  I lopp’d away; then fell’d the tree, and then

  Went over it both with my axe and plane,

  Both govern’d by my line. And then I hew’d

  My curious bedstead out; in which I shew’d

  Work of no common hand. All this begun,

  I could not leave till to perfection

  My pains had brought it; took my wimble, bor’d

  The holes, as fitted, and did last afford