The Odyssey: The Fitzgerald Translation

by Homer;Robert Fitzgerald

  and rocky Ithaka’s young lords as well,

  are here courting my mother; and they use

  our house as if it were a house to plunder.

  Spurn them she dare not, though she hates that marriage,

  nor can she bring herself to choose among them.

  Meanwhile they eat their way through all we have,

  and when they will, they can demolish me.”

  Pallas Athena was disturbed, and said:

  “Ah, bitterly you need Odysseus, then!

  High time he came back to engage these upstarts.

  I wish we saw him standing helmeted

  there in the doorway, holding shield and spear,

  looking the way he did when I first knew him.

  That was at our house, where he drank and feasted

  after he left Ephyra, homeward bound

  from a visit to the son of Mérmeris, Ilos.

  He took his fast ship down the gulf that time

  for a fatal drug to dip his arrows in

  and poison the bronze points; but young Ilos

  turned him away, fearing the gods’ wrath.

  My father gave it, for he loved him well.

  I wish these men could meet the man of those days!

  They’d know their fortune quickly: a cold bed.

  Aye! but it lies upon the gods’ great knees

  whether he can return and force a reckoning

  in his own house, or not.

  If I were you,

  I should take steps to make these men disperse.

  Listen, now, and attend to what I say:

  at daybreak call the islanders to assembly,

  and speak your will, and call the gods to witness:

  the suitors must go scattering to their homes.

  Then here’s a course for you, if you agree:

  get a sound craft afloat with twenty oars

  and go abroad for news of your lost father—

  perhaps a traveller’s tale, or rumored fame

  issued from Zeus abroad in the world of men.

  Talk to that noble sage at Pylos, Nestor,

  then go to Meneláos, the red-haired king

  at Sparta, last man home of all the Akhaians.

  If you should learn your father is alive

  and coming home, you could hold out a year.

  Or if you learn that he is dead and gone,

  then you can come back to your own dear country

  and raise a mound for him, and burn his gear,

  with all the funeral honors due the man,

  and give your mother to another husband.

  When you have done all this, or seen it done,

  it will be time to ponder

  concerning these contenders in your house—

  how you should kill them, outright or by guile.

  You need not bear this insolence of theirs,

  you are a child no longer. Have you heard

  what glory young Orestês won

  when he cut down that two-faced man, Aigísthos,

  for killing his illustrious father?

  Dear friend, you are tall and well set-up, I see;

  be brave—you, too—and men in times to come

  will speak of you respectfully.

  Now I must join my ship;

  my crew will grumble if I keep them waiting.

  Look to yourself; remember what I told you.”

  Telémakhos replied:

  “Friend, you have done me

  kindness, like a father to his son,

  and I shall not forget your counsel ever.

  You must get back to sea, I know, but come

  take a hot bath, and rest; accept a gift

  to make your heart lift up when you embark—

  some precious thing, and beautiful, from me,

  a keepsake, such as dear friends give their friends.”

  But the grey-eyed goddess Athena answered him:

  “Do not delay me, for I love the sea ways.

  As for the gift your heart is set on giving,

  let me accept it on my passage home,

  and you shall have a choice gift in exchange.”

  With this Athena left him

  as a bird rustles upward, off and gone.

  But as she went she put new spirit in him,

  a new dream of his father, clearer now,

  so that he marvelled to himself

  divining that a god had been his guest.

  Then godlike in his turn he joined the suitors.

  The famous minstrel still sang on before them,

  and they sat still and listened, while he sang

  that bitter song, the Homecoming of Akhaians—

  how by Athena’s will they fared from Troy;

  and in her high room careful Penélopê,

  Ikarios’ daughter, heeded the holy song.

  She came, then, down the long stairs of her house,

  this beautiful lady, with two maids in train

  attending her as she approached the suitors;

  and near a pillar of the roof she paused,

  her shining veil drawn over across her cheeks,

  the two girls close to her and still,

  and through her tears spoke to the noble minstrel:

  “Phêmios, other spells you know, high deeds

  of gods and heroes, as the poets tell them;

  let these men hear some other; let them sit

  silent and drink their wine. But sing no more

  this bitter tale that wears my heart away.

  It opens in me again the wound of longing

  for one incomparable, ever in my mind—

  his fame all Hellas knows, and midland Argos.”

  But Telémakhos intervened and said to her:

  “Mother, why do you grudge our own dear minstrel

  joy of song, wherever his thought may lead?

  Poets are not to blame, but Zeus who gives

  what fate he pleases to adventurous men.

  Here is no reason for reproof: to sing

  the news of the Danaans! Men like best

  a song that rings like morning on the ear.

  But you must nerve yourself and try to listen.

  Odysseus was not the only one at Troy

  never to know the day of his homecoming.

  Others, how many others, lost their lives!”

  The lady gazed in wonder and withdrew,

  her son’s clear wisdom echoing in her mind.

  But when she had mounted to her rooms again

  with her two handmaids, then she fell to weeping

  for Odysseus, her husband. Grey-eyed Athena

  presently cast a sweet sleep on her eyes.

  Meanwhile the din grew loud in the shadowy hall

  as every suitor swore to lie beside her,

  but Telémakhos turned now and spoke to them:

  “You suitors of my mother! Insolent men,

  now we have dined, let us have entertainment

  and no more shouting. There can be no pleasure

  so fair as giving heed to a great minstrel

  like ours, whose voice itself is pure delight.

  At daybreak we shall sit down in assembly

  and I shall tell you—take it as you will—

  you are to leave this hall. Go feasting elsewhere,

  consume your own stores. Turn and turn about,

  use one another’s houses. If you choose

  to slaughter one man’s livestock and pay nothing,

  this is rapine; and by the eternal gods

  I beg Zeus you shall get what you deserve:

  a slaughter here, and nothing paid for it!”

  By now their teeth seemed fixed in their under-lips,

  Telémakhos’ bold speaking stunned them so.

  Antínoös, Eupeithes’ son, made answer:

  “Telémakhos, no doubt the gods themselves

  are teaching you this high and mighty manner.

  Zeus
forbid you should be king in Ithaka,

  though you are eligible as your father’s son.”

  Telémakhos kept his head and answered him:

  “Antínoös, you may not like my answer,

  but I would happily be king, if Zeus

  conferred the prize. Or do you think it wretched?

  I shouldn’t call it bad at all. A king

  will be respected, and his house will flourish.

  But there are eligible men enough,

  heaven knows, on the island, young and old,

  and one of them perhaps may come to power

  after the death of King Odysseus.

  All I insist on is that I rule our house

  and rule the slaves my father won for me.”

  Eurymakhos, Pólybos’ son, replied:

  “Telémakhos, it is on the gods’ great knees

  who will be king in sea-girt Ithaka.

  But keep your property, and rule your house,

  and let no man, against your will, make havoc

  of your possessions, while there’s life on Ithaka.

  But now, my brave young friend,

  a question or two about the stranger.

  Where did your guest come from? Of what country?

  Where does he say his home is, and his family?

  Has he some message of your father’s coming,

  or business of his own, asking a favor?

  He left so quickly that one hadn’t time

  to meet him, but he seemed a gentleman.”

  Telémakhos made answer, cool enough:

  “Eurýmakhos, there’s no hope for my father.

  I would not trust a message, if one came,

  nor any forecaster my mother invites

  to tell by divination of time to come.

  My guest, however, was a family friend,

  Mentês, son of Ankhialos.

  He rules the Taphian people of the sea.”

  So said Telémakhos, though in his heart

  he knew his visitor had been immortal.

  But now the suitors turned to play again

  with dance and haunting song. They stayed till nightfall,

  indeed black night came on them at their pleasure,

  and half asleep they left, each for his home.

  Telémakhos’ bedroom was above the court,

  a kind of tower, with a view all round;

  here he retired to ponder in the silence,

  while carrying brands of pine alight beside him

  Eurýkleia went padding, sage and old.

  Her father had been Ops, Peisênor’s son,

  and she had been a purchase of Laërtês

  when she was still a blossoming girl. He gave

  the price of twenty oxen for her, kept her

  as kindly in his house as his own wife,

  though, for the sake of peace, he never touched her.

  No servant loved Telémakhos as she did,

  she who had nursed him in his infancy.

  So now she held the light, as he swung open

  the door of his neat freshly painted chamber.

  There he sat down, pulling his tunic off,

  and tossed it into the wise old woman’s hands.

  She folded it and smoothed it, and then hung it

  beside the inlaid bed upon a bar;

  then, drawing the door shut by its silver handle

  she slid the catch in place and went away.

  And all night long, wrapped in the finest fleece,

  he took in thought the course Athena gave him.

  BOOK II

  A HERO’S SON AWAKENS

  When primal Dawn spread on the eastern sky

  her fingers of pink light, Odysseus’ true son

  stood up, drew on his tunic and his mantle,

  slung on a sword-belt and a new-edged sword,

  tied his smooth feet into good rawhide sandals,

  and left his room, a god’s brilliance upon him.

  He found the criers with clarion voices and told them

  to muster the unshorn Akhaians in full assembly.

  The call sang out, and the men came streaming in;

  and when they filled the assembly ground, he entered,

  spear in hand, with two quick hounds at heel;

  Athena lavished on him a sunlit grace

  that held the eye of the multitude. Old men

  made way for him as he took his father’s chair.

  Now Lord Aigýptios, bent down and sage with years,

  opened the assembly. This man’s son

  had served under the great Odysseus, gone

  in the decked ships with him to the wild horse country

  of Troy—a spearman, Antiphos by name.

  The ravenous Kyklops in the cave destroyed him

  last in his feast of men. Three other sons

  the old man had, and one, Eurýnomos,

  went with the suitors; two farmed for their father;

  but even so the old man pined, remembering

  the absent one, and a tear welled up as he spoke:

  “Hear me, Ithakans! Hear what I have to say.

  No meeting has been held here since our king,

  Odysseus, left port in the decked ships.

  Who finds occasion for assembly, now?

  one of the young men? one of the older lot?

  Has he had word our fighters are returning—

  news to report if he got wind of it—

  or is it something else, touching the realm?

  The man has vigor, I should say; more power to him.

  Whatever he desires, may Zeus fulfill it.”

  The old man’s words delighted the son of Odysseus,

  who kept his chair no longer but stood up,

  eager to speak, in the midst of all the men.

  The crier, Peisênor, master of debate,

  brought him the staff and placed it in his hand;

  then the boy touched the old man’s shoulder, and said:

  “No need to wonder any more, Sir,

  whc called this session. The distress is mine.

  As to our troops returning, I have no news—

  news to report if I got wind of it—

  nor have I public business to propose;

  only my need, and the trouble of my house—

  the troubles.

  My distinguished father is lost,

  who ruled among you once, mild as a father,

  and there is now this greater evil still:

  my home and all I have are being ruined.

  Mother wanted no suitors, but like a pack

  they came—sons of the best men here among them—

  lads with no stomach for an introduction

  to Ikarios, her father across the sea;

  he would require a wedding gift, and give her

  to someone who found favor in her eyes.

  No; these men spend their days around our house

  killing our beeves and sheep and fatted goats,

  carousing, soaking up our good dark wine,

  not caring what they do. They squander everything.

  We have no strong Odysseus to defend us,

  and as to putting up a fight ourselves—

  we’d only show our incompetence in arms.

  Expel them, yes, if I only had the power;

  the whole thing’s out of hand, insufferable.

  My house is being plundered: is this courtesy?

  Where is your indignation? Where is your shame?

  Think of the talk in the islands all around us,

  and fear the wrath of the gods,

  or they may turn, and send you some devilry.

  Friends, by Olympian Zeus and holy Justice

  that holds men in assembly and sets them free,

  make an end of this! Let me lament in peace

  my private loss. Or did my father, Odysseus,

  ever do injury to the armed Akhaians?

  Is this your
way of taking it out on me,

  giving free rein to these young men?

  I might as well—might better—see my treasure

  and livestock taken over by you all;

  then, if you fed on them, I’d have some remedy,

  and when we met, in public, in the town,

  I’d press my claim; you might make restitution.

  This way you hurt me when my hands are tied.”

  And in hot anger now he threw the staff to the ground,

  his eyes grown bright with tears. A wave of sympathy

  ran through the crowd, all hushed; and no one there

  had the audacity to answer harshly

  except Antínoös, who said:

  “What high and mighty

  talk, Telémakhos! No holding you!

  You want to shame us, and humiliate us,

  but you should know the suitors are not to blame—

  it is your own dear, incomparably cunning mother.

  For three years now—and it will soon be four—

  she has been breaking the hearts of the Akhaians,

  holding out hope to all, and sending promises

  to each man privately—but thinking otherwise.

  Here is an instance of her trickery:

  she had her great loom standing in the hall

  and the fine warp of some vast fabric on it;

  we were attending her, and she said to us:

  ‘Young men, my suitors, now my lord is dead,

  let me finish my weaving before I marry,

  or else my thread will have been spun in vain.

  It is a shroud I weave for Lord Laërtês,

  when cold death comes to lay him on his bier.

  The country wives would hold me in dishonor

  if he, with all his fortune, lay unshrouded.’

  We have men’s hearts; she touched them; we agreed.