Ithaca: the seashore. Thick mist thro’ which Ulysses can scarcely be discerned asleep under a tree. In the foreground, Athena.
ATHENA.
This day, the last of twenty fateful years,
Fulfils the toil and wanderings of the Greeks,
Who sailed with Agamemnon against Troy
To win back Argive Helen; for to-day
Ulysses, last and most despaired of all,
Is safe again in Ithaca: and in truth
Have I, Athena, though the wisest power
And mightiest in Olympus, striven long
In heaven and earth to save him from the wrath
10Of great Poseidon; but at length my will
Nears its accomplishment, for on this isle
Of Ithaca was he at break of morn
Landed by good Phæacian mariners,
Who ply the convoys of the dangerous sea;
Even as they promised him, their king and queen,
Alcinous and Aretè, honouring him
With loving gifts, tripods of bronze and iron,
Raiment and bowls of gold: thro’ blackest night,
And the confusion of the baffling waters,
20With sail and oar urging their keel they bore him,
Who all the while wrapt in sound slumber lay
Deep likest death; and in that trance they laid him
Beneath yon olive tree, and, by his feet,
The gifts they brought: there may ye see him lying,
And there the gifts: and yet ye scarce may see,
With so thick darkness have I drenched the air,
Lest when he wake, the sight and sweet desire
Of home supplant his cunning, and he rise
Forthwith, and entering suddenly his house
30Fall by the treachery of the infatuate lords,
Who prey there on his substance unrestrained,
Sitting in idle suit to woo his wife,
Who weeps his fate unknown; and thus my will
At last were crossed. So hither am I come
Myself to break the sleep I sent, and warn him
Against his foes. And now must I awake him;
But first will doff my helmet, and appear
In mortal semblance, as a delicate youth,
Some prince of the isle: so shall my javelin,
40Long robe and shining sandals not betray
My godhead. He to me, disguised and strange,
Will answer nothing truly, nor believe
What truth I tell: ’tis thus I love to prove him,
And catch his ready mind at unawares.
Wake, merchant, wake, awake; whoe’er thou beest,
That sleepest thus so nigh the public road:
Arouse thee, man, and guard thy store: Look to it!
Ay, if some passer-by have not already
Filched from thee a sad loan of bronze or iron.
For though we reverence Zeus, thou giv’st occasion
51To make a thief even of an honest man.
ULYSSES (awaking).
Hail, friend, whom first my waking eyes behold
Here in this land: and since thou speakest friendly,
Prove now my friend, and show how best to save
These few things, ay, and save myself, being here
Without thee friendless. And, I prithee, tell me
What land is this? What people dwell herein?
Is it an island, or some mainland shore
That from its fertile plains shelves to the deep?
60
Ath. What hast thou asked, man? Couldst thou hither come,
Not shipwrecked, as is plain, and yet not know
Our famous isle? Not so am I deceived.
Thyself tell rather who thou art and whence,
Else learn’st thou nought of me: And speak but truth.
Ill speeds entreaty on a lying tongue.
Ul. Indeed I speak but truth, friend, when I say
I know not where I stand; as thou must grant
At hearing how I came: for from wide Crete
Have I fared over sea with these my goods—
70Where to my sons I left as much again,
When thence I fled in fear, because I slew
The noble and swift-footed prince of Crete,
Orsilochus, son of Idomeneus;
Who threatened to despoil me of the wealth
I won at Troy, suffering for many years
The woes of that long war; and all his grudge
Was that I had not served the king his father,
But kept my own retainers—for which thing
He would have robbed me: but I smote him dead.—
80
Ath. Ah, king of ready wile, what tale is this
Of Crete and of thy sons, which when I bid thee
Speak truth, trips on thy tongue? Dost thou not know
Thy goddess, great Athena? Was’t not I
Who stirred the hearts of those Phæacian men
To bring thee hither? Wherefore in my ears
Pourest thou fables?
Ul.’Tis thy voice indeed,
Which tho’ my eyes were blinded, well I knew.
Voice of Athena, dearest of the gods!
Now with my soul I grasp thee, now I see,
90And worship thee, divine one, and thy knees
Embrace: but in this darkness and disguise
Not even a god had known thee; blame me not.
Ath. Nor for thy false tale to a stranger spoken?
Ul. Since thou who lackest cause hast more deceived.
And I—where were I now without my guile,
Without thy help?
Ath.If I should help thee still,
What wouldst thou ask?
Ul.Answer me.—Say, what shore
Is this I stand on, which is hidden from me
By so thick mist: whether they promised true
100Who brought me hither, and it be indeed
Ithaca, or whether, as I rather fear,
Some other land, to which my fated curse
Hales me, or ever I may see my own?
Ath. ’Tis Ithaca.
Ul.I pray thee by my longing
For that dear boon, goddess, deceive me not.
Ath. Thou dost not yet believe; but if I show thee
Thy very Ithaca, wilt thou believe?
Turn now and set thy back against the noise
Of the stilly-moaning surge and look inland.
110
Ul. Nought.
Ath.Look!
Ul.I see nought. ’Tis a thicker mist
Than ever in my own cloud-gathering isle
Clung to the frowning cliffs, when the warm south
Beat up the vapours from the seas at morn.
Ath. Look.
Ul.Now it brightens somewhat, or mine eye
Wearies with vainly poring on the dark.
Ath. Look.
Ul.Ay, the vapours lift, the highlands loom,
The air obeys thee: thro’ its thinning veils
The figure of some mountain jags the sky;
And those should be my hills: ’tis Neritos,
’Tis Ithaca indeed.
120
Ath.’Tis Ithaca.
Ul. O Blessed Light, that unto all men’s eyes
Shewest the lands and waters: that uprisest
Day after day upon the windy seas
And fertile plains, valleys and lovely hills,
Rivers and shores, and heights and peopled towns;
Now in all Greece is no tongue praiseth thee
As mine, nor heart thanketh; nor any eye
Rejoicest thou as mine.
Ath.Turn now to left.
There is the haven of Phorcys, here the tree,
130Thy well-remembered olive; and to right
The rock-roofed cave, where thou so oft hast done
Sweet sacrifice unto the native Nymphs.
Ul. Soil of my dear-desirèd fatherland,
For warrant that I dream not, take this kiss;
My home! And ye, dear sisters of the spring,
I raise my hands to you, whom nevermore
I looked to greet; but now, children of heaven,
As once of old I praise you, and henceforth
Will pay with loving vows, if your fair queen
140But grant me life, and comfort in my son.
Ath. Now thou believest.
Ul.See, there be the firs,
Which eastward of my house bar the red dawn
With black, and in their feathery tops at night
Sigh to the moon. Ay, and my house I see
Unchanged. ’Tis Ithaca.
Ath.Wilt thou not go
Now to thy home, and with the sweet surprise
Of thy desired return gladden thy wife,
And greet thy son, a man, whom thou didst leave
In cradle? See, I here will guard thy goods.
Thou wouldst be gone.
150
Ul.Goddess, if strong desire
Could ever conquer me, now should I do
A thing for which no man might blame me, nay
Even tho’ he pitied me, if too great longing
Should fool me to my ruin. But in my heart
Are other thoughts. The wife of Agamemnon
At his return welcomed the king with state,
And to his chamber led, but in the bath
Soon as he lay, giving him honied words,
She slew him with a dagger, to the deed
160Being prompted by her guilty paramour,
Ægisthus. Ten years numbered since that crime
Double the equal motive of my fear:
Nor can a woman, when her lord, tho’ loved,
Is long away, be trusted, that she should not
In weariness at last forsake her faith.
Wherefore I would not enter in my house,
Nay, nor be known of any, till I hear
Such tidings as bespeak my coming well.
Ath. O brave! thy wary mind has gone before,
170The way I would have led it: thou art as ever
Fore-reckoner with chance, to take thy stand
Armed at all points.
Ul.This fear, goddess, I learnt
Of blind Tiresias, when at Circe’s bidding
I sailed for south beyond the coasts of men,
To dark Cimmerian cloud-land, and I saw
The hapless king himself, who with thin voice
Poured forth his wrongs; and many more I saw,
Who suffered pain: the tearful shadows penned
In mansions of austere Persephonè.
180From that old prophet’s tongue of warning weird
Still for myself in the end I gathered hope,
And treasured it, but from thy tongue fear ill.
Ath. Yet shouldst thou cherish all the words he spake.
Ul. I ask not now what shall be, but what is.
Beneath yon roof what passes? Thou canst give
Present assurance. Tell me then. My wife—
She is well?
Ath.And beautiful.
Ul.Faithful?
Ath.And brave.
Ul. My son Telemachus?
Ath.He too is well.
Ul. Great are the gods in heaven! I need no more.
190Thee, Goddess, will I worship while I live.
Ath. And much thou needest me yet. Hark while I tell.
Three years thy house hath been the hostelry
Of dissolute and shameless men, the lords
And princes of the isles and western shores;
Who woo thy wife, and feasting in thy halls
Make waste of all thy substance day and night.
As men besiege a city, and their host
Encamp about and let none out nor in,
Waiting the day when hunger and sore need,
200Sharper than iron and cruder than fire,
Shall bow the starvèd necks beneath the yoke:
So sit they there: and ’mong them is an oath
That none will leave till one be satisfied;
Whoe’er it be that in the end shall take
Thy fair wife, and thy house and goods and lands;
Which false and covetous oath, since all have shared,
Must be the death of all.
Ul.Now with thine aid
Shall they be scattered, were their cursed swarm
Thick as the rooks, which from his new-sown fields
210The husbandman a moment stays to scare,
Raising both hands.
Ath.Not so may they escape.
Better thou hadst not now returned, if one
Of all these men avoid his destined death.
Ul. How say’st thou, goddess, shall these men be slain?
Ath. How were Ulysses’ foes then wont to die?
Ul. It may not be.
Ath.Thou wert not used to fear.
Ul. Nay, but returned from exile and hard war,
I would not usher battle in my home.
Ath. Think’st thou of peace? Hadst thou but hence been stayed
220So long as shall suffice yon dying moon
To launch her young bark on the western sea,
Then had Penelope no more been thine.
Ul. Thou saidst that she was faithful.
Ath.She withstands
The urgence of the wooers day by day;
But ’gainst herself, to save thy house from loss,
Deeming thee dead indeed, now falls to yield.
Ul. Vengeance upon them! Grant me but thine aid,
And though they count by hundreds they shall die.
Ath. If one escape, his joy will be for thine.
230
Ul. All shall be slain, though ’twere a task too heavy
For great Alcides. But my son in this
Should stand with me. May I not see him first?
Shall he not know me, and, in that embrace
I yearn for, knit his willing strength with mine?
Ath. Telemachus hath lately at my bidding
Sailed hence to Lacedæmon, there to inquire
What might be learnt of thee.
Ul.Was this well done,
Or kindly of thee, who couldst have told him all:
To send him far, upon a useless errand,
240Out of my sight, the eve of my return?
Ath. I sent him for his safety, there to win
Opinion too of such as knew him not,
And rouse remembrance of thee in the world.
To-day is he returned: I have brought his ship
North of the island, as was need, to shun
The wooers’ galley sent to take him; there
Is he disbarked alone. Thou mayst be first
To meet him.
Ul.Lead me thither.
Ath.Ah! thou forgettest.
If any one but he should see thy face?—
250
Ul. Contrive then that I meet with him alone.
Ath. How if my plot were better, so that all
Might see thee, yet none know thee but thy son?
Ul. What manner of disguise is in thy thought?
Ath. Disfigurement, which thou mayst shrink to bear.
Ul. Ay, if my son behold me ill transformed.
Ath. Yet he alone shall see thee as thou art.
Ul. Then tell me, goddess, what thou wouldst: thou knowest
258Playing another’s part I am most myself.
Ath. But I will make thee now least like thyself.
Ul. How! shall I stoop then to be less than man?
Ath. Nay, but of men the vilest, though a man.
For that thou mayst be hidden, lo! I will change
Thy outward seeming to the piteous aspect
Of age and beggary. Thy supple skin
I’ll wrinkle on thy joints, thy thick brown hair
Rob from thy head, and dim thy radiant eyes,
And o’er thy shoulders bowed cast sorry rags,
To make thee loathed of men. In such disguise
Mayst thou in safety seek thy herdsman’s hut,
270Eumæus: he is faithful, and with kindness
Will serve thee as a stranger in distress,
No less than he will welcome thee revealed.
Accept his food and shelter, and the while
Learn from his lips what friends thou hast to look for,
What foes to reckon with, what wrongs to avenge;
And humour as thou wilt his honest ears,
Awaiting till I thither send thy son.
Ul. When wilt thou send him?
Ath.He will come ere noon.
Ul. Then must he first behold me thus deformed?
Ath. He cannot know thee. Thou betray thyself
281No whit; I will be near and make occasion
To shew thee to him, as thou art, alone.
Ul. I have had no hope, goddess, but in thine aid:
Long as that tarried I despaired not then;
How should I, when thou comest, deny thee now?
Ath. Then first unto the cave, therein to stow
These goods; and after by this olive trunk
Sit we awhile together: when thou hast heard
My counsel, I will work this change upon thee,
290That one who saw thee now of kingly port,
Hale and well-liking, ay, and bowed the head,
Should, when he next saw, spurn thee with his foot;
Thus must it be. Come, let us to the cave.
ACT · II
The hut of EUMÆUS. (Same background as Act I.)
Some swine seen thro’ pens.
EUMÆUS (who is cutting a thong for his sandal).
Let man serve God, but not for that require
An answerable favour: there is none
Outside himself: but yet within himself
He hath his guerdon and may be content.
Some three and thirty years of servitude
Have taught me this; dependence on the gods
300Wins independence of the gods and fate.
I that was born a prince have lived a slave,—
No fault of mine;—and still if Zeus so willed
That man might look for favour, I might hope
Once more, ere I grow old, to make return
Unto my royal home and kingly sire,
—If yet he lives,—and rule myself the realm
I was born heir to: be good king Eumæus,
So should it be, Eumæus, king of men.
309Nay—I must play the king over these swine;
This homestead for my kingdom, this hut for palace,
This bench my throne, these crowded pens and styes
My city; and I will boast ’twere hard to find
A commonwealth of men, whom equal justice
Flattered in distribution to this pitch
Of general content, such fat well-being
As holds among my folk, their laws regardant
Of them they govern and their good alone.
Ay, so: a king of beasts, no king at all.
Swineherd Eumæus; who would call me king?
Fool, fool! Serve God, Eumæus, and mend thy shoes.
321And why complain? Had not Laertes too
A son that feared the gods? and where is he?
Would he not now be glad to be alive,
Were’t but to envy me who feed his swine,
And guard his goods from robbers, and pretend
The hope of his return; which is less like
For that Ulysses than for this Eumæus;—
There too I best him,—since ’tis easier
For any living slave to climb a throne,
330Than for a king once dead to step again
Upon the joyous threshold of his house,
And take the loving kisses from the lips
Of wife and child.—Hark to the hounds. What foe
Invades my kingdom? O a piteous sight.
Off, dogs;—why they will rend him—Mesaulius, ho!
Cottus, call off the dogs! Will they not leave him?
To kennel, curs!—Ye heavens! Beggary
Is beggared in this miserable beggar.
Enter Ulysses (disguised).
How wast thou near, old man, to end thy days
Beside my gate, and bring me shame and sorrow:
341And that no fault of mine, so suddenly
Hast thou appeared. Come, come, sir; step within.
Surely ’tis food thou needest. On this table
Are bread and wine, and I can bring thee meat:
Sit and be satisfied.
ULYSSES.
Now may the gods,
Since thou this day giv’st me so good a welcome,
Grant thee thy dearest wish, whate’er it be.
Eum. Thou art my guest, old man: and if there came
A meaner even than thou, I should not stint
350To offer of my best. Strangers and beggars
Are sent from Zeus: and tho’ a poor man’s gift
Be poor, a hearty welcome makes it rich.
Ul. I pray the gods reward thee.
Eum.Nay, there’s the meat;
I’ll fetch it thee. [Exit.
Ul.Was ever sound on earth
So musical as the remembered voice
That welcomes home? By heaven, ’twas yesterday
That I was here. No change at all: this bench,
This board:—the very hogs might be the same.
O my good bread and wine! And here’s his loaf,
360The shape he ever made; and cut the same,
Scooped to the thumb. Hail, grape of Ithaca!
Good day to thee! (Drinks.)
Eum. (re-entering). See, here is meat in plenty:
Fall to and spare not.
Ul.Thank thee, sir; I thank thee.
Eum. Art thou of Ithaca, old man?
Ul.Nay, sir;
Indeed I am not.
Eum.When cam’st thou then among us?
Ul. With this day’s sun I first beheld your isle.
Eum. Eh! hath a ship arrived so late in harbour?
Whence hails she?
Ul.From Thesprotia coasting south;
But driven far out to sea in beating back
370Put in for water; when the notion took me
To leave her, and pursue my own starvation
Without the risk of drowning.
Eum.And how then
Cam’st thou aboard a vessel so ill-found?
Ul. My tale were long, sir, should I once begin:
And since I have seen no food since yestermorn,
Believe I’d lend thee ear rather than mouth.
Eum. Ay, so, no fool, and I was but a churl
To bid thee talk and eat: eat, sir, in peace.
Ul. I pray thee while I eat tell of thyself,
380Whom here thou servest, and who rules this isle.
Eum. I am a servant, sir, that hath no master:
These swine I tend are no man’s: those I kill
I kill for any one; for on this isle
We pay our service to a gap between
A grandsire and a grandchild. Dost thou take me?
Ul. Yes, friend: thy master is away or dead.
Eum. Both as I think. The while, for lack of tidings,
We make believe he lives. His ancient father,
Decrepit and despairing, lies aloof,—
390We call him king no longer;—and his son,
The old man’s grandchild, is away on quest
Of any tidings to be gleaned from those
Who years agone fought with his sire at Troy.
His widow keeps his house, and hath in hand
Some five or six score suitors. Judge from this
What hope hath beggary in Ithaca.
Ul. In all my wanderings never have I found
A kinder host. But since thou sayest thy master,
Whose absence makes thee masterless, was one
400Who fought at Troy, I too was in that war;
If thou wouldst tell his name, I may know somewhat
To cheer his wife and child.
Eum.Try not that talk,
Old man. No more of him shall traveller hither
Come bringing tidings that may win their ear.
Lightly indeed for welcome’s sake will vagrants
Speak false, nor have they cause to wish for truth.
Nay, and there’s none strays to this isle, but goes
Seeking my mistress, and there spins his lie;
While she with tender care asks of each thing,
410And from her sorrowing eyes the tears fall fast,
Hearing the name she doth not dare to speak.
And soon enough wouldst thou too coin thy tale,
Couldst thou but win a blanket for thy back:
The while for him vultures and wolves are like
To have stripped his bones of flesh—ay, ay, he is dead—
Or fish have preyed upon him, and his ribs
Bleach on the sea-shore, sunk in drifting sand.
Such fate is his, grievous to all who loved him,
And most to me; who ne’er shall find again
420So kind a lord, wherever I may go:
Not even again if home to father and mother
I should return, where I was bred and born.
Nor are my tears for them, yearn as I do
With these eyes to behold them, and my country;
But my desire is for Ulysses gone:
Speaking whose name, stranger, tho’ far from hearing
I do obeisance (towards Ul.); for he loved me well;
And worshipful I call him, be he dead.
Ul. If ’tis Ulysses, friend, whom thou lamentest,
I know he lives.
430
Eum.Try not that tale, I say.
Ul. Now, sir, tho’ thou deny it and think I lie,
Ulysses will return, and on that day
Give me my due; since I dare call on Zeus,
First of the gods, and by this friendly table
Swear, and his dear home whither I be come,
This thing shall be, and with the running year
He shall return.
Eum.Nay, ’tis not I shall pay
Thy recompense. Content thee, man, and drink.
Why wouldst thou force persuasion? Tell me rather
440Thy own true story, who thou art and whence.
Ul. Would then that thou couldst give me food and wine,
Ay, and the gods fair sunshine and no toil,
The while my tale should last: for on this bench
Would I take comfort of thee many a day.
But of thy lord ...
Eum.Wilt thou not cease from that!
Ul. With my own ships I fought at Ilion;
And tho’ I look not now, in age and rags,
A master among men, nay, nor a foe
Many would fear, yet mayst thou see on me
450The sign of what I have been, and I think
Still from the gratten one may guess the grain.
Eum. (aside). How age and misery will brag! And this
To me, who really am a king.
Ul.’Twas then
I knew Ulysses, and have since, like him
And many a Greek, striven against destiny
To gain my home:—at length our ship was cast
On mountainous Thesprotia, where the king
Pheidon was kind to me, and there I heard—
Nor yet are many weeks passed since that day—
460Full tidings of Ulysses, and I saw
What wealth his arm had gotten: he himself
Was travelled to Dodona, but by this
Should be returned.
Eum.Stranger, if all thy words,
That grow in number, should outreach in tale
The moments of his absence, they were vainly
Poured in mine ears.
Ul.Nay, then, and if indeed
Ulysses came himself, here of his friends
He would not be received.
Eum.Ay, that may be:
And time will change a man so from himself,
470That oft I wonder none have e’er contrived
To make pretence to be Ulysses’ self.
That were a game for thee, old man, if age
Did not so far belie thee. Nay, nay, nay!
Signs there would be: and if these eyes should see him,
And seeing know not, I would serve them so
That they should see no more.
Ul.Now when he comes ...
Eum. Still harking back! I tell thee, friend, our thought
Is rather for his son Telemachus,
And his return; who when he promised well
480To be his father’s match, went wandering hence
To Lacedæmon, seeking for his sire:
An idle quest and perilous, for I say
’Twould much increase the tender love of them
That woo the mother, could they kill the son,
And quarrel for the inheritance: and now
They have sent a ship to take him in the straits,
As he comes home: but may the gods protect him.
Tho’, till I see him safe, my heart is vexed.
Ul. Fear not; the gods will save him.
Eum.Thank thee, sir.
Hast ever been in Sparta?
490
Ul.Ask me nought,
If thou wilt credit nought; or shall I say
I have never lodged in Pitanè, nor drunk
Out of Eurotas, nor on summer noons
Gazed on the steep sun-checquered precipices
Of huge Taygetus?
Eum.Thy pardon, sir.
Hast eaten well?
Ul.Ay, to content: but, friend,
I shall not prey upon thee: an hour or two
I’ll rest me here; then, if thou shew the road
To good Ulysses’ house, I’ll e’en be gone.
500Food must be there in plenty: I make no doubt
To beg a meal till I may serve for hire.
Eum. Why, man, what put this folly in thy head?
’Twere the short way to end thy days, to go
Among that insolent and godless herd,
To tempt their violence. Not such as thou
Their servants are: they that attend on them
Are young and gaily clad and fair of face:
And though the polished tables lack not food,
’Tis not for such as thou the hot feast smokes
510From morn till eve, and the red wine is poured.
Bide here; for here thou vexest none, nor me
Nor any of my fellows. Bide awhile,
And if Telemachus return, I warrant
Thou shalt have no complaint. Hark, I hear feet:
Some one now comes.
Ul.And ’tis a friend; the dogs
Bark not, but fawn around. (Aside.) If this be he!
I dare not rise and look.
Enter Telemachus.
Eum.Why he! ’tis he!
Telemachus, my son Telemachus,
Art thou returned in safety?
Ul. (aside.) Praised be the gods! I see my son indeed!
TELEMACHUS (to Eum.).
520
You see me, father.
Eum. Light of mine eyes, thou’rt come, Telemachus;
All shall go forward with us once again.
Ul. (aside). He calls him father, and I may not speak.
Tel. Hath aught been wrong?
Eum.Nay, nought is changed for that.
’Twas only lack of thee: and with the fear
Some ill might hap to thee, what dost thou think
Must old Eumæus feel?
Tel. What couldst thou fear?
Eum. Didst thou not know? The wooers sent a ship
To take thee, son. Thou didst not? Well, some god
531Protected thee. Now let me look on thee.
Come within. Sit thee down.
Tel.So will I gladly.
Ere I would venture to the house, I came
To talk with thee, and learn if aught has passed.
My mother?...
Eum.All is well, prince, yet; she bides
Patient and brave, and weeps both day and night;
Weeps too for thee. Give me thy spear, my son.
Now sit thee down. I say we have feared for thee.
Tel. (to Ul.). Nay, rise not, stranger; there be other seats,
540And men to set them.—Pardon me that my joy
O’erlooked thee. Thou hast guests, Eumæus?
Eum.Nay,
None but this ancient father.
Tel.And who is he?
Eum. To me is he a stranger as to thee.
’Twas yesterday, he tells me, that his ship
Thesprotian, as he says, driven from her course,
Put in for water: when for some mistrust
Or weariness of voyage he remained.
He hath fed with me, but thou being now returned
He looks to be a suppliant at the house.
He is thy man.
550
Tel.Eumæus, thou must know
I could not, whatsoe’er his claim, receive him
Where I myself am threatened: and even my mother
Holds no sure mind, wavering from day to day
Who shall be master. No: there is no place
For suppliants at the house: but as thy guest
I still may treat him well: here he shall have
Raiment and all he needs, and I will give him
A sword, and bid him fare where’er he will.
But not to the house I bid him come, for fear
560Violence befall him and I be accursed.
Ul. Sir, since thy kindness makes me bold to speak,
Thou hast my thanks; nor can I hear thy wrongs,
Nor see thy shame unmoved, for thou art noble.
Hast thou provoked this, tell me, or are thy people
Moved by some god to hate, or is’t thy brethren
Play thee false?
Tel.Nay, there is neither grudge nor hate
Betwixt me and my folk, nor do my brethren
Stand faithlessly aloof. ’Tis all to say
That Zeus hath made our house of single heirs:
570Arceisios gat one only son Laertes,
And he one only son, Ulysses; I,
Ulysses’ son, am too his only child:
And he hath left his house the prey of foes.
I cannot aid thee, stranger.
Ul.O would that I
Were young as thou, and in my present mood;
That I were this Ulysses or his son:
Far rather would I die slain in my halls
By my thick foes, than see this reckless wrong;
My good farms plundered, and my herds devoured,
580My red wine wasted, and my handmaidens
Hither and thither haled about, at will
Of such a rabble as fear not God nor man,
Spoilers and robbers, who have set their hearts
Vainly upon a purpose, which I say
Shall never be accomplished.
Athena appears at the door to Ulysses.
Tel.I pray the gods
It never be, and thank thee well, my friend,
For thy good will.
Eum.How art thou moved, old man.
Ul. The heart unmoved by others’ wrongs is dead:
And yet maybe I am somewhat overwrought;
If I may go within ...
590
Eum.Ay, go within,
And rest thee; thou hast need.
Ul.I thank thee, friend.
I’ll lay me down to sleep: here I but shackle
Your private talk.
Eum.Be at thy ease, I pray.
Tel. Go, father; rest thee well.
Ul.I thank thee, sir. [Exit.
Eum. How earnest thou, son? Where didst thou land?
Tel.Is’t true
The wooers sent a ship?
Eum.Didst thou not meet them?
Tel. Hark now, and hear in what strange manner warned
I knew their ambush, to avoid them.
Eum.Ah!
Thou knewest it, thou knewest!
Tel.Wilt thou think
600I was at Sparta but three days ago?
There in my sleep the goddess, at whose word
I made this voyage, came and stood beside me,
Called me by name, and bade me quick return;
And for my safety warned me that a ship
’Twixt Ithaca and Samè lay in wait;
Which if I would avoid I must sail round,
Keeping the west of the isle; and for that voyage
She promised a fair wind. So the next morn
Was I at Pylos; whence as I set forth,
610I found the wind, and sailing day and night,
With swift unbroken passage came to shore
Last evening north of the isle. Hither alone
I passed in the dark, and sent my ship about.
Eum. That was well done: I praise the gods for that.
I knew that they would save thee.
Tel.But, Eumæus,
What of the ship? What knowest thou? What means it?
Were all agreed plotting my life together,
Or whose deed is it?
Eum.One rancorous spirit rules them,—
Save Lord Amphinomus, who stands as ever
620Within the bounds: of all the rest there’s none
That would not take thy life by stealth, nor one
Who openly would dare.
Tel.Who sailed the ship?
Eum. Antinous.
Tel.Ah!
Eum.And if I die to avenge it,
Son, he shall pay for it.
Tel.Talk, I pray, of safety,
Not of revenge. Shall I make bold to go
Straight to the house, or must I hide me here?
Eum. Bide, son, bide! ’Tis not safe. Let me go, son.
When once ’tis known in the isle that thou’rt returned,
Then thou mayst shew thyself. The cowards fear
630The love the people bear thee. Let me go.
Tel. Is all else well?
Eum.All’s well where ill is well.
Tel. Eumæus, I’ll not venture yet: but thou
Haste to the house, and in my mother’s ear
Whisper I am here: but let none other guess
That thou hast tidings of me.
Eum.Not to tell
Thy grandsire, son? He scarce hath eat or drunk
While thou hast been away: ’twere well he knew,
And quickly; for an hour is much to one
Whose life leans on the grave.
Tel.My safe return
640Can be no secret, but my hiding-place
Must not be known: therefore I would not have
Thee for my herald. Thou mayst bid my mother
Send one to comfort him; but go not thou
Wandering among the hills. My bidding done,
Make swift return. I shall be here.
Eum.I pray
Let not that old man here come round thee, son,
With idle stories of thy sire: he is full
Of tales of Troy: and if he win thine ear
He hath a purpose.
Tel.He! Nay, trust me, father.
650
Eum. Well, he will try.
Tel.Fear not.
Eum.He hath a tongue:
He saith he fought at Ilion. Then, he saith
He knew Ulysses.
Tel.Saith he so?
Eum.And then
He hath been in Lacedæmon too.
Tel.His talk
While thou’rt away may well beguile the time.
Eum. Ay, and thee too. Thou hast not heard, I fear,
Aught of thy father now, where thou hast been?
Tel. Somewhat, but nothing recent. What I know
I’ll tell thee later. Thou couldst gather nought
From this old man?
Eum.He is cunning: didst thou see
660How he could counterfeit? I tell thee, son,
He hath not been here an hour, and never knew
Aught of thy father; but he plucks from me
The story word by word, and then at once
Bursts out,—he knew Ulysses: ay, he stayed
Eating to speak of him.
Tel.What said he of him?
Eum. I would not hear him, son: I would not hear him.
Tel. Think you he lied?
Eum.Ay, ay. Why, how believe
Thy father now is in Thesprotia,
Where the king Pheidon hath a ship all stored
To bring him home?
670
Tel.Eumæus, good Eumæus!
What if ’tis true?
Eum.True! There, ’tis as I thought:
I would not leave thee with him, son; he is quick:
He will delude thee.
Tel.I must hear his tale,
Though it be false. Go thou: my ship will else
Be round before thee. Go, and never fear
That this old man will turn my head.
Eum.Be warned.
Trust him not, son. There is something strange about him
I like not.
Tel.Come: as far as to the gate
I will go with thee. [Exeunt.
Re-enter Ulysses as himself.
Ul. Lo! now the sun in the mid goal of heaven
Hath climbed to view my fortunes, and my shade
682On this well-trodden floor falls neither way:
So towers my genius; so my future and past
Lie gathered for the moment.—How oft in dreams,
When longing hath forecast this hour, I have loved
The rescuing tears that loosed my heart: and now
The womanish water wells, I bid it back:
For nature stammers in me, and I see
689Imagination hath a grasp of joy
Finer than sense; and my most passionate spirit,
When most it should leap forth, hangs back unwilling
To officer the trembling instruments,
By which delight is served. Back, then, my tears!
Fate rules; reason should fashion me.—And welcome
Even this harshness of fate; for if my son
Shall know me as I am, not as a merchant
Should I return at ease, that men might ask
Whether Ulysses were returned or no;
Rather in blood than doubt.—Here on this bench
700I’ll wait him, nor myself be first to speak:
And ’twill be tried for once how a man’s son
Shall know his father, never having seen him.
Re-enter Telemachus.
Tel. Why, who art thou? Not he that on this bench
Sattest so late! In truth I much mistook thee,
Or thou art changed. Thy hair was thin and white,
Thy body rough and pinched with age, thy clothes
Were meanest rags. Say art thou he, the same,
Eumæus’ guest from the Thesprotian ship?
Ul. Ay, son, I am.
Tel.Surely thou art a god.
Be gracious to our house! [Kneels.
710
Ul. (rising). Nay, rise, my son.
I am no god. Why wilt thou liken me
To those immortals? I am thy father, son,
Ulysses to my home at last returned. [Kisses him.
Tel. Alas, thou art a god, and thy words mock me.
Ul. Thou knowest me not. [Sits.
Tel.Say, if thou wert a man,
How couldst thou put that change of semblance on,
Which only gods may use?
Ul.The wise Athena
Uses me as she will: then was I old
That none might know me; now I am myself
720That thou mayst know.—’Tis I.
Tel.Father! my father!
O, happy day. [Weeps on his neck.
Ul.Thy kisses, O, my son:
Thy kisses and thy tears, my son, my son.
Tel. O, thou art come. O, happy, happy day.
Ul. I am come, Telemachus: but how to know
’Tis I?
Tel.O, I am sure; who could be like thee?
I knew too thou wouldst come, dear father, and yet
I never honoured thee enough: I thought
I should be worthy of thee: now I fear ...
Ul. I must be unlike thy thought, son; but in thee
730I see myself again of twenty years:
Nay, I was somewhat thicker, but maybe
That will make up; and thou hast got instead
Thy mother’s grace. ’Tis true we mostly shape
Less to the father.
Tel.How, sire, didst thou come?
Ul. A good Phæacian ship brought me last night.
I came to land in the dark: and all the spoils
I have brought with me are hidden in the cave,
738Till we may fetch them forth.
Tel.First come thou home.
Ul. And would I might. The hope of twenty years
Is gathered in this hour. Come home, thou sayst:
Ah, son; and would I might; but what of them
That stop the way?
Tel.The suitors of my mother?
O, they will fly to hear of thy return.
Ul. They must not fly. All, where they have done me wrong,
Must with their lives atone. This is the cause
Of my disguise, that none should know me here
But thou, to whom alone I am revealed,
That plotting with thee I may draw the net
About them. This the goddess bids me, son;
To slay thy mother’s wooers.
750
Tel.Father, I know
Thou art unmatchable among the Greeks
In warriorship and wisdom, ay, and here
Is none would dare to face thee: yet by tens
They reckon, and I fear would overpower thee
By very number.
Ul.Say: how many be they?
Tel. Out of Dulichium there be two and fifty
Princes and lords, each with his serving-man:
From Samè, four and twenty: from Zakynthus
A score; and even of Ithaca itself
760Twelve of the best, with Phemius the bard,
Medon, and many followers: ’gainst all these
We are but two.
Ul.I fear them not, my son.
Tel. Seek other aid, I pray, ere ’gainst so many
We venture.
Ul.What, son, sayst thou, if Athena
And father Zeus aid us? will they, thou thinkest,
Suffice, or must we cast about to find
Some other champion?
Tel.Truly they are the best
Thou namest, father; tho’ among the clouds
Their seat is, and their countenance withheld
From mortal men.
770
Ul.They will not hold aloof,
When once our spears are plunging in the breasts
Of that vain rabble. Goes thy heart with mine?
Tel. With thee and for thee, father, will I fight,
Askest thou?
Ul.Wilt thou bear to look on me
As late thou sawest me, and seeing me so,
Find not the least diminishment of love?
Tel. I never shall forget this godlike mien,
Whence to disguise thou deignest as a god.
Ul. But when thou seest me mocked and scorned, a slave,
780A beggar where I am lord, wilt thou discover
No indignation?
Tel.I will hide my wrath.
Ul. For I must be thy guest among my foes.
Tel. To be my guest, if they should set upon thee
To drive thee forth, will force me to resist.
Ul. Fear not the threatenings of those doomèd men.
Tel. They all are armed, and thou wilt be unarmed.
Ul. Tho’ they provoke me I will bide my time.
Tel. But how if they assault thee unprepared?
Ul. The goddess will withhold their impious hands.
790
Tel. Lurk rather here until the plot be ripe.
Ul. Nay, son; and were the lure of home less strong
To me so long deprived, yet would I see
Myself the wrongs there done me, see the shame
Of which men speak; and, once within the hall,
I can take count and measure of my foes.
A just cause, bold heart, and the aid of heaven
Should still thy fear.
Tel.Tell me thy bidding, father!
Ul. Ay, so ’tis best: and thro’ thee I may come
To see thy mother;—hark, the course is plain:
800Go to the town; announce thine own return;
Thence to the house, and to Eumæus say
Thou wilt receive me; he must know no more:
Bid him to-morrow fetch me to the hall.
And when thou seest thy mother, tell her thus;
Thou hast seen a stranger in Eumæus’ hut,
Who having known thy father, carries news
That he is near. As to confirm thy tale,
Bring her to speech with me when none are by.
Ourselves may meet at night, and then consult
810In secret on what stratagem may grow
From that occasion, or what further thing
The goddess may command.
Tel.Now thy disguise
Is my chief fear, father; I know these men:
Their insolent assumption would not brook
Any intruder, but against a beggar
They will make sport of outrage.
Ul.Sayst thou so?
Then shall we prove them thus: be they good men
They will show pity: if they mock my rags,
Try if they honour thee; and bid them make,
820Each of his own, a portion unto me.
I then shall see their hearts: the more they rage,
Force them the more with full authority.
This canst thou well do. ’Tis thy harder task
Not to betray me. Youth is bold of heart
And hot in battle, but to guard the tongue
And to restrain the hand come with long years.
Tel. Now let this trial prove me once for all,
Whether in keeping counsel and in battle
I am thy true son, or another man.
830
Ul. All hangs on thee; for none but thou must know,
Not even thy mother. Tell me, I would learn
If in her thought I am alive or dead;
And what thine own mind was, fear not to say.
Tel. Truly ’twixt hope and hopelessness, we stood
In blank uncertainty; and if not yet
Our wishes wore the colour of our fears,
Now was the turn.
Ul.I come then not too soon?
Tel. Nay, nor too late.
Ul.’Tis well, but time is short;
Tarry no longer. Get thee home, and there
840Ordain a sacrifice, such as befits
This day of days: such as may well content
The favourable deities, and appease
The unfriendly. Guess, son, if thy heart is stirred,
How ’tis with me. The ties of home are dear,
And what a man is born to, both the place,
Where’er it be, that hath received his being
Out of oblivion, and given his mind
The shapes and hues of earth, the sights of heaven,
The place whence he sets forth to meet strange things,
850Whither returns to find his own, himself;
This bides, the harbour of his fancy,—and draws him
Spite of all else from world’s end to world’s end.
And more, more dear, are those whose place it was,
Whose name he is called by, whom he calls his own,
Whose love hath borne and nurtured him, whose life
He is offshoot of and diligent support.
This love thou knowest, and being to-day returned
But from short voyage, mayst in little gauge
My joy returning after many years.
860But what thou know’st not—mayst thou come to know!—
I’ll tell thee. There be ties dearer than place
Or parents; there be bonds that break in pieces
The hearts that break them, and whose severance
Is more than banishment. Boy, ’tis thy mother
That makes this Ithaca the world to me;
These tears are hers: and seeing thee, my son,
Whose picture I have carried in my heart,
And year by year have checked and altered still
With vain imagination to thy growth
870Since last I left thee fondled in her arms,
I learn how dear art thou. Now on thy brow
I’ll set this kiss. Begone and do my bidding.
The goddess calls me: I must take again
That shape which late thou saw’st me in. Farewell.
Forget not when I am changèd what I am.
Tel. Thy first commands are dear, sire; I obey.