Odysseus, after twenty years.
Long before anyone else
Telémakhos caught sight of the grey woodsman
coming from the door, and called him over
with a quick jerk of his head. Eumaios’
narrowed eyes made out an empty bench
beside the one the carver used—that servant
who had no respite, carving for the suitors.
This bench he took possession of, and placed it
across the table from Telémakhos
for his own use. Then the two men were served
cuts from a roast and bread from a bread basket.
At no long interval, Odysseus came
through his own doorway as a mendicant,
humped like a bundle of rags over his stick.
He settled on the inner ash wood sill,
leaning against the door jamb—cypress timber
the skilled carpenter planed years ago
and set up with a plumbline.
Now Telémakhos
took an entire loaf and a double handful
of roast meat; then he said to the forester:
“Give these to the stranger there. But tell him
to go among the suitors, on his own;
he may beg all he wants. This hanging back
is no asset to a hungry man.”
The swineherd rose at once, crossed to the door,
and halted by Odysseus.
“Friend,” he said,
“Telémakhos is pleased to give you these,
but he commands you to approach the suitors;
you may ask all you want from them. He adds,
your shyness is no asset to a beggar.”
The great tactician, lifting up his eyes,
cried:
“Zeus aloft! A blessing on Telémakhos!
Let all things come to pass as he desires!”
Palms held out, in the beggar’s gesture, he
received the bread and meat and put it down
before him on his knapsack—lowly table!—
then he fell to, devouring it. Meanwhile
the harper in the great room sang a song.
Not till the man was fed did the sweet harper
end his singing—whereupon the company
made the walls ring again with talk.
Unseen,
Athena took her place beside Odysseus
whispering in his ear:
“Yes, try the suitors.
You may collect a few more loaves, and learn
who are the decent lads, and who are vicious—
although not one can be excused from death!”
So he appealed to them, one after another,
going from left to right, with open palm,
as though his life time had been spent in beggary.
And they gave bread, for pity—wondering, though,
at the strange man. Who could this beggar be,
where did he come from? each would ask his neighbor;
till in their midst the goatherd, Melanthios,
raised his voice:
“Hear just a word from me,
my lords who court our illustrious queen!
This man,
this foreigner, I saw him on the road;
the swineherd here was leading him this way;
who, what, or whence he claims to be, I could not
say for sure.”
At this, Antínoös
turned on the swineherd brutally, saying:
“You famous
breeder of pigs, why bring this fellow here?
Are we not plagued enough with beggars,
foragers and such rats?
You find the company
too slow at eating up your lord’s estate—
is that it? So you call this scarecrow in?”
The forester replied:
“Antínoös,
well born you are, but that was not well said.
Who would call in a foreigner?—unless
an artisan with skill to serve the realm,
a healer, or a prophet, or a builder,
or one whose harp and song might give us joy.
All these are sought for on the endless earth,
but when have beggars come by invitation?
Who puts a field mouse in his granary? My lord,
you are a hard man, and you always were,
more so than others of this company—hard
on all Odysseus’ people and on me.
But this I can forget
as long as Penelope lives on, the wise and tender
mistress of this hall; as long
as Prince Telémakhos—”
But he broke off
at a look from Telémakhos, who said:
“Be still.
Spare me a long-drawn answer to this gentleman.
With his unpleasantness, he will forever make
strife where he can—and goad the others on.”
He turned and spoke out clearly to Antínoös:
“What fatherly concern you show me! Frighten
this unknown fellow, would you, from my hall
with words that promise blows—may God forbid it!
Give him a loaf. Am I a niggard? No,
I call on you to give. And spare your qualms
as to my mother’s loss, or anyone’s—
not that in truth you have such care at heart:
your heart is all in feeding, not in giving.”
Antínoös replied:
“What high and mighty
talk, Telémakhos! No holding you!
If every suitor gave what I may give him,
he could be kept for months—kept out of sight!”
He reached under the table for the footstool
his shining feet had rested on—and this
he held up so that all could see his gift.
But all the rest gave alms,
enough to fill the beggar’s pack with bread
and roast meat.
So it looked as though Odysseus
had had his taste of what these men were like
and could return scot free to his own doorway—
but halting now before Antínoös
he made a little speech to him. Said he:
“Give a mite, friend. I would not say, myself,
you are the worst man of the young Akhaians.
The noblest, rather; kingly, by your look;
therefore you’ll give more bread than others do.
Let me speak well of you as I pass on
over the boundless earth!
I, too, you know,
had fortune once, lived well, stood well with men,
and gave alms, often, to poor wanderers
like this one that you see—aye, to all sorts,
no matter in what dire want. I owned
servants—many, god knows—and all the rest
that goes with being prosperous, as they say.
But Zeus the son of Kronos brought me down.
No telling
why he would have it, but he made me go
to Egypt with a company of rovers—
a long sail to the south—for my undoing.
Up the broad Nile and in to the river bank
I brought my dipping squadron. There, indeed,
I told the men to stand guard at the ships;
I sent patrols out—out to rising ground;
but reckless greed carried my crews away
to plunder the Egyptian farms; they bore off
wives and children, killed what men they found.
The news ran on the wind to the city, a night cry,
and sunrise brought both infantry and horsemen,
filling the river plain with dazzle of bronze;
then Zeus lord of lightning
threw my men into a blind panic; no one dared
stand against that host closing around us.
Their scything weapons
left our dead in piles,
but some they took alive, into forced labor,
myself among them. And they gave me, then,
to one Dmetor, a traveller, son of Iasos,
who ruled at Kypros. He conveyed me there.
From that place, working northward, miserably—”
But here Antínoös broke in, shouting:
“God!
What evil wind blew in this pest?
Get over,
stand in the passage! Nudge my table, will you?
Egyptian whips are sweet
to what you’ll come to here, you nosing rat,
making your pitch to everyone!
These men have bread to throw away on you
because it is not theirs. Who cares? Who spares
another’s food, when he has more than plenty?”
With guile Odysseus drew away, then said:
“A pity that you have more looks than heart.
You’d grudge a pinch of salt from your own larder
to your own handy man. You sit here, fat
on others’ meat, and cannot bring yourself
to rummage out a crust of bread for me!”
Then anger made Antínoös’ heart beat hard,
and, glowering under his brows, he answered:
“Now!
You think you’ll shuffle off and get away
after that impudence? Oh, no you don’t!”
The stool he let fly hit the man’s right shoulder
on the packed muscle under the shoulder blade—
like solid rock, for all the effect one saw.
Odysseus only shook his head, containing
thoughts of bloody work, as he walked on,
then sat, and dropped his loaded bag again
upon the door sill. Facing the whole crowd
he said, and eyed them all:
“One word only,
my lords, and suitors of the famous queen.
One thing I have to say.
There is no pain, no burden for the heart
when blows come to a man, and he defending
his own cattle—his own cows and lambs.
Here it was otherwise. Antínoös
hit me for being driven on by hunger—
how many bitter seas men cross for hunger!
If beggars interest the gods, if there are Furies
pent in the dark to avenge a poor man’s wrong, then may
Antínoös meet his death before his wedding day!”
Then said Eupeithes’ son, Antínoös:
“Enough.
Eat and be quiet where you are, or shamble elsewhere,
unless you want these lads to stop your mouth
pulling you by the heels, or hands and feet,
over the whole floor, till your back is peeled!”
But now the rest were mortified, and someone
spoke from the crowd of young bucks to rebuke him:
“A poor show, that—hitting this famished tramp—
bad business, if he happened to be a god.
You know they go in foreign guise, the gods do,
looking like strangers, turning up
in towns and settlements to keep an eye
on manners, good or bad.”
But at this notion
Antínoös only shrugged.
Telémakhos,
after the blow his father bore, sat still
without a tear, though his heart felt the blow.
Slowly he shook his head from side to side,
containing murderous thoughts.
Penelope
on the higher level of her room had heard
the blow, and knew who gave it. Now she murmured:
“Would god you could be hit yourself, Antínoös—
hit by Apollo’s bowshot!”
And Eurynome
her housekeeper, put in:
“He and no other?
If all we pray for came to pass, not one
would live till dawn!”
Her gentle mistress said:
“Oh, Nan, they are a bad lot; they intend
ruin for all of us; but Antínoös
appears a blacker-hearted hound than any.
Here is a poor man come, a wanderer,
driven by want to beg his bread, and everyone
in hall gave bits, to cram his bag—only
Antínoös threw a stool, and banged his shoulder!”
So she described it, sitting in her chamber
among her maids—while her true lord was eating.
Then she called in the forester and said:
“Go to that man on my behalf, Eumaios,
and send him here, so I can greet and question him.
Abroad in the great world, he may have heard
rumors about Odysseus—may have known him!”
Then you replied—O swineherd!
“Ah, my queen,
if these Akhaian sprigs would hush their babble
the man could tell you tales to charm your heart.
Three days and nights I kept him in my hut;
he came straight off a ship, you know, to me.
There was no end to what he made me hear
of his hard roving and I listened, eyes
upon him, as a man drinks in a tale
a minstrel sings—a minstrel taught by heaven
to touch the hearts of men. At such a song
the listener becomes rapt and still. Just so
I found myself enchanted by this man.
He claims an old tie with Odysseus, too—
in his home country the Minoan land
of Krete. From Krete he came, a rolling stone
washed by the gales of life this way and that
to our own beach.
If he can be believed
he has news of Odysseus near at hand
alive, in the rich country of Thesprotia,
bringing a mass of treasure home.”
Then wise Penelope said again:
“Go call him, let him come here, let him tell
that tale again for my own ears.
Our friends
can drink their cups outside or stay in hall,
being so carefree. And why not? Their stores
lie intact in their homes, both food and drink,
with only servants left to take a little.
But these men spend their days around our house
killing our beeves, our fat goats and our sheep,
carousing, drinking up our good dark wine;
sparing nothing, squandering everything.
No champion like Odysseus takes our part.
Ah, if he comes again, no falcon ever
struck more suddenly than he will, with his son,
to avenge this outrage!”
The great hall below
at this point rang with a tremendous sneeze—
“kchaou!” from Telémakhos—like an acclamation.
And laughter seized Penelope.
Then quickly,
lucidly she went on:
“Go call the stranger
straight to me. Did you hear that, Eumaios?
My son’s thundering sneeze at what I said!
May death come of a sudden so; may death
relieve us, clean as that, of all the suitors!
Let me add one thing—do not overlook it—
if I can see this man has told the truth,
I promise him a warm new cloak and tunic.”
With all this in his head, the forester
went down the hall, and halted near the beggar,
saying aloud:
“Good father, you are called
by the wise mother of Telémakhos,
Penelope. The queen, despite her troubles,
is moved by a desire to hear your tales
about her lord—and if she finds them true,
she’ll see you clothed in what you need, a cloak
&nbs
p; and a fresh tunic.
You may have your belly
full each day you go about this realm
begging. For all may give, and all they wish.”
Now said Odysseus, the old soldier:
“Friend,
I wish this instant I could tell my facts
to the wise daughter of Ikarios, Penélopê—
and I have much to tell about her husband;
we went through much together.
But just now
this hard crowd worries me. They are, you said
infamous to the very rim of heaven
for violent acts: and here, just now, this fellow
gave me a bruise. What had I done to him?
But who would lift a hand for me? Telémakhos?
Anyone else?
No; bid the queen be patient.
Let her remain till sundown in her room,
and then—if she will seat me near the fire—
inquire tonight about her lord’s return.
The Odyssey: The Fitzgerald Translation Page 31