The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (112 page)

Book 20

Ul
y
ss
e
s in the entry laid his head,

And under him an oxhide newly flay’d,

Above him sheep fells store; and over those

Eurynome cast mantles. His repose

Would bring no sleep yet, studying the ill

He wish’d the wooers; who came by him still

With all their wenches, laughing, wantoning,

In mutual lightness; which his heart did sting,

Contending two ways: if, all patience fled,

He should rush up and strike those strumpets dead,

Or let that night be last, and take th’ extreme

Of those proud wooers, that were so supreme

In pleasure of their high-fed fantasies.

His heart did bark within him to surprise

Their sports with spoils; no fell she-mastiff can,

Amongst her whelps, fly eag’rer on a man

She doth not know, yet scents him something near,

And fain would come to please her tooth, and tear,

Than his disdain, to see his roof so fil’d

With those foul fashions, grew within him wild

To be in blood of them. But, finding best

In his free judgment to let passion rest,

He chid his angry spirit, and beat his breast,

And said: ‘Forbear, my mind, and think on this:

There hath been time when bitter agonies

Have tried thy patience. Call to mind the day

In which the Cyclop, which pass’d manly sway

Of violent strength, devour’d thy friends; thou then

Stood’st firmly bold, till from that hellish den

Thy wisdom brought thee off, when nought but death

Thy thoughts resolved on.’ This discourse did breathe

The fiery boundings of his heart, that still

Lay in that aesture, without end his ill

Yet manly suf
f
’
ring. But from side to side

It made him toss apace. You have not tried

A fellow roasting of a pig before

A hasty fire, his belly yielding store

Of fat and blood, turn faster, labour more

To have it roast, and would not have it burn,

Than this and that way his unrest made turn

His thoughts and body, would not quench the fire,

And yet not have it heighten his desire

Past his discretion, and the fit enough

Of haste and speed, that went to all the proof

His well-laid plots and his exploits requir’d,

Since he, but one, to all their deaths aspir’d.

In this contention Pallas stoop’d from heav’n,

Stood over him, and had her presence giv’n

A woman’s form, who sternly thus began:

‘Why, thou most sour and wretched-fated man

Of all that breathe, yet liest thou thus awake?

The house in which thy cares so toss and take

Thy quiet up is thine; thy wife is there

And such a son, as if thy wishes were

To be suffic’d with one they could not mend.’

‘Goddess,’ said he, ‘tis true; but I contend

To right their wrongs, and, though I be but one,

To lay unhelp’d and wreakful hand upon

This whole resort of impudents, that here

Their rude assemblies never will forbear.

And yet a greater doubt employs my care,

That if their slaughters in my reaches are,

And I perform them, Jove and you not pleas’d,

How shall I fly their friends? And would stand seis’d

Of counsel to resolve this care in me.’

‘Wretch,’ she replied, ‘a friend of worse degree

Might win thy credence, that a mortal were,

And us’d to second thee, though nothing near

So pow’rful in performance nor in care;

Yet I, a goddess, that have still had share

In thy achievements, and thy person’s guard,

Must still be doubted by thy brain, so hard

To credit anything above thy pow’r –

And that must come from heav’n – if every hour

There be not personal appearance made,

And aid direct giv’n, that may sense invade.

I’ll tell thee, therefore, clearly: if there were

Of divers-languag’d men an army here

Of fifty companies, all driving hence

Thy sheep and oxen, and with violence

Offer’d to charge us, and besiege us round,

Thou shouldst their prey reprise, and them confound.

Let sleep then seize thee. To keep watch all night

Consumes the spirits, and makes dull the sight.’

Thus pour’d the goddess sleep into his eyes,

And reascended the Olympian skies.

When care-and-lineament-resolving sleep

Had laid his temples in his golden steep,

His wise-in-chaste-wit-worthy wife did rise,

First sitting up in her soft bed, her eyes

Open’d with tears, in care of her estate,

Which now her friends resolv’d to terminate

To more delays, and make her marry one.

Her silent tears then ceas’d, her orison

This queen of women to Diana made:

‘Rev’rend Diana, let thy darts invade

My woeful bosom, and my life deprive,

Now at this instant, or soon after drive

My soul with tempests forth, and give it way

To those far-off dark vaults, where never day

Hath pow’r to shine, and let them cast it down

Where refluent Oceanus doth crown

His curled head, where Pluto’s orchard is,

And entrance to our after miseries.

As such stern whirlwinds ravish’d to that stream

Pandareus’ daughters, when the gods to them

Had reft their parents, and them left alone,

Poor orphan children, in their mansion;

Whose desolate life did love’s sweet queen incline

To nurse with pressed milk and sweetest wine;

Whom Juno deck’d beyond all other dames

With wisdom’s light, and beauty’s moving flames;

Whom Phoebe goodliness of stature render’d;

And to whose fair hands wise Minerva tender’d

The loom and needle in their utmost skill;

And while love’s empress scaled th’ Olympian hill

To beg of lightning-loving Jove (since he

The means to all things knows, and doth decree

Fortunes, infortunes, to the mortal race)

For those poor virgins, the accomplish’d grace

Of sweetest nuptials, the fierce Harpies prey’d

On every good and miserable maid,

And to the hateful Furies gave them all

In horrid service: yet may such fate fall

From steep Olympus on my loathed head,

Or fair-chair’d Phoebe strike me instant dead,

That I may undergo the gloomy shore

To visit great Ulysses’ soul, before

I soothe my idle blood and wed a worse.

And yet, beneath how desperate a curse

Do I live now! It is an ill that may

Be well endur’d, to mourn the whole long day,

So night’s sweet sleeps, that make a man forget

Both bad and good, in some degree would let

My thoughts leave grieving; but, both day and night,

Some cruel god gives my sad memory sight.

This night, methought, Ulysses grac’d my bed

In all the goodly state with which he led

The Grecian army; which gave joys extreme

To my distress, esteeming it no dream,

But true indeed; and that conceit I had,

That when I saw it false I might be mad,

Such cruel fates command in my life’s guide.’

By this the morning’s orient dews had dyed

The earth in all her colours; when the king,

In his sweet sleep, suppos’d the sorrowing

That she us’d waking in her plaintive bed

To be her mourning, standing by his head,

As having known him there; who straight arose,

And did again within the hall dispose

The carpets and the cushions, where before

They served the seats. The hide without the door

He carried back, and then, with held-up hands,

He pray’d to him that heav’n and earth commands:

‘O father Jove, if through the moist and dry

You, willing, brought me home, when misery

Had punish’d me enough by your free dooms,

Let some of these within those inner rooms,

Startled with horror of some strange ostent,

Come here, and tell me that great Jove hath bent

Threat’nings without at some lewd men within.’

To this his pray’r Jove shook his sable chin,

And thunder’d from those pure clouds that, above

The breathing air, in bright Olympus move.

Divine Ulysses joy’d to hear it roar.

Report of which a woman miller bore

Straight to his ears; for near to him there ground

Mills for his corn, that twice six women found

Continual motion, grinding barley meal,

And wheat, man’s marrow. Sleep the eyes did seal

Of all the other women, having done

Their usual task; which yet this dame alone

Had scarce given end to, being, of all the rest,

Least fit for labour. But when these sounds press’d

Her ears, above the rumbling of her mill,

She let that stand, look’d out, and heav’n’s steep hill

Saw clear and temperate; which made her (unware

Of giving any comfort to his care

In that strange sign he pray’d for) thus invoke:

‘O king of men and gods, a mighty stroke

Thy thund’ring hand laid on the cope of stars,

No cloud in all the air; and therefore wars

Thou bidst to some men in thy sure ostent!

Perform to me, poor wretch, the main event,

And make this day the last, and most extreme,

In which the wooers’ pride shall solace them

With whorish banquets in Ulysses’ roof,

That, with sad toil to grind them meal enough,

Have quite dissolv’d my knees. Vouchsafe, then, now

Thy thunders may their latest feast foreshow.’

This was the boon Ulysses begg’d of Jove,

Which, with his thunder, through his bosom drove

A joy, that this vaunt breath’d: ‘Why now these men,

Despite their pride, will Jove make pay me pain.’

By this had other maids than those that lay

Mix’d with the wooers, made a fire like day

Amidst the hearth of the illustrious hall;

And then the prince, like a celestial,

Rose from his bed, to his embalm’d feet tied

Fair shoes, his sword about his breast applied,

Took to his hand his sharp-pil’d lance, and met,

Amidst the entry, his old nurse, that set

His haste at sudden stand; to whom he said:

‘O, my lov’d nurse, with what grace have you laid

And fed my guest here? Could you so neglect

His age, to lodge him thus? Though all respect

I give my mother’s wisdom, I must yet

Affirm it fail’d in this; for she hath set

At much more price a man of much less worth,

Without his person’s note, and yet casts forth

With ignominious hands, for his form sake,

A man much better.’ ‘Do not faulty make,

Good son, the faultless. He was giv’n his seat

Close to her side, and food till he would eat,

Wine till his wish was serv’d; for she requir’d

His wants, and will’d him all things he desir’d;

Commanded her chief maids to make his bed,

But he, as one whom sorrow only fed

And all infortune, would not take his rest

In bed, and coverings fit for any guest,

But in the entry, on an ox’s hide

Never at tanner’s, his old limbs implied

In warm sheep-fells; yet over all we cast

A mantle, fitting for a man more grac’d.’

He took her answer, left the house, and went,

Attended with his dogs, to sift th’ event

Of private plots, betwixt him and his sire

In common counsel. Then the crew entire

Of all the household maids Euryclea bad

Bestir them through the house, and see it clad

In all best form; gave all their parts; and one

She set to furnish every seat and throne

With needleworks, and purple clothes of state;

Another set to scour and cleanse the plate;

Another all the tables to make proud

With porous sponges; others she bestow’d

In all speed to the spring, to fetch from thence

Fit store of water; all at all expense

Of pains she will’d to be, for this to all

Should be a day of common festival,

And not a wooer now should seek his home

Elsewhere than there, but all were bid to come

Exceeding early, and be raised to heav’n

With all the entertainment could be giv’n.

They heard with greedy ears, and everything

Put straight in practice. Twenty to the spring

Made speed for water; many in the house

Took pains; and all were both laborious

And skill’d in labour; many fell to fell

And cleave their wood; and all did more than well.

Then troop’d the lusty wooers in, and then

Came all from spring; at their heels loaded men

With slaughter’d brawns, of all the herd the prize,

That had been long fed up in several sties;

Eumaeus and his men convey’d them there.

He, seeing now the king, began to cheer,

And thus saluted him: ‘How now, my guest?

Have yet your virtues found more interest

In these great wooers’ good respects? Or still

Pursue they you with all their wonted ill?’

‘I would to heav’n, Eumaeus,’ he replied,

‘The deities once would take in hand their pride,

That such unseemly fashions put in frame

In others’ roofs, as show no spark of shame.’

Thus these; and to these came Melanthius,

Great guardian of the most egregious

Rich wooers’ herds, consisting all of goats,

Which he, with two more, drave, and made their cotes

The sounding porticos of that fair court.

Melanthius, seeing the king, this former sort

Of upland language gave: ‘What? Still stay here,