The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (118 page)

And bear the just bands that they suffer’d in.

Of all which only there were twelve that gave

Themselves to impudence and light behave,

Nor me respecting, nor herself – the queen.

And for your son he hath but lately been

Of years to rule; nor would his mother bear

His empire where her women’s labours were.

But let me go and give her notice now

Of your arrival. Sure some god doth show

His hand upon her in this rest she takes,

That all these uproars bears and never wakes.’

‘Nor wake her yet,’ said he, ‘but cause to come

Those twelve light women to this outer room.’

She made all utmost haste to come and go,

And bring the women he had summon’d so.

Then both his swains and son he bade go call

The women to their aid, and clear the hall

Of those dead bodies, cleanse each board and throne

With wetted sponges. Which with fitness done,

He bade take all the strumpets ’twixt the wall

Of his first court and that room next the hall,

In which the vessel of the house were scour’d,

And in their bosoms sheath their every sword,

Till all their souls were fled, and they had then

Felt ’twas but pain to sport with lawless men.

This said, the women came all drown’d in moan,

And weeping bitterly. But first was done

The bearing thence the dead; all which beneath

The portico they stow’d, where death on death

They heap’d together. Then took all the pains

Ulysses will’d. His son yet and the swains

With paring-shovels wrought. The women bore

Their parings forth, and all the clotter’d gore.

The house then cleans’d, they brought the women out,

And put them in a room so wall’d about

That no means serv’d their sad estates to fly.

Then said Telemachus: ‘These shall not die

A death that lets out any wanton blood,

And vents the poison that gave lust her food,

The body cleansing, but a death that chokes

The breath, and altogether that provokes

And seems as bellows to abhorred lust,

That both on my head pour’d depraves unjust,

And on my mother’s, scandalling the court

With men debauch’d in so abhorr’d a sort.’

This said, a halser of a ship they cast

About a cross-beam of the roof, which fast

They made about their necks, in twelve parts cut,

And hal’d them up so high they could not put

Their feet to any stay. As which was done,

Look how a mavis, or a pigeon,

In any grove caught with a springe or net,

With struggling pinions ’gainst the ground doth beat

Her tender body, and that then strait bed

Is sour to that swing in which she was bred:

So striv’d these taken birds, till every one

Her pliant halter had enforc’d upon

Her stubborn neck, and then aloft was haul’d

To wretched death. A little space they sprawl’d,

Their feet fast moving, but were quickly still.

Then fetch’d they down Melanthius, to fulfill

The equal execution; which was done

In portal of the hall, and thus begun:

They first slit both his nostrils, cropp’d each ear,

His members tugg’d off, which the dogs did tear

And chop up bleeding sweet; and, while red-hot

The vice-abhorring blood was, off they smote

His hands and feet; and there that work had end.

Then wash’d they hands and feet that blood had stain’d,

And took the house again. And then the king,

Euryclea calling, bade her quickly bring

All-ill-expelling brimstone, and some fire,

That with perfumes cast he might make entire

The house’s first integrity in all.

And then his timely will was, she should call

Her queen and ladies; still yet charging her

That all the handmaids she should first confer.

She said he spake as fitted; but, before,

She held it fit to change the weeds he wore,

And she would others bring him, that not so

His fair broad shoulders might rest clad and show

His person to his servants, was to blame.

‘First bring me fire,’ said he. She went, and came

With fire and sulphur straight; with which the hall

And of the huge house all rooms capital

He throughly sweeten’d. Then went nurse to call

The handmaid servants down; and up she went

To tell the news, and will’d them to present
630

Their service to their sov’reign. Down they came

Sustaining torches all, and pour’d a flame

Of love about their lord, with welcomes home,

With huggings of his hands, with laboursome

Both heads’ and foreheads’ kisses, and embraces,

And plied him so with all their loving graces

That tears and sighs took up his whole desire;

For now he knew their hearts to him entire.

The end of the twenty second book

Book 23

The Argument

Ulysses to his wife is known,

A brief sum of his travels shown.

Himself, his son, and servants go

T’ approve the wooers’ overthrow.

Another Argument

Psi

For all annoys

Sustain’d before,

The true wife’s joys

Now made the more.

Book 23

T
h
e
ser
v
a
nt
s thus inform’d, the matron goes

Up where the queen was cast in such repose,

Affected with a fervent joy to tell

What all this time she did with pain conceal.

Her knees revok’d their first strength, and her feet

Were borne above the ground with wings to greet

The long-griev’d queen with news her king was come;

And, near her, said: ‘Wake, leave this withdrawn room,

That now your eyes may see at length, though late,

The man return’d, which all the heavy date

Your woes have rack’d out, you have long’d to see.

Ulysses is come home, and hath set free

His court of all your wooers, slaughtering all

For wasting so his goods with festival,

His house so vexing, and for violence done

So all ways varied to his only son.’

She answer’d her: ‘The gods have made thee mad,

Of whose pow’r now thy pow’rs such proof have had.

The gods can blind with follies wisest eyes,

And make men foolish, so to make them wise.

For they have hurt ev’n thy grave brain, that bore

An understanding spirit heretofore.

Why hast thou wak’d me to more tears, when moan

Hath turn’d my mind with tears into her own?

Thy madness much more blameful, that with lies

Thy haste is laden, and both robs mine eyes

Of most delightsome sleep, and sleep of them,

That now had bound me in his sweet extreme,

T’ embrace my lids and close my visual spheres.

I have not slept so much this twenty years,

Since first my dearest sleeping-mate was gone

For that too-ill-to-speak-of Ilion.

Hence, take your mad steps back. If any maid

Of all my train besides a part had play’d

So bold to wake, and tell mine ears such lies,

I had return’d her to her housewi
f
’
ries

With good proof of my wrath to such rude dames.

But go, your years have sav’d their younger blames.’

She answer’d her: ‘I nothing wrong your ear,

But tell the truth. Your long-miss’d lord is here,

And with the wooers’ slaughter his own hand,

In chief exploit, hath to his own command

Reduc’d his house; and that poor guest was he

That all those wooers wrought such injury.

Telemachus had knowledge long ago

That ’twas his father, but his wisdom so

Observ’d his counsels, to give surer end

To that great work to which they did contend.’

This call’d her spirits to their conceiving places;

She sprung for joy from blames into embraces

Of her grave nurse, wip’d every tear away

From her fair cheeks, and then began to say

What nurse said over thus: ‘O nurse, can this

Be true thou say’st? How could that hand of his

Alone destroy so many? They would still

Troop all together. How could he then kill

Such numbers so united?’ ‘How,’ said she,

‘I have not seen nor heard, but certainly

The deed is done. We sat within in fear,

The doors shut on us, and from thence might hear

The sighs and groans of every man he slew,

But heard nor saw more, till at length there flew

Your son’s voice to mine ear, that call’d to me,

And bade me then come forth, and then I see

Ulysses standing in the midst of all

Your slaughter’d wooers, heap’d up like a wall,

One on another round about his side.

It would have done you good to have descried

Your conquering lord all smear’d with blood and gore

So like a lion. Straight, then, off they bore

The slaughter’d carcasses, that now before

The forecourt gates lie, one on another pil’d.

And now your victor all the hall, defil’d

With stench of hot death, is perfuming round,

And with a mighty fire the hearth hath crown’d.

Thus, all the death remov’d, and every room

Made sweet and sightly, that yourself should come

His pleasure sent me. Come, then, take you now

Your mutual fills of comfort. Grief on you

Hath long and many suf
f
’
rings laid; which length,

Which many suf
f
’
rings, now your virtuous strength

Of uncorrupted chasteness hath conferr’d

A happy end to. He that long hath err’d

Is safe arriv’d at home; his wife, his son,

Found safe and good; all ill that hath been done

On all the doers’ heads, though long prolong’d,

His right hath wreak’d, and in the place they wrong’d.’

She answer’d: ‘Do not you now laugh and boast

As you had done some great act, seeing most

Into his being; for you know he won

(Ev’n through his poor and vile condition)

A kind of prompted thought that there was plac’d

Some virtue in him fit to be embrac’d –

By all the house, but most of all by me,

And by my son that was the progeny

Of both our loves. And yet it is not he,

For all the likely proofs ye plead to me.

Some god hath slain the wooers in disdain

Of the abhorred pride he saw so reign

In those base works they did. No man alive,

Or good or bad, whoever did arrive

At their abodes once, ever could obtain

Regard of them; and therefore their so vain

And vile deserts have found as vile an end.

But for Ulysses, never will extend

His wish’d return to Greece, nor he yet lives.’

‘How strange a queen are you,’ said she, ‘that gives

No truth your credit; that your husband, set

Close in his house at fire, can purchase yet

No faith of you, but that he still is far

From any home of his! Your wit’s at war

With all credulity ever! And yet now

I’ll name a sign shall force belief from you:

I bath’d him lately, and beheld the scar

That still remains a mark too ocular

To leave your heart yet blinded; and I then

Had run and told you, but his hand was fain

To close my lips from th’ acclamation

My heart was breathing, and his wisdom won

My still retention, till he gave me leave

And charge to tell you this. Now then receive

My life for gage of his return; which take

In any cruel fashion, if I make

All this not clear to you.’ ‘Lov’d nurse,’ said she,

‘Though many things thou know’st, yet these things be

Veil’d in the counsels th’ uncreated gods

Have long time mask’d in; whose dark periods

’Tis hard for thee to see into. But come,

Let’s see my son, the slain, and him by whom

They had their slaughter.’ This said, down they went;

When, on the queen’s part, divers thoughts were spent:

If, all this giv’n no faith, she still should stand

Aloof, and question more, or his hugg’d hand

And loved head she should at first assay

With free-giv’n kisses. When her doubtful way

Had pass’d the stony pavement, she took seat

Against her husband, in the opposite heat

The fire then cast upon the other wall.

Himself set by the column of the hall,

His looks cast downwards, and expected still

When her incredulous and curious will

To shun ridiculous error, and the shame

To kiss a husband that was not the same,

Would down, and win enough faith from his sight.

She silent sat, and her perplexed plight

Amaze encounter’d. Sometimes she stood clear

He was her husband; sometimes the ill wear

His person had put on transform’d him so

That yet his stamp would hardly current go.

Her son, her strangeness seeing, blam’d her thus:

‘Mother, ungentle mother! Tyrannous

In this too curious modesty you show!

Why sit you from my father, nor bestow

A word on me t’ enquire and clear such doubt

As may perplex you? Found man ever out

One other such a wife that could forbear

Her lov’d lord’s welcome home, when twenty year

In infinite suf
f
’
rance he had spent apart.

No flint so hard is as a woman’s heart.’

‘My son,’ said she, ‘amaze contains my mind,

Nor can I speak and use the common kind

Of those enquiries, nor sustain to see

With opposite looks his count’nance. If this be

My true Ulysses now return’d, there are

Tokens betwixt us of more fitness far

To give me argument he is my lord;

And my assurance of him may afford

My proofs of joy for him from all these eyes

With more decorum than object their guise

To public notice.’ The much-sufferer brake

In laughter out, and to his son said: ‘Take

Your mother from the prease, that she may make

Her own proofs of me, which perhaps may give

More cause to the acknowledgments that drive

Their show thus off. But now, because I go

So poorly clad, she takes disdain to know

So loath’d a creature for her loved lord.

Let us consult, then, how we may accord

The town to our late action. Some one slain

Hath made the all-left slaught’rer of him fain

To fly his friends and country; but our swords

Have slain a city’s most supportful lords,

The chief peers of the kingdom; therefore see

You use wise means t’ uphold your victory.’

‘See you to that, good father,’ said the son,

‘Whose counsels have the sov’reign glory won

From all men living. None will strive with you,

But with unquestion’d garlands grace your brow,

To whom our whole alacrities we vow

In free attendance. Nor shall our hands leave

Your onsets needy of supplies to give

All the effects that in our pow’rs can fall.’

‘Then this,’ said he, ‘to me seems capital

Of all choice courses: bathe we first, and then

Attire we freshly, all our maids and men

Enjoining likewise to their best attire.

The sacred singer then let touch his lyre,

And go before us all in graceful dance,

That all without, to whose ears shall advance

Our cheerful accents, or of travellers by,

Or firm inhabitants, solemnity

Of frolic nuptials may imagine here.

And this perform we, lest the massacre

Of all our wooers be divulg’d about

The ample city, ere ourselves get out

And greet my father in his grove of trees;

Where, after, we will prove what policies

Olympius shall suggest to overcome

Our latest toils, and crown our welcome home.’

This all obey’d; bath’d, put on fresh attire

Both men and women did. Then took his lyre

The holy singer, and set thirst on fire

With songs and faultless dances; all the court

Rung with the footings that the numerous sport

From jocund men drew and fair-girdled dames;

Which heard abroad, thus flew the common fames:

‘This sure the day is when the much-woo’d queen

Is richly wed. O wretch, that hath not been

So constant as to keep her ample house

Till th’ utmost hour had brought her foremost spouse.’

Thus some conceiv’d, but little knew the thing.

And now Eurynome had bath’d the king,

Smooth’d him with oils, and he himself attir’d

In vestures royal. Her part then inspir’d,

The goddess Pallas deck’d his head and face

With infinite beauties, gave a goodly grace

Of stature to him, a much plumper plight

Through all his body breath’d, curls soft and bright

Adorn’d his head withal, and made it show

As if the flowery hyacinth did grow

In all his pride there, in the general trim

Of every lock and every curious limb.

Look how a skilful artizan, well seen

In all arts metalline, as having been

Taught by Minerva and the god of fire,

Doth gold with silver mix so that entire

They keep their self-distinction, and yet so

That to the silver from the gold doth flow

A much more artificial lustre than his own,

And thereby to the gold itself is grown

A greater glory than if wrought alone,

Both being stuck off by either’s mixtion:

So did Minerva her’s and his combine;

He more in her, she more in him, did shine.

Like an immortal from the bath he rose,

And to his wife did all his grace dispose,

Encount’ring thus her strangeness: ‘Cruel dame,

Of all that breathe, the gods past steel and flame

Have made thee ruthless. Life retains not one

Of all dames else that bears so overgrown

A mind with abstinence, as twenty years

To miss her husband, drown’d in woes and tears,

And at his coming keep aloof, and fare

As of his so long absence and his care

No sense had seiz’d her. Go, nurse, make a bed,

That I alone may sleep; her heart is
dead

To all reflection!’ To him thus replied

The wise Penelope: ‘Man half deified,

’Tis not my fashion to be taken straight

With bravest men, nor poorest use to slight.

Your mean appearance made not me retire,

Nor this your rich show makes me now admire,

Nor moves at all; for what is all to me

If not my husband? All his certainty

I knew at parting; but, so long apart,

The outward likeness holds no full desert

For me to trust to. Go, nurse, see address’d

A soft bed for him, and the single rest

Himself affects so. Let it be the bed

That stands within our bridal chamber-stead,

Which he himself made. Bring it forth from thence,