Stories from the Odyssey Part 13

Antinous heard him to the end with ill-disguised impatience, and then broke out in angry tones: "Who brought this wretched fellow here to vex us? Stand off from my table, thou shameless varlet! Egypt, sayest thou? I will send thee to Egypt, and with a vengeance, too! It is a shame to see how they have squandered good meat on a dog like thee"; and he pointed to the wallet, now filled with the cheap bounty of the wooers.

Odysseus drew back and made for the door, saying as he went: "Of a truth, I wonder to find so princely a presence wedded to so mean a temper."

When he heard that Antinous began to curse and to swear, and lifting the footstool he hurled it with all his force at the retreating figure of Odysseus. It struck him on the shoulder, with a crash that vibrated through the hall; but Odysseus heeded it not, but pa.s.sed on without a pause or a stumble to his place on the threshold. When he was seated he complained loudly of the brutal conduct of Antinous. "Accursed be he," he said, "who lifts up his hand against a helpless beggar; may Heaven requite him for this foul deed!"

"Thou hadst best be quiet," said Antinous, "or we will drag thee by the heels through the hall, until we have stripped the flesh off thy bones."

But this was too much even for the wooers. "Antinous," said one of them, "it was ill done of thee to strike the hapless wanderer. Take heed that thou bring not a curse upon thyself, if there be G.o.ds in heaven to see such deeds. And what if a G.o.d should visit this house in some strange disguise, to make trial of our hearts? It were no new thing."

A chill seemed to have fallen on the company after this shameful incident. The wooers had ceased their clamour, and sat talking in low tones together; Odysseus and Telemachus sat silent in their places, brooding gloomily on the outrage; Antinous alone remained unmoved, being hardened, within and without, against all reproach.

When Penelope, who was sitting among her maidens in her chamber, heard how the stranger had been ill-treated, she cried: "So may Apollo smite thee, Antinous, thou G.o.dless man!" "Ay," said Eurycleia, "if prayers could slay them, not one of these men would see to-morrow's dawn."

"Go, one of you," said Penelope, "and bring hither the swineherd. I would fain speak with this stranger; who knows but he may have somewhat to tell me of Odysseus, my lord?" Eumaeus was summoned, and having heard the desire of Penelope, he answered: "My queen, there is a rare pleasure awaiting thee. This man hath a tongue to charm thy very soul. Three days and nights he abode with me, and all that time he kept us spellbound by the tale of his adventures. It was as if we were listening to the lay of some rare minstrel, a G.o.d-gifted man, who sways all hearts as he will by the magic of his voice. And he brings sure tidings of Odysseus too, if we may believe what he says."

"Call him hither," answered Penelope, "that he may speak to me face to face. If his news be true, we may yet see the day when these men shall pay a heavy price for their plunder of our house."

As she spoke, a loud sneeze was heard in the room below. "It was my son," said Penelope, laughing, "I know it by the sound; and it is a sign that my words will be fulfilled. Make haste now, and bring the stranger to me."

Eumaeus went, and presently returned with a message from the supposed beggar, to say that he feared fresh violence from the wooers, if he left his place by the door and pa.s.sed through them again. The truth was that Odysseus feared recognition if he appeared before his wife in broad daylight; so he affected to complain of the indifference of Telemachus, who had allowed the savage deed of Antinous to go unpunished, and begged permission to wait until the evening, when the wooers would be gone home, and he could tell his story unmolested.

"He says well," answered Penelope, when she had heard the message.

"And he seems to be a man of sense. We will wait until evening, as he desires."

The day was waning when Eumaeus returned to the hall, and the wooers had already begun their evening pastimes. The swineherd went up to Telemachus, and said to him in a low tone: "It is time for me to return to my farm, that I may give an eye to the things which I have in charge. I leave thee to look to the house, and all that it contains; but above all be careful of thyself, for there are many here who wish thee ill."

The Beggar Irus

Just after Eumaeus had left, a huge, ungainly fellow came slouching up to the place where Odysseus was sitting, and eyed him with a look of great disfavour. He was the town beggar, known far and wide in Ithaca as the greediest and laziest knave in the whole island. His real name was Arnaeus, but from being employed to run errands about the place he had received the nickname of Irus. Highly indignant at finding his rights usurped by a new-comer, and thinking to find in that battered old man an easy victim, he began to rate his supposed rival in a big, bl.u.s.tering voice: "Give place, old man, to thy betters, and force me not to use my hands upon thee. Begone, and that quickly, or it shall be the worse for thee; out of the way, I say!"

With a stern look Odysseus answered him, and said: "What possesses thee, fellow, that thou seekest a quarrel with me? Thou art, as I perceive, a beggar like me, and I grudge thee not anything which thou mayest receive in the way of alms from those who sit here. There is room on this threshold for us both. But I warn thee not to provoke me to blows, for old as I am I will set a mark upon thee which thou wilt carry to thy death."

Trusting in his size, and encouraged by the nods and winks of the wooers who sat near, Irus was only too ready to take up the challenge.

"Hark to the old starveling cur!" he shouted. "How glib of tongue he is, like any scolding hag! Get thee to thy fists then, since thou wilt have it so, and I will knock all thy teeth out, if thou hast any left"; and he thrust Odysseus with his foot.

All the wooers now came running up, and crowded round the exasperated beggars, hoping to see fine sport. Antinous took the lead, such a scene being exactly to his taste. "Here is matter for mirth," he cried, laughing, "for many a day. Make a ring quickly, and let them fight it out."

In the courtyard there was a red smouldering fire, on which two huge sausages were roasting, a sort of haggis made by filling the belly of a goat with fat and blood. It was determined to give one of these messes to the winner in the fight; and he also was henceforth to have the sole right to receive the broken meats at the wooers' feasts.

Odysseus now pretended to draw back, as if he feared an encounter with a man younger than himself; but at last he consented to the match, on condition that the wooers would swear an oath not to strike him a foul blow while he was fighting with Irus. To this they all agreed, and forthwith Odysseus stripped to the waist, and girded his rags about his loins. By some strange magic his limbs seemed to have filled out; and when the wooers saw his mighty chest and broad shoulders they cried out in amazement "Methinks Irus will pay dearly for his ire,"[1]

said one. "Look what a brawny thigh the old carle shows under his rags!"

[Footnote 1: The pun is an attempt to reproduce a similar word-play in the original.]

Irus himself was not less astonished than dismayed, so that they were obliged to use force to make him face his opponent; and as he stood there quaking with fear Antinous reviled him bitterly, and threatened, if he were defeated, to carry him to the mainland, and hand him over to a robber chieftain, nicknamed the Mutilator, and notorious for his cruelties. "He will carve thee into collops and fling them to his dogs," said the ferocious prince.

Little encouraged, as may be supposed, this prospect, Irus in his despair aimed a blow at Odysseus, and struck him on the right shoulder. Then Odysseus, who had resolved to put forth but half his force, lest he should betray himself to the wooers, struck the wretched man under the ear. There was a crash of broken bones, and down went Irus in the dust, spitting blood, and beating the ground with his heels. The wooers hailed his fall with shouts of laughter, and Odysseus, seizing the prostrate beggar by the foot, dragged him through the courtyard gate, and propped him against the wall. "Sit there," he said, placing his staff in his hand, "and keep off dogs and swine. Methinks thou hast had enough of playing the tyrant among strangers and beggars."

When he returned to his place on the threshold he found the wooers in high good humour at the defeat of Irus. "May heaven fulfil all thy heart's desire!" cried one who sat near, "seeing that thou hast rid us of that hungry, brawling rogue." His words had a meaning which he little guessed, and Odysseus rejoiced when he heard them. Then Antinous brought the pudding, all steaming from the fire, and set it by him; and Amphinomus gave him two loaves, and filled a cup with wine. "Hail, old friend!" he said, offering the cup, "and mayest thou live to see happier days."

This Amphinomus differed in character from the other suitors, being a prudent and fair-minded man. Odysseus knew him and his father well, and being willing to save him, if possible, he looked earnestly at him, and said: "Amphinomus, thou seemest to be a man of understanding, and therefore I will give thee a word of warning. Hark, in thine ear!

Quit this company at once! The day of doom is very near to them all, and I would not that thou shouldst perish with them."

These words, spoken in a low and solemn tone, so that none besides might hear, sent a chill to the heart of Amphinomus. Slowly and sadly he went back to his seat, his mind full of dark foreboding.

Nevertheless, he did not profit by the warning; for he had thrown in his lot with that guilty band, and had to drink of the same cup.

Penelope and the Wooers

I

"How slowly move the hours," said Penelope to Eurycleia, yawning and then laughing in sheer vacancy of spirit. "How would it be if I showed myself to the wooers? I hate them, it is true, but it would serve to pa.s.s the time, and I could caution my son not to be so familiar with these treacherous friends."

"Do so, my child," answered Eurycleia, "but first wash and anoint thyself, and go not among them with this tear-stained face. And waste not thy life in perpetual mourning; think what a comfort thou hast in thy son."

"Speak not to me of such vanities," answered Penelope; "why should I wish to preserve this poor remnant of my beauty? Foul or fair, what matters it in my widowed state? But send two of my handmaids. .h.i.ther to attend me, for it is not seemly that I should go alone among the men."

While the nurse was gone to fetch the maidens, a sudden drowsiness overpowered Penelope, and she sank back in her chair, subdued by a short but trancelike sleep. And while she slumbered, invisible hands were busy with her person, washing away all the stains which sorrow had left on her face, and shedding upon her immortal loveliness, such as clothes the Queen of Love herself, when she joins the sister Graces in the dance. The voices of the women entering her chamber roused her from that strange sleep, and sitting up she rubbed her cheeks and said: "Wondrous soft was the slumber which overtook me in my sorrow!

Would that it were death which had come upon me with like softness, that I might no longer waste away in mourning for the excellence of my dear, dear lord!"

Thereupon she arose, and descending the stairs stood in the open doorway of the hall, with a handmaid on either side. A murmur of surprise and admiration went round the whole company, for never had she seemed so wondrous fair. Turning to Telemachus she said: "My son, with grief I perceive that thy understanding increaseth not with thy growth, but rather becometh less. Who would think, seeing thee thus tall and comely, like a prince's true son, that thou wouldst suffer such deeds to be wrought upon the stranger within thy gates? What if he had come by his death through this violence? What shame and infamy to thee!"

"Mother," answered Telemachus, "thou hast some reason for thine anger.

Howbeit, I have a man's wit, and am not, as thou sayest, more foolish than a child. But what can one do against so many? And as to this stranger, thou wouldst know that thy fears are idle, if thou couldst see Irus as he now sits at the gate, rolling his head like a drunkard, with no strength to stand on his feet or stir from his place. Would that all the wooers were in the same plight!"

While Telemachus was defending himself, Eurymachus had been gazing with bold eyes on that fair lady; and now he addressed her with smooth words of flattery: "Daughter of Icarius, sage Penelope, if all the Greeks could behold thee as now thou art, this house would not contain the mult.i.tude of thy wooers. Thou surpa.s.sest all the daughters of men in beauty, and in stature, and in thy even-balanced wit"

"Eurymachus," answered Penelope, "all the bloom of my womanhood was blighted on the evil day when the Greeks embarked for Troy, and Odysseus, my lord, went with them. But now I am like some poor hunted creature, hard beset by the hounds of fate. Well I remember my husband's parting words. Holding my right hand he said: 'Dear wife, I am going into the midst of perils, and it may be that we shall never see each other again. Be thou but faithful to thy trust, and remember whose daughter thou art; and when thou seest thy son with a beard on his cheeks, thou art free to marry whom thou wilt.' Such were his words, and now they shall shortly be fulfilled. I see the day approaching which shall make me another man's wife; better for me if I were the bride of death! For who ever beheld such wooing as yours?

'Twas ever the custom among those who sought the daughter of a wealthy house in marriage to bring with them their own sheep and oxen to make good cheer for the friends of the bride; but ye sit here as unbidden guests, and devour my living."

Odysseus smiled to himself with pleasure when he heard this artful speech of Penelope, for he perceived her intention, which was to draw gifts from the wooers, and raise their hopes by the prospect of her approaching marriage. And the artifice was successful, for the wooers, following the lead of Antinous and Eurymachus, at once despatched their servants to bring the bride gifts from their houses. Antinous gave a splendid embroidered robe, with twelve golden clasps, Eurymachus a necklace of amber and gold, and Eurydamas a pair of jewelled earrings. These and other costly offerings were brought to Penelope in her chamber.

II

When evening came on, the wooers ordered three braziers to be set up in the hall, to give them light as they sat at their pastimes. The braziers were fed with dry chips of pine-wood, and the maid-servants relieved each other from time to time in the duty of keeping up the fires. Presently Odysseus drew near to the handmaids, and said: "Go ye and attend the queen in her chamber, I will serve the fires, and give light to the company. Yea, though they sit here all night they shall not tire me out, for I am a much-enduring man."

The women laughed, and glanced at one another; and one of them, whose name was Melantho, spoke bitterly to Odysseus, and reviled him, saying: "Thou wretched old man, why goest thou not to find a bed in the smithy, or wherever else thou canst, instead of loitering here, and vexing us with thy prate? Either thou hast drunk a cup too much, or else thou art stricken in thy wits. Get thee gone, lest a stronger than Irus lay his hand upon thee and break thy bones."

"Now will I go straightway to Telemachus," answered Odysseus fiercely, "yonder where he sits, and tell him what thou sayest, thou vixen, that he may hew thee in pieces on the spot."

So menacing were his looks and his tones that the women fled quaking from the hall and left him to tend the fires. So there he stood in view of the whole company, to their eyes a poor outcast, intent on his menial task; but thoughts other than of the fires filled his heart.