“Mother,
I cannot take it ill that you are angry.
I know the meaning of these actions now,
both good and bad. I had been young and blind.
How can I always keep to what is fair
while these sit here to put fear in me?—princes
from near and far whose interest is my ruin;
are any on my side?
But you should know
the suitors did not have their way, matching
the stranger here and Iros—for the stranger
beat him to the ground.
O Father Zeus!
Athena and Apollo! could I see
the suitors whipped like that! Courtyard and hall
strewn with our friends, too weak-kneed to get up,
chapfallen to their collarbones, the way
old Iros rolls his head there by the gate
as though he were pig-drunk! No energy
to stagger on his homeward path; no fight
left in his numb legs!”
Thus Penelope
reproached her son, and he replied. Now, interrupting,
Eurymakhos called out to her:
“Penelope,
deep-minded queen, daughter of Ikarios,
if all Akhaians in the land of Argos
only saw you now! What hundreds more
would join your suitors here to feast tomorrow!
Beauty like yours no woman had before,
or majesty, or mastery.”
She answered:
“Eurýmakhos, my qualities—I know—
my face, my figure, all were lost or blighted
when the Akhaians crossed the sea to Troy,
Odysseus my lord among the rest.
If he returned, if he were here to care for me,
I might be happily renowned!
But grief instead heaven sent me—years of pain.
Can I forget?—the day he left this island,
enfolding my right hand and wrist in his,
he said:
‘My lady, the Akhaian troops
will not easily make it home again
full strength, unhurt, from Troy. They say the Trojans
are fighters too; good lances and good bowmen,
horsemen, charioteers—and those can be
decisive when a battle hangs in doubt.
So whether God will send me back, or whether
I’ll be a captive there, I cannot tell.
Here, then, you must attend to everything.
My parents in our house will be a care for you
as they are now, or more, while I am gone.
Wait for the beard to darken our boy’s cheek;
then marry whom you will, and move away.’
The years he spoke of are now past; the night
comes when a bitter marriage overtakes me,
desolate as I am, deprived by Zeus
of all the sweets of life.
How galling, too,
to see newfangled manners in my suitors!
Others who go to court a gentlewoman,
daughter of a rich house, if they are rivals,
bring their own beeves and sheep along; her friends
ought to be feasted, gifts are due to her;
would any dare to live at her expense?”
Odysseus’ heart laughed when he heard all this—
her sweet tones charming gifts out of the suitors
with talk of marriage, though she intended none.
Eupeithês’ son, Antínoös, now addressed her:
“Ikários’ daughter, O deep-minded queen!
If someone cares to make you gifts, accept them!
It is no courtesy to turn gifts away.
But we go neither to our homes nor elsewhere
until of all Akhaians here you take
the best man for your lord.”
Pleased at this answer,
every man sent a squire to fetch a gift—
Antínoös, a wide resplendent robe,
embroidered fine, and fastened with twelve brooches,
pins pressed into sheathing tubes of gold;
Eurymakhos, a necklace, wrought in gold,
with sunray pieces of clear glinting amber.
Eurýdamas’s men came back with pendants,
ear-drops in triple clusters of warm lights;
and from the hoard of Lord Polýktor’s son,
Peisándros, came a band for her white throat,
jewelled adornment. Other wondrous things
were brought as gifts from the Akhaian princes.
Penelope then mounted the stair again,
her maids behind, with treasure in their arms.
And now the suitors gave themselves to dancing,
to harp and haunting song, as night drew on;
black night indeed came on them at their pleasure.
But three torch fires were placed in the long hall
to give them light. On hand were stores of fuel,
dry seasoned chips of resinous wood, split up
by the bronze hatchet blade—these were mixed in
among the flames to keep them flaring bright;
each housemaid of Odysseus took her turn.
Now he himself, the shrewd and kingly man,
approached and told them:
“Housemaids of Odysseus,
your master so long absent in the world,
go to the women’s chambers, to your queen.
Attend her, make the distaff whirl, divert her,
stay in her room, comb wool for her.
I stand here
ready to tend these flares and offer light
to everyone. They cannot tire me out,
even if they wish to drink till Dawn.
I am a patient man.”
But the women giggled,
glancing back and forth—laughed in his face;
and one smooth girl, Melántho, spoke to him
most impudently. She was Dolios’ daughter,
taken as ward in childhood by Penelope
who gave her playthings to her heart’s content
and raised her as her own. Yet the girl felt
nothing for her mistress, no compunction,
but slept and made love with Eurymakhos.
Her bold voice rang now in Odysseus’ ears:
“You must be crazy, punch drunk, you old goat.
Instead of going out to find a smithy
to sleep warm in—or a tavern bench—you stay
putting your oar in, amid all our men.
Numbskull, not to be scared! The wine you drank
has clogged your brain, or are you always this way,
boasting like a fool? Or have you lost
your mind because you beat that tramp, that Iros?
Look out, or someone better may get up
and give you a good knocking about the ears
to send you out all bloody.”
But Odysseus
glared at her under his brows and said:
“One minute:
let me tell Telémakhos how you talk
in hall, you slut; he’ll cut your arms and legs off!”
This hard shot took the women’s breath away
and drove them quaking to their rooms, as though
knives were behind: they felt he spoke the truth.
So there he stood and kept the firelight high
and looked the suitors over, while his mind
roamed far ahead to what must be accomplished.
They, for their part, could not now be still
or drop their mockery—for Athena wished
Odysseus mortified still more.
Eurýmakhos,
the son of Pólybos, took up the baiting,
angling for a laugh among his friends.
“Suitors of our distinguished queen,” he said,
“hear what my heart would have me say.
This man
comes with a certain aura of divinity
into Odysseus’ hall. He shines.
He shines
around the noggin, like a flashing light,
having no hair at all to dim his lustre.”
Then turning to Odysseus, raider of cities,
he went on:
“Friend, you have a mind to work,
do you? Could I hire you to clear stones
from wasteland for me—you’ll be paid enough—
collecting boundary walls and planting trees?
I’d give you a bread ration every day,
a cloak to wrap in, sandals for your feet.
Oh no: you learned your dodges long ago—
no honest sweat. You’d rather tramp the country
begging, to keep your hoggish belly full.”
The master of many crafts replied:
“Eurýmakhos,
we two might try our hands against each other
in early summer when the days are long,
in meadow grass, with one good scythe for me
and one as good for you: we’d cut our way
down a deep hayfield, fasting to late evening.
Or we could try our hands behind a plow,
driving the best of oxen—fat, well-fed,
well-matched for age and pulling power, and say
four strips apiece of loam the share could break:
you’d see then if I cleft you a straight furrow.
Competition in arms? If Zeus Kronion
roused up a scuffle now, give me a shield,
two spears, a dogskin cap with plates of bronze
to fit my temples, and you’d see me go
where the first rank of fighters lock in battle.
There would be no more jeers about my belly.
You thick-skinned menace to all courtesy!
You think you are a great man and a champion,
but up against few men, poor stuff, at that.
Just let Odysseus return, those doors
wide open as they are, you’d find too narrow
to suit you on your sudden journey out.”
Now fury mounted in Eurymakhos,
who scowled and shot back:
“Bundle of rags and lice!
By god, I’ll make you suffer for your gall,
your insolent gabble before all our men.”
He had his foot-stool out: but now Odysseus
took to his haunches by Amphinomos’ knees,
fearing Eurymakhos’ missile, as it flew.
It clipped a wine steward on the serving hand,
so that his pitcher dropped with a loud clang
while he fell backward, cursing, in the dust.
In the shadowy hall a low sound rose—of suitors
murmuring to one another.
“Ai!” they said,
“This vagabond would have done well to perish
somewhere else, and make us no such rumpus.
Here we are, quarreling over tramps; good meat
and wine forgotten; good sense gone by the board.”
Telémakhos, his young heart high, put in:
“Bright souls, alight with wine, you can no longer
hide the cups you’ve taken. Aye, some god
is goading you. Why not go home to bed?—
I mean when you are moved to. No one jumps
at my command.”
Struck by his blithe manner,
the young men’s teeth grew fixed in their under lips,
but now the son of Nisos, Lord Amphinomos
of Aretíadês, addressed them all:
“O friends, no ruffling replies are called for;
that was fair counsel.
Hands off the stranger, now,
and hands off any other servant here
in the great house of King Odysseus. Come,
let my own herald wet our cups once more,
we’ll make an offering, and then to bed.
The stranger can be left behind in hall;
Telémakhos may care for him; he came
to Telémakhos’ door, not ours.”
This won them over.
The soldier Moulios, Doulikhion herald,
comrade in arms of Lord Amphinomos,
mixed the wine and served them all. They tipped out
drops for the blissful gods, and drank the rest,
and when they had drunk their thirst away
they trailed off homeward drowsily to bed.
BOOK XIX
RECOGNITIONS AND A DREAM
Now by Athena’s side in the quiet hall
studying the ground for slaughter, Lord Odysseus
turned to Telémakhos.
“The arms,” he said.
“Harness and weapons must be out of sight
in the inner room. And if the suitors miss them,
be mild; just say ‘I had a mind to move them
out of the smoke. They seemed no longer
the bright arms that Odysseus left at home
when he went off to Troy. Here where the fire’s
hot breath came, they had grown black and drear.
One better reason struck me, too:
suppose a brawl starts up when you’ve been drinking—
you might in madness let each other’s blood,
and that would stain your feast, your courtship.
Iron
itself can draw men’s hands.’”
Then he fell silent,
and Telémakhos obeyed his father’s word.
He called Eurýkleia, the nurse, and told her:
“Nurse, go shut the women in their quarters
while I shift Father’s armor back
to the inner rooms—these beautiful arms unburnished,
caked with black soot in his years abroad.
I was a child then. Well, I am not now.
I want them shielded from the draught and smoke.”
And the old woman answered:
“It is time, child,
you took an interest in such things. I wish
you’d put your mind on all your house and chattels.
But who will go along to hold a light?
You said no maids, no torch-bearers.”
Telémakhos
looked at her and replied:
“Our friend here.
A man who shares my meat can bear a hand,
no matter how far he is from home.”
He spoke so soldierly
her own speech halted on her tongue. Straight back
she went to lock the doors of the women’s hall.
And now the two men sprang to work—father
and princely son, loaded with round helms
and studded bucklers, lifting the long spears,
while in their path Pallas Athena
held up a golden lamp of purest light.
Telémakhos at last burst out:
“Oh, Father,
here is a marvel! All around I see
the walls and roof beams, pedestals and pillars,
lighted as though by white fire blazing near.
One of the gods of heaven is in this place!”
Then said Odysseus, the great tactician,
“Be still: keep still about it: just remember it.
The gods who rule Olympos make this light.
You may go off to bed now. Here I stay
to test your mother and her maids again.
Out of her long grief she will question me.”
Telémakhos went across the hall and out
under the light of torches—crossed the court
to the tower chamber where he had always slept.
Here now again he lay, waiting for dawn,
while in the great hall by Athena’s side
Odysseus waited with his mind on slaughter.
Presently Penélopê from her chamber
stepped in her thoughtful beauty.
So might Art
emis
or golden Aphrodite have descended;
and maids drew to the hearth her own smooth chair
inlaid with silver whorls and ivory. The artisan
Ikmalios had made it, long before,
with a footrest in a single piece, and soft
upon the seat a heavy fleece was thrown.
Here by the fire the queen sat down. Her maids,
leaving their quarters, came with white arms bare
to clear the wine cups and the bread, and move
the trestle boards where men had lingered drinking.
Fiery ashes out of the pine-chip flares
they tossed, and piled on fuel for light and heat.
And now a second time Melántho’s voice
rang brazen in Odysseus’ ears:
“Ah, stranger,
are you still here, so creepy, late at night
hanging about, looking the women over?
You old goat, go outside, cuddle your supper;
get out, or a torch may kindle you behind!”
At this Odysseus glared under his brows
and said:
“Little devil, why pitch into me again?
Because I go unwashed and wear these rags,
and make the rounds? But so I must, being needy;
The Odyssey: The Fitzgerald Translation Page 33