The Odyssey: The Fitzgerald Translation

by Homer;Robert Fitzgerald

  hard days, and many, have I seen, and suffered.

  I sit here at your field meet, yes; but only

  as one who begs your king to send him home.”

  Now Seareach put his word in, and contentiously:

  “The reason being, as I see it, friend,

  you never learned a sport, and have no skill

  in any of the contests of fighting men.

  You must have been the skipper of some tramp

  that crawled from one port to the next, jam full

  of chaffering hands: a tallier of cargoes,

  itching for gold—not, by your looks, an athlete.”

  Odysseus frowned, and eyed him coldly, saying:

  “That was uncalled for, friend, you talk like a fool.

  The gods deal out no gift, this one or any—

  birth, brains, or speech—to every man alike.

  In looks a man may be a shade, a specter,

  and yet be master of speech so crowned with beauty

  that people gaze at him with pleasure. Courteous,

  sure of himself, he can command assemblies,

  and when he comes to town, the crowds gather.

  A handsome man, contrariwise, may lack

  grace and good sense in everything he says.

  You now, for instance, with your fine physique—

  a god’s, indeed—you have an empty noddle.

  I find my heart inside my ribs aroused

  by your impertinence. I am no stranger

  to contests, as you fancy. I rated well

  when I could count on youth and my two hands.

  Now pain has cramped me, and my years of combat

  hacking through ranks in war, and the bitter sea.

  Aye. Even so I’ll give your games a trial.

  You spoke heart-wounding words. You shall be answered.”

  He leapt out, cloaked as he was, and picked a discus,

  a rounded stone, more ponderous than those

  already used by the Phaiákian throwers,

  and, whirling, let it fly from his great hand

  with a low hum. The crowd went flat on the ground—

  all those oar-pulling, seafaring Phaiákians—

  under the rushing noise. The spinning disk

  soared out, light as a bird, beyond all others.

  Disguised now as a Phaiákian, Athena

  staked it and called out:

  “Even a blind man,

  friend, could judge this, finding with his fingers

  one discus, quite alone, beyond the cluster.

  Congratulations; this event is yours;

  not a man here can beat you or come near you.”

  That was a cheering hail, Odysseus thought,

  seeing one friend there on the emulous field,

  so, in relief, he turned among the Phaiákians

  and said:

  “Now come alongside that one, lads.

  The next I’ll send as far, I think, or farther.

  Anyone else on edge for competition

  try me now. By heaven, you angered me.

  Racing, wrestling, boxing—I bar nothing

  with any man except Laódamas,

  for he’s my host. Who quarrels with his host?

  Only a madman—or no man at all—

  would challenge his protector among strangers,

  cutting the ground away under his feet.

  Here are no others I will not engage,

  none but I hope to know what he is made of.

  Inept at combat, am I? Not entirely.

  Give me a smooth bow; I can handle it,

  and I might well be first to hit my man

  amid a swarm of enemies, though archers

  in company around me drew together.

  Philoktêtês alone, at Troy, when we

  Akhaians took the bow, used to outshoot me.

  Of men who now eat bread upon the earth

  I hold myself the best hand with a bow—

  conceding mastery to the men of old,

  Heraklês, or Eurytos of Oikhalia,

  heroes who vied with gods in bowmanship.

  Eurýtos came to grief, it’s true; old age

  never crept over him in his long hall;

  Apollo took his challenge ill, and killed him.

  What then, the spear? I’ll plant it like an arrow.

  Only in sprinting, I’m afraid, I may

  be passed by someone. Roll of the sea waves

  wearied me, and the victuals in my ship

  ran low; my legs are flabby.”

  When he finished,

  the rest were silent, but Alkínoös answered:

  “Friend, we take your challenge in good part,

  for this man angered and affronted you

  here at our peaceful games. You’d have us note

  the prowess that is in you, and so clearly,

  no man of sense would ever cry it down!

  Come, turn your mind, now, on a thing to tell

  among your peers when you are home again,

  dining in hall, beside your wife and children:

  I mean our prowess, as you may remember it,

  for we, too, have our skills, given by Zeus,

  and practiced from our father’s time to this—

  not in the boxing ring nor the palestra

  conspicuous, but in racing, land or sea;

  and all our days we set great store by feasting,

  harpers, and the grace of dancing choirs,

  changes of dress, warm baths, and downy beds.

  O master dancers of the Phaiákians!

  Perform now: let our guest on his return

  tell his companions we excel the world

  in dance and song, as in our ships and running.

  Someone go find the gittern harp in hall

  and bring it quickly to Demódokos!”

  At the serene king’s word, a squire ran

  to bring the polished harp out of the palace,

  and place was given to nine referees—

  peers of the realm, masters of ceremony—

  who cleared a space and smoothed a dancing floor.

  The squire brought down, and gave Demódokos,

  the clear-toned harp; and centering on the minstrel

  magical young dancers formed a circle

  with a light beat, and stamp of feet. Beholding,

  Odysseus marvelled at the flashing ring.

  Now to his harp the blinded minstrel sang

  of Ares’ dalliance with Aphrodite:

  how hidden in Hephaistos’ house they played

  at love together, and the gifts of Ares,

  dishonoring Hephaistos’ bed—and how

  the word that wounds the heart came to the master

  from Hélios, who had seen the two embrace;

  and when he learned it, Lord Hephaistos went

  with baleful calculation to his forge.

  There mightily he armed his anvil block

  and hammered out a chain whose tempered links

  could not be sprung or bent; he meant that they should hold.

  Those shackles fashioned hot in wrath Hephaistos

  climbed to the bower and the bed of love,

  pooled all his net of chain around the bed posts

  and swung it from the rafters overhead—

  light as a cobweb even gods in bliss

  could not perceive, so wonderful his cunning.

  Seeing his bed now made a snare, he feigned

  a journey to the trim stronghold of Lemnos,

  the dearest of earth’s towns to him. And Ares?

  Ah, golden Ares’ watch had its reward

  when he beheld the great smith leaving home.

  How promptly to the famous door he came,

  intent on pleasure with sweet Kythereia!

  She, who had left her father’s side but now,

  sat in her chamber when her lover entered;

  and tenderly he p
ressed her hand and said:

  “Come and lie down, my darling, and be happy!

  Hephaistos is no longer here, but gone

  to see his grunting Sintian friends on Lemnos.”

  As she, too, thought repose would be most welcome,

  the pair went in to bed—into a shower

  of clever chains, the netting of Hephaistos.

  So trussed they could not move apart, nor rise,

  at last they knew there could be no escape,

  they were to see the glorious cripple now—

  for Helios had spied for him, and told him;

  so he turned back this side of Lemnos Isle,

  sick at heart, making his way homeward.

  Now in the doorway of the room he stood

  while deadly rage took hold of him; his voice,

  hoarse and terrible, reached all the gods:

  “O Father Zeus, O gods in bliss forever,

  here is indecorous entertainment for you,

  Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter,

  caught in the act, cheating me, her cripple,

  with Arês—devastating Ares.

  Cleanlimbed beauty is her joy, not these

  bandylegs I came into the world with:

  no one to blame but the two gods who bred me!

  Come see this pair entwining here

  in my own bed! How hot it makes me burn!

  I think they may not care to lie much longer,

  pressing on one another, passionate lovers;

  they’ll have enough of bed together soon.

  And yet the chain that bagged them holds them down

  till Father sends me back my wedding gifts—

  all that I poured out for his damned pigeon,

  so lovely, and so wanton.”

  All the others

  were crowding in, now, to the brazen house—

  Poseidon who embraces earth, and Hermes

  the runner, and Apollo, lord of Distance.

  The goddesses stayed home for shame; but these

  munificences ranged there in the doorway,

  and irrepressible among them all

  arose the laughter of the happy gods.

  Gazing hard at Hephaistos’ handiwork

  the gods in turn remarked among themselves:

  “No dash in adultery now.”

  “The tortoise tags the hare—

  Hephaistos catches Arês—and Ares outran the wind.”

  “The lame god’s craft has pinned him. Now shall he

  pay what is due from gods taken in cuckoldry.”

  They made these improving remarks to one another,

  but Apollo leaned aside to say to Hermes:

  “Son of Zeus, beneficent Wayfinder,

  would you accept a coverlet of chain, if only

  you lay by Aphrodite’s golden side?”

  To this the Wayfinder replied, shining:

  “Would I not, though, Apollo of distances!

  Wrap me in chains three times the weight of these,

  come goddesses and gods to see the fun;

  only let me lie beside the pale-golden one!”

  The gods gave way again to peals of laughter,

  all but Poseidon, and he never smiled,

  but urged Hephaistos to unpinion Ares,

  saying emphatically, in a loud voice:

  “Free him;

  you will be paid, I swear; ask what you will;

  he pays up every jot the gods decree.”

  To this the Great Gamelegs replied:

  “Poseidon,

  lord of the earth-surrounding sea, I should not

  swear to a scoundrel’s honor. What have I

  as surety from you, if Ares leaves me

  empty-handed, with my empty chain?”

  The Earth-shaker for answer urged again:

  “Hephaistos, let us grant he goes, and leaves

  the fine unpaid; I swear, then, I shall pay it.”

  Then said the Great Gamelegs at last:

  “No more;

  you offer terms I cannot well refuse.”

  And down the strong god bent to set them free,

  till disencumbered of their bond, the chain,

  the lovers leapt away—he into Thrace,

  while Aphrodite, laughter’s darling, fled

  to Kypros Isle and Paphos, to her meadow

  and altar dim with incense. There the Graces

  bathed and anointed her with golden oil—

  a bloom that clings upon immortal flesh alone—

  and let her folds of mantle fall in glory.

  So ran the song the minstrel sang.

  Odysseus,

  listening, found sweet pleasure in the tale,

  among the Phaiákian mariners and oarsmen.

  And next Alkínoös called upon his sons,

  Halios and Laódamas, to show

  the dance no one could do as well as they—

  handling a purple ball carven by Pólybos.

  One made it shoot up under the shadowing clouds

  as he leaned backward; bounding high in air

  the other cut its flight far off the ground—

  and neither missed a step as the ball soared.

  The next turn was to keep it low, and shuttling

  hard between them, while the ring of boys

  gave them a steady stamping beat.

  Odysseus now addressed Alkínoös:

  “O majesty, model of all your folk,

  your promise was to show me peerless dancers;

  here is the promise kept. I am all wonder.”

  At this Alkínoös in his might rejoicing

  said to the seafarers of Phaiákia:

  “Attend me now, Phaiákian lords and captains:

  our guest appears a clear-eyed man and wise.

  Come, let him feel our bounty as he should.

  Here are twelve princes of the kingdom—lords

  paramount, and I who make thirteen;

  let each one bring a laundered cloak and tunic,

  and add one bar of honorable gold.

  Heap all our gifts together; load his arms;

  let him go joyous to our evening feast!

  As for Seareach—why, man to man

  he’ll make amends, and handsomely; he blundered.”

  Now all as one acclaimed the king’s good pleasure,

  and each one sent a squire to bring his gifts.

  Meanwhile Seareach found speech again, saying:

  “My lord and model of us all, Alkínoös,

  as you require of me, in satisfaction,

  this broadsword of clear bronze goes to our guest.

  Its hilt is silver, and the ringed sheath

  of new-sawn ivory—a costly weapon.”

  He turned to give the broadsword to Odysseus,

  facing him, saying blithely:

  “Sir, my best

  wishes, my respects; if I offended,

  I hope the seawinds blow it out of mind.

  God send you see your lady and your homeland

  soon again, after the pain of exile.”

  Odysseus, the great tactician, answered:

  “My hand, friend; may the gods award you fortune.

  I hope no pressing need comes on you ever

  for this fine blade you give me in amends.”

  He slung it, glinting silver, from his shoulder,

  as the light shone from sundown. Messengers

  were bearing gifts and treasure to the palace,

  where the king’s sons received them all, and made

  a glittering pile at their grave mother’s side;

  then, as Alkínoös took his throne of power,

  each went to his own high-backed chair in turn,

  and said Alkínoös to Arete:

  “Lady, bring here a chest, the finest one;

  a clean cloak and tunic; stow these things;

  and warm a cauldron for him. Let him bathe,

  when he has seen the gif
ts of the Phaiákians,

  and so dine happily to a running song.

  My own wine-cup of gold intaglio

  I’ll give him, too; through all the days to come,

  tipping his wine to Zeus or other gods

  in his great hall, he shall remember me.”

  Then said Arêtê to her maids:

  “The tripod:

  stand the great tripod legs about the fire.”

  They swung the cauldron on the fire’s heart,

  poured water in, and fed the blaze beneath

  until the basin simmered, cupped in flame.

  The queen set out a rich chest from her chamber

  and folded in the gifts—clothing and gold

  given Odysseus by the Phaiákians;

  then she put in the royal cloak and tunic,

  briskly saying to her guest:

  “Now here, sir,

  look to the lid yourself, and tie it down

  against light fingers, if there be any,

  on the black ship tonight while you are sleeping.”

  Noble Odysseus, expert in adversity,

  battened the lid down with a lightning knot

  learned, once, long ago, from the Lady Kirkê.

  And soon a call came from the Bathing Mistress

  who led him to a hip-bath, warm and clear—

  a happy sight, and rare in his immersions

  after he left Kalypso’s home—where, surely,