The Odyssey: The Fitzgerald Translation

by Homer;Robert Fitzgerald

  my sailors, thin-bellied from the long fast,

  were off with fish hooks, angling on the shore—

  then she appeared to me, and her voice sang:

  ‘What fool is here, what drooping dunce of dreams?

  Or can it be, friend, that you love to suffer?

  How can you linger on this island, aimless

  and shiftless, while your people waste away?’

  To this I quickly answered:

  ‘Let me tell you,

  goddess, whatever goddess you may be,

  these doldrums are no will of mine. I take it

  the gods who own broad heaven are offended.

  Why don’t you tell me—since the gods know everything—

  who has me pinned down here?

  How am I going to make my voyage home?’

  Now she replied in her immortal beauty:

  ‘I’ll put it for you clearly as may be, friend.

  The Ancient of the Salt Sea haunts this place,

  immortal Proteus of Egypt; all the deeps

  are known to him; he serves under Poseidon,

  and is, they say, my father.

  If you could take him by surprise and hold him,

  he’d give you course and distance for your sailing

  homeward across the cold fish-breeding sea.

  And should you wish it, noble friend, he’d tell you

  all that occurred at home, both good and evil,

  while you were gone so long and hard a journey.’

  To this I said:

  ‘But you, now—you must tell me

  how I can trap this venerable sea-god.

  He will elude me if he takes alarm;

  no man—god knows—can quell a god with ease.’

  That fairest of unearthly nymphs replied:

  ‘I’ll tell you this, too, clearly as may be.

  When the sun hangs at high noon in heaven,

  the Ancient glides ashore under the Westwind,

  hidden by shivering glooms on the clear water,

  and rests in caverns hollowed by the sea.

  There flippered seals, brine children, shining come

  from silvery foam in crowds to lie around him,

  exhaling rankness from the deep sea floor.

  Tomorrow dawn I’ll take you to those caves

  and bed you down there. Choose three officers

  for company—brave men they had better be—

  the old one has strange powers, I must tell you.

  He goes amid the seals to check their number,

  and when he sees them all, and counts them all,

  he lies down like a shepherd with his flock.

  Here is your opportunity: at this point

  gather yourselves, with all your heart and strength,

  and tackle him before he bursts away.

  He’ll make you fight—for he can take the forms

  of all the beasts, and water, and blinding fire;

  but you must hold on, even so, and crush him

  until he breaks the silence. When he does,

  he will be in that shape you saw asleep.

  Relax your grip, then, set the Ancient free,

  and put your questions, hero:

  Who is the god so hostile to you,

  and how will you go home on the fish-cold sea.’

  At this she dove under a swell and left me.

  Back to the ships in the sandy cove I went,

  my heart within me like a high surf running;

  but there I joined my men once more

  at supper, as the sacred Night came on,

  and slept at last beside the lapping water.

  When Dawn spread out her finger tips of rose

  I started, by the sea’s wide level ways,

  praying the gods for help, and took along

  three lads I counted on in any fight.

  Meanwhile the nereid swam from the lap of Ocean

  laden with four sealskins, new flayed

  for the hoax she thought of playing on her father.

  In the sand she scooped out hollows for our bodies

  and sat down, waiting. We came close to touch her,

  and, bedding us, she threw the sealskins over us—

  a strong disguise; oh, yes, terribly strong

  as I recall the stench of those damned seals.

  Would any man lie snug with a sea monster?

  But here the nymph, again, came to our rescue,

  dabbing ambrosia under each man’s nose—

  a perfume drowning out the bestial odor.

  So there we lay with beating hearts all morning

  while seals came shoreward out of ripples, jostling

  to take their places, flopping on the sand.

  At noon the Ancient issued from the sea

  and held inspection, counting off the sea-beasts.

  We were the first he numbered; he went by,

  detecting nothing. When at last he slept

  we gave a battlecry and plunged for him,

  locking our hands behind him. But the old one’s

  tricks were not knocked out of him; far from it.

  First he took on a whiskered lion’s shape,

  a serpent then; a leopard; a great boar;

  then sousing water; then a tall green tree.

  Still we hung on, by hook or crook, through everything.

  until the Ancient saw defeat, and grimly

  opened his lips to ask me:

  ‘Son of Atreus,

  who counselled you to this? A god: what god?

  Set a trap for me, overpower me—why?’

  He bit it off, then, and I answered:

  ‘Old one,

  you know the reason—why feign not to know?

  High and dry so long upon this island

  I’m at my wits’ end, and my heart is sore.

  You gods know everything; now you can tell me:

  which of the immortals chained me here?

  And how will I get home on the fish-cold sea?’

  He made reply at once:

  ‘You should have paid

  honor to Zeus and the other gods, performing

  a proper sacrifice before embarking:

  that was your short way home on the winedark sea.

  You may not see your friends, your own fine house,

  or enter your own land again,

  unless you first remount the Nile in flood

  and pay your hekatomb to the gods of heaven.

  Then, and then only,

  the gods will grant the passage you desire.’

  Ah, how my heart sank, hearing this—

  hearing him send me back on the cloudy sea

  in my own track, the long hard way of Egypt.

  Nevertheless, I answered him and said:

  ‘Ancient, I shall do all as you command.

  But tell me, now, the others—

  had they a safe return, all those Akhaians

  who stayed behind when Nestor and I left Troy?

  Or were there any lost at sea—what bitterness!—

  any who died in camp, after the war?’

  To this he said:

  ‘For you to know these things

  goes beyond all necessity, Menelaos.

  Why must you ask?—you should not know my mind,

  and you will grieve to learn it, I can tell you.

  Many there were who died, many remain,

  but two high officers alone were lost—

  on the passage home, I mean; you saw the war.

  One is alive, a castaway at sea;

  the other, Aias, perished with all hands—

  though first Poseidon landed him on Gyrai

  promontory, and saved him from the ocean.

  Despite Athena’s hate, he had lived on,

  but the great sinner in his insolence

  yelled that the gods’ will and the sea were beaten,

  and this loud brag came to Poseidon’s ears.
<
br />   He swung the trident in his massive hands

  and in one shock from top to bottom split

  that promontory, toppling into the sea

  the fragment where the great fool sat.

  So the vast ocean had its will with Aias,

  drunk in the end on salt spume as he drowned.

  Meanwhile your brother left that doom astern

  in his decked ships—the Lady Hera saved him;

  but as he came round Malea

  a fresh squall caught him, bearing him away

  over the cold sea, groaning in disgust,

  to the Land’s End of Argos, where Thyestês

  lived in the days of old, and then his son,

  Aigisthos. Now, again, return seemed easy:

  the high gods wound the wind into the east,

  and back he sailed, this time to his own coast.

  He went ashore and kissed the earth in joy,

  hot tears blinding his eyes at sight of home.

  But there were eyes that watched him from a height—

  a lookout, paid two bars of gold to keep

  vigil the year round for Aigisthos’ sake,

  that he should be forewarned, and Agamémnon’s

  furious valor sleep unroused.

  Now this man with his news ran to the tyrant,

  who made his crooked arrangements in a flash,

  stationed picked men at arms, a score of men

  in hiding; set a feast in the next room;

  then he went out with chariots and horses

  to hail the king and welcome him to evil.

  He led him in to banquet, all serene,

  and killed him, like an ox felled at the trough;

  and not a man of either company

  survived that ambush in Aigisthos’ house.’

  Before the end my heart was broken down.

  I slumped on the trampled sand and cried aloud,

  caring no more for life or the light of day,

  and rolled there weeping, till my tears were spent.

  Then the unerring Ancient said at last:

  ‘No more, no more; how long must you persist?

  Nothing is gained by grieving so. How soon

  can you return to Argos? You may take him

  alive there still—or else meanwhile Orestes

  will have despatched him. You’ll attend the feast.’

  At this my heart revived, and I recovered

  the self command to question him once more:

  ‘Of two companions now I know. The third?

  Tell me his name, the one marooned at sea;

  living, you say, or dead? Even in pain

  I wish to hear.’

  And this is all he answered:

  ‘Laërtês’ son, whose home is Ithaka.

  I saw him weeping, weeping on an island.

  The nymph Kalypso has him, in her hall.

  No means of faring home are left him now;

  no ship with oars, and no ship’s company

  to pull him on the broad back of the sea.

  As to your own destiny, prince Menelaos,

  you shall not die in the bluegrass land of Argos;

  rather the gods intend you for Elysion

  with golden Rhadamanthos at the world’s end,

  where all existence is a dream of ease.

  Snowfall is never known there, neither long

  frost of winter, nor torrential rain,

  but only mild and lulling airs from Ocean

  bearing refreshment for the souls of men—

  the West Wind always blowing.

  For the gods

  hold you, as Helen’s lord, a son of Zeus.’

  At this he dove under a swell and left me,

  and I went back to the ship with my companions,

  feeling my heart’s blood in me running high;

  but in the long hull’s shadow, near the sea,

  we supped again as sacred Night came on

  and slept at last beside the lapping water.

  When Dawn spread out her finger tips of rose,

  in first light we launched on the courtly breakers,

  setting up masts and yards in the well-found ships;

  went all on board, and braced on planks athwart

  oarsmen in line dipped oars in the grey sea.

  Soon I drew in to the great stream fed by heaven

  and, laying by, slew bulls in the proper number,

  until the immortal gods were thus appeased;

  then heaped a death mound on that shore against

  all-quenching time for Agamémnon’s honor,

  and put to sea once more. The gods sent down

  a sternwind for a racing passage homeward.

  So ends the story. Now you must stay with me

  and be my guest eleven or twelve days more.

  I’ll send you on your way with gifts, and fine ones:

  three chariot horses, and a polished car;

  a hammered cup, too, so that all your days,

  tipping the red wine for the deathless gods,

  you will remember me.”

  Telémakhos answered:

  “Lord, son of Atreus, no, you must not keep me.

  Not that a year with you would be too long:

  I never could be homesick here—I find

  your tales and all you say so marvellous.

  But time hangs heavy on my shipmates’ hands

  at holy Pylos, if you make me stay.

  As for your gift, now, let it be some keepsake.

  Horses I cannot take to Ithaka;

  let me bestow them back on you, to serve

  your glory here. My lord, you rule wide country,

  rolling and rich with clover, galingale

  and all the grains: red wheat and hoary barley.

  At home we have no level runs or meadows,

  but highland, goat land—prettier than plains, though.

  Grasses, and pasture land, are hard to come by

  upon the islands tilted in the sea,

  and Ithaka is the island of them all.”

  At this the deep-lunged man of battle smiled.

  Then he said kindly, patting the boy’s hand:

  “You come of good stock, lad. That was well spoken.

  I’ll change the gift, then—as indeed I can.

  Let me see what is costliest and most beautiful

  of all the precious things my house contains:

  a wine bowl, mixing bowl, all wrought of silver,

  but rimmed with hammered gold. Let this be yours.

  It is Hephaistos’ work, given me by Phaidimos,

  captain and king of Sidon. He received me

  during my travels. Let it be yours, I say.”

  This was their discourse on that morning. Meanwhile

  guests were arriving at the great lord’s house,

  bringing their sheep, and wine, the ease of men,

  with loaves their comely kerchiefed women sent,

  to make a feast in hall.

  At that same hour,

  before the distant manor of Odysseus,

  the suitors were competing at the discus throw

  and javelin, on a measured field they used,

  arrogant lords at play. The two best men,

  Antínoös and Eurymakhos, presided.

  Now Phronios’ son, Noemon, came to see them

  with a question for Antínoös. He said:

  “Do any of us know, or not, Antínoös,

  what day Telémakhos will be home from Pylos?

  He took my ship, but now I need it back

  to make a cruise to Elis, where the plains are.

  I have a dozen mares at pasture there

  with mule colts yet unweaned. My notion is

  to bring one home and break him in for labor.”

  His first words made them stare—for they knew well

  Telémakhos could not have gone to Pylos,

  but inland with his flocks, or
to the swineherd.

  Eupeithes’ son, Antínoös, quickly answered:

  “Tell the story straight. He sailed? Who joined him—

  a crew he picked up here in Ithaka,

  or his own slaves? He might have done it that way.

  And will you make it clear

  whether he took the ship against your will?

  Did he ask for it, did you lend it to him?”

  Now said the son of Phronios in reply:

  “Lent it to him, and freely. Who would not,

  when a prince of that house asked for it, in trouble?

  Hard to refuse the favor, it seems to me.

  As for his crew, the best men on the island,

  after ourselves, went with him. Mentor I noted

  going aboard—or a god who looked like Mentor.

  The strange thing is, I saw Lord Mentor here

  in the first light yesterday—although he sailed

  five days ago for Pylos.”

  Turning away,

  Noemon took the path to his father’s house,

  leaving the two men there, baffled and hostile.

  They called the rest in from the playing field

  and made them all sit down, so that Antínoös

  could speak out from the stormcloud of his heart,

  swollen with anger; and his eyes blazed:

  “A bad business. Telémakhos had the gall

  to make that crossing, though we said he could not.

  So the young cub rounds up a first rate crew

  in spite of all our crowd, and puts to sea.

  What devilment will he be up to next time?—

  Zeus blast the life out of him before he’s grown!