The Odyssey Read online

  Would that this, with no prospect of future wooing or meetings

  elsewhere, were to be the last and latest dinner

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  of all you who throng here, gobbling up so much livelihood,

  the possessions of clever Telemachos! Did you not listen

  long ago, when you were children, to your fathers' talk

  of what manner of man Odysseus was among your begetters,

  wronging by deed or word no person in the land,

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  unlike the custom of most of these godlike monarchs,

  who hate one man and favor another as they please?

  But he never ever treated anyone badly, whereas

  your cast of mind and unseemly actions are all too clearly

  visible, nor nowadays do past favors reap gratitude."

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  Medon, astute in counsel, then responded to her, saying:

  "My queen, would that this were the worst of all your troubles!

  But there's something else, more serious and threatening,

  that the suitors are planning--Zeus forfend that it come to pass!

  They intend to cut down Telemachos with the sharp bronze

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  on his way home--he sailed away, seeking news

  of his father, to sacred Pylos and lordly Lakedaimon."

  So he spoke. On the spot her knees and heart gave way,

  and for long she remained speechless. Both her eyes

  brimmed over with tears, and her vigorous voice was stilled.

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  But at last she framed words again, and addressed him, saying:

  "Herald, why is my child gone? There was no need for him

  to go aboard swift-moving vessels that serve mankind

  as the sea's horses, crossing wide stretches of the deep!

  Is not even his name to survive among mankind?"

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  Medon, astute in counsel, responded to her, saying:

  "I do not know if some god incited him, or it was his own

  spirit stirred him to go to Pylos, to find out about

  his father's homecoming, or what fate he'd met."

  With that

  he went on his way, out through Odysseus' house; but she

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  was sunk in heart-crushing anguish, had no more strength

  to get herself to a chair, of the many in the room, but sank

  down there, on her richly worked bedchamber's threshold,

  sobbing piteously, and around her wailed her handmaids,

  all of them, young and old, that were there in the house.

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  After much crying, Penelope now addressed them, saying:

  "Listen, my friends: on me the Olympian's laid more grief

  than any woman brought up with me has suffered! Years ago

  I lost my good husband: a lion's heart he possessed,

  and stood out among the Danaans for every kind of virtue:

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  a fine man--wide is his fame through Hellas and mid-Argos!

  And now the gales have swept my beloved son away

  without trace from our home: I had no word of his going.

  You cruel wretches, not one of you thought to arouse me

  from sleep, though you knew very well what was going on

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  at the time that he went aboard that hollow black vessel!

  If I'd only found out that he was planning this journey

  he'd either have had to stay here, though longing to be gone,

  or else he'd have left me a corpse, here in my own halls!

  As it is, will someone go quickly and summon old Dolios,

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  my servant, a gift from my father when first I came here,

  who tends my orchard of fruit trees. He is to go at once,

  sit down beside Laertes, tell him all that's happened--

  in the hope that Laertes will come up with some scheme,

  present himself, lamenting, before these folk who are minded

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  to do away with his stock, and that of godlike Odysseus."

  Eurykleia then, cherished nurse, responded to her, saying:

  "Dear girl, whether you finish me with the pitiless bronze

  or let me stay in the house here, I shan't conceal the truth.

  I indeed knew all this, and gave him all he asked for--

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  bread and sweet wine. But he made me swear a great oath

  not to tell you for twelve days at least--or till you yourself

  missed him, and heard that he'd gone--so that you would not

  fall to weeping, and spoil your lovely complexion. So now

  go bathe yourself, and change into laundered clothes,

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  and go upstairs to your room, you and your serving women,

  and pray to Athene, daughter of Zeus of the aegis: for she

  might save him hereafter, even from death. But do not

  further burden that burdened old man--I can't believe

  that the line of Arkeisios' son is wholly detested by

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  the blessed gods: there will surely still be an heir to possess

  his high-roofed abode, his rich and distant fields."

  So speaking she lulled her grief, dried the tears from her eyes.

  Penelope went and bathed, changed into clean clothes,

  went upstairs to her room, she and her serving women,

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  put barley grain in a basket, then made her prayer to Athene:

  "Hear me, unwearying one, child of Zeus of the aegis!

  If ever for you in his halls resourceful Odysseus made

  burnt sacrifice of fat thigh pieces of sheep or oxen,

  remember those offerings now, and save my dear son--

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  fend off these suitors, so haughtily arrogant, from him!'

  So saying, she keened aloud. The goddess heard her prayer.

  The suitors meanwhile raised uproar throughout the shadowy halls,

  and this is the kind of remark that some arrogant youth would make:

  "There's the much-courted queen deciding which of us she'll wed--

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  not knowing that her son's murder's already been arranged!"

  So would one speak; but they didn't know what was arranged,

  or how, and Antinoos now addressed them, saying:

  "You idiots, avoid this kind of overconfident chatter

  entirely, lest someone report it to those inside!

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  So now let's get going in silence, and put into action

  the scheme that we all agreed to."

  So he spoke,

  and picked out the twenty best men: then they together

  set off to their swift ship on the strand by the seashore.

  First of all they hauled the black vessel down to deep water,

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  then they set up in it both mast and sail, and fitted

  the oars to their leather thole-straps, all in due order,

  and hoisted and set the white sail. Meanwhile their proud

  attendants carried their gear aboard. They moored the vessel

  in deep enough water, then disembarked themselves,

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  ate their dinner, and waited for the approach of evening.

  But she, the prudent Penelope, lay in her upper chamber

  without any nourishment, tasting neither food nor drink,

  wondering whether her blameless son would escape

  death or be done away with by the arrogant suitors;

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  and just as a lion, when cornered by men, will deliberate

  in fear, as they close their deceptive circle around him,

  so was she worrying until sweet slumber overcame her,

  and she sank back and slept, and all her joints relaxed.

  Then the goddess, grey-eyed Athe
ne, had another idea:

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  she made a phantom, in form resembling a woman--

  Iphthime, the daughter of great-hearted Ikarios, whom

  Eumelos married, he whose home was in Pherai--

  and sent it off to the home of godlike Odysseus, there

  to tell Penelope, who still was weeping and wailing,

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  that she should give over her grief, her tearful lamentation.

  Into her room it wafted, round the strap of the door bolt,

  and stood there above her head, and addressed her, saying:

  "Are you asleep, Penelope, heart still heavy with grief?

  The gods, the easy livers, won't have it that you should be

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  weeping and grieving: return home is yet destined for your son,

  since in the gods' eyes he's no kind of transgressor."

  Then prudent Penelope made it this answer, as she

  slumbered on sweetly, ensconced at the gates of dreams:

  "Why have you come here, sister? Never until now

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  would you visit: the home you live in lies far away.

  And now you tell me to quit the grieving, the countless

  agonies that beset me in mind and soul! Years ago

  I lost my good husband: a lion's heart he possessed,

  and stood out among the Danaans for every kind of virtue:

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  a fine man--wide is his fame through Hellas and mid-Argos!

  And now my beloved son, too, has left in a hollow ship--

  a mere child, with no knowledge of hardship or public debate.

  For him it is that I grieve, even more than for the other:

  I tremble for him, I'm afraid of what he might suffer

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  in the land of those he's gone to, or out on the deep sea.

  for many ill-wishers are plotting against him, eager

  to kill him before he gets back to his own country."

  In answer to her the dark phantom now declared:

  "Take heart, don't let your mind be overweighed by panic:

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  a guide goes with him such as other men have prayed

  to have at their side, since hers is indeed the power--

  Pallas Athene! She feels compassion for you in your sorrow.

  and it's she who has sent me here to bring you this message."

  Then prudent Penelope made this reply to her, saying:

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  "If you're indeed a god, and have heard this word from the goddess,

  then come tell me the truth about that man of sorrows--

  can it be that he's still alive, a witness to the sunlight,

  or is he already dead, and in Hades' realm?"

  The dark

  phantom then answered her in these words, saying: "No,

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  about him I shall tell you nothing plainly as to

  whether he lives or is dead. A bad thing, windy chatter."

  So saying, it slipped out by way of the door bolt into

  the draught of the winds. But she, Ikarios' daughter,

  started up from her sleep, her heart greatly comforted

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  that so clear a dream had reached her in the dark of the night.

  Now the suitors embarked and sailed the watery routes,

  plotting sheer murder for Telemachos in their hearts.

  There's a rocky islet, Asteris, out in the midst of the deep,

  halfway between Ithake and rugged Same, not large

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  but double-harbored, safe mooring for ships; and there

  the Achaians set up an ambush, and waited for him.

  Book 5

  As Dawn arose from her bed beside illustrious Tithonos,

  to bring light to the immortals and to mortal mankind,

  the gods were taking their seats in assembly, and among them

  Zeus the high-thunderer, whose power is the greatest.

  Athene was speaking, reminding them of Odysseus' many woes,

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  much concerned by his being in the nymph's home: "Zeus,

  Father, and you other blessed gods who live forever,

  from now on let no kindness or gentleness be displayed

  by a sceptered king, let his heart not cherish righteousness--

  let him rather be ever harsh, pursue injustice, since

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  there's nobody now who remembers godlike Odysseus

  of the people whose lord he was, and kindly as a father!

  Yet now he's stuck on an island, suffering sore affliction

  in the nymph Kalypso's abode: she is keeping him there

  under duress. He cannot return to his own country,

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  for he hasn't to hand any oared ships or companions

  to carry him on his way across the broad back of the sea;

  and now they're determined to kill, on his journey homeward,

  his beloved son, who'd gone, seeking news of his father,

  to sacred Pylos and to splendid Lakedaimon."

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  Then in answer cloud-gathering Zeus addressed her, saying:

  "My child, what's this word that's escaped the barrier of your teeth?

  Did not you yourself think up the scheme whereby

  Odysseus at his homecoming might be revenged on these men?

  As for Telemachos, guide him skillfully--you can do this--

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  so that he gets back unscathed to his native country

  and the suitors go home frustrated in their intentions."

  That said, he addressed himself to Hermes, his dear son:

  "Hermes, since in general matters you act as our messenger,

  go inform the fair-haired nymph of my firm decision

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  regarding the return of steadfast-minded Odysseus:

  he's to travel without the conveyance of gods or mortals,

  on a tightly lashed raft, and enduring much hardship,

  making landfall, twenty days on, at rich-soiled Scheria,

  country of the Phaiakians, who are close kin to the gods.

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  They will honor him like a god, most heartily, and send him

  aboard a ship of theirs to his own native country,

  with generous gifts of bronze and gold and clothing,

  more than Odysseus could ever have got for himself from Troy

  had he, unscathed, brought home his fair share of the spoils.

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  This is how he's fated to rejoin his own people, come back

  to his high-roofed abode and his own dear native land."

  The guide, the slayer of Argos,1 did not ignore his words.

  At once beneath his feet he tied on the fine sandals,

  ambrosial, golden, that carried him over the deep

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  and the boundless earth, as swift as a gale's blast;

  and he took the wand with which he entrances the eyes

  of those he so wills, while others he'll wake from their sleep.

  Holding this, the strong Argos-slayer was airborne, flew

  from the high sky over Pieria, swooped down on the sea,

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  then skimmed over the waves like a shearwater that flies

  along the fearsome gulfs of the unharvested deep

  hunting for fish, and wets its whirring wings in the brine--

  just so did Hermes traverse that expanse of waves

  until he finally reached the far-distant island.

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  Then he abandoned the violet deep for dry land,

  made his way to the great cave where the fair-tressed nymph

  had her abode, and found her at home. A great fire

  was ablaze on the hearth: the fragrance of split cedar

  and citron wood burning spread far over the island,

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  while she, within there,
singing in a sweet voice,

  went to and fro at the loom, wove with a golden shuttle.

  Around the cave there flourished woodland in abundance--