“If things have been organized in that fashion,” replied Chiron, “that is what is apparently necessary,” Chiron replied. “Remember, Ulysses, that amour is primordial, that it plunges its obscure roots into the origins of life, and that, in order to create, it can only inspire a state of supreme exaltation, a sort of sacred delirium.”
“Gods, gods! What misdirection and dolorous surprises there are in existence! However, I only aspire to feel the divine suffering again.”
“To suffer is to rise in the hierarchy of beings,” said the Centaur.
“To love also,” said Ulysses.
“To love is already to suffer,” said Chiron.
“I feel that I had wings, and that I no longer have them,” complained the hero, again. “Without passion, life seems empty, one does not even perceive the flow of time.”
“Your regrets and disappointments will calm down when, soon, you will be touched by the supreme appeasement of all woes: old age. I too, after having ceded my right to immortality to the insensate Prometheus, and on the point of being attained by the years, feel myself invaded by a kind of sensual mildness. Have you ever followed, Ulysses, my mysterious deployment of the dusk? Light goes away then. Everything that was life and brightness withdraws and disappears. However, one might think that the beauty of things becomes more intense, that forms gain in perfection, that a supreme repose, a sort of harmonious and gentle pacification visits the landscape. There is a tender charm in that, which inspires within us a melancholy more enviable than joy.
“The benevolent operation of old age on the human heart is similar. Life withdraws from us, along with the sublime and noisy cortege of the passions, which excuse and embellish existence. And one might think, however, that at that moment, a human being finds a new equilibrium, a secret and perfect measure, and that everything is compensated and accorded within him. You will know old age, Ulysses. You will see yourself live again in your children, you will no longer extract your pleasure from the uncertain future, nor from the blind present, but from the past, the unique treasure of human beings. Then Penelope will draw you to her again, for you will love her henceforth as a companion, as a witness to your life, as a living part of your memories, as an aspect of your destiny... Afterwards, death will come...”
“Death!” murmured Ulysses.
“Yes, death,” the Centaur repeated. “Revelatory, liberating death.”
But Ulysses felt a frisson. He saw before him the immense plain of Ilium, the warriors struck by fear and fleeing the homicidal iron. He heard once again the screams of women, the lamentations that rose up from the height of the ramparts, the gasps of those who fell, badly wounded. And he remembered the mysterious pallor, the strange appearance, calm and yet fearful, that covered the faces when the last breath had quit the lips.
“You don’t find any savor in life, you curse it, you reprove it, and yet you’re afraid of dying,” Chiron said to Ulysses as he boarded the ship, which was bobbing impatiently, scarcely retained by its anchors. He added: “You’re inconsequent, disordered, prey to all phantoms, habituated to all miseries—a man, in sum.”
Drawing him powerfully between his feet and clutching him to his proud breast, he embraced him.
“We won’t see one another again, my child; my end is near. Enjoy the savor of what each day brings you, and try to make the untiring curiosity that devours you into an ornament rather than a torment of your existence.”
The ship drew away, driven by the wind, and was soon no more than an uncertain dot on the infinite azure of the sea.
And Ulysses returned sadly to Penelope.
IX
The years passed.
Ulysses attained extreme old age.
One day, sitting under a thick olive tree in front of the lair of Naiad Nymphs, daughters of Jupiter, he was gazing at the port of Phorcys. And it seemed that every wave that came noisily to die at his feet brought him the salutation of distant and nearby lands that had once seen him love, fight and suffer. His immense endeavors and his multiple troubles haunted his mind.
Yielding to the voice of memories, Ulysses invoked the lands of the Phaeacians, where Nausicaa, more beautiful than Diana, had beaten laundry near the benevolent river, and the isle of Calypso, and the high bed in which the mobile and ardent goddess had bound him by means of her charms, and the redoubtable lair of the Cyclops, and the land of the Laestrygonians, and the mysterious palace of Aeolus.
Lastly, he remembered his return, the battles and his disordered amour for Penelope
Marveling at the voluptuous regret that those memories stimulated within him, he came to be no longer able to distinguish the good from the bad, so much did he feel that they were equally attached to his life, like constant and proven friends.
And he began to think that no one, among the Achaeans, surpassed him in the knowledge of human mores and the science of the movements of the heart. He even understood, as the Centaur had once announced to him, that dolor and adversity had enriched his consciousness in forcing him to fathom mortal things.
And, sensing his superiority over other men and his insignificance before destiny, he became fearful of dying. He thought he saw once again the sacred wood of Persephone near the seething confluence of the Acheron and the Cocytus. The avid flock of souls, crowding around the black blood in order to taste once again the pleasures of the earth, reappeared to him, and he remembered the superb shade of Achilles, dominating the dead and proffering the bitter words: “Don’t talk to me about death, illustrious Ulysses. I would rather be a laborer and serve a poor man for a humble salary, scarcely able to nourish myself, than command the population of the dead.”
Thinking now about death, and overtaken by a strange melancholy, Ulysses knew the desperate desire for immortal things. A tall and beautiful woman stood up then before the infinity of the sea, and approached him.
He recognized the protective goddess Minerva, the daughter of tempestuous Jupiter.
The redoubtable virgin extended her hand, caressed his chin, and said to him:
“O Laertide, what do you desire, and why is your heart nourishing itself in torments? Are you not content and satisfied near your flocks, in your house, seeing your father, the venerable Laertes, smile at his posterity? If you have once known the evils of exile, your present repose is all the sweeter for it. You were among the intrepid company who doomed superb Ilium, you shared the bed of goddesses, you vanquished the son of the Lord of the Sea and no one can compare to you, except a god, for cunning or for strength. Even amour came in its turn to heap you with its rigors and its gifts. What more do you want, Ulysses?”
Thus spoke Minerva of the blue eyes, while Ulysses shook his head and smiled sadly.
Finally, he replied:
“I recognize you, goddess, not only by your resplendent visage, but also the wisdom of your words. In you resides the intelligence of Jupiter of the innumerable designs. Don’t be irritated by my sadness. Far be it from me to bewail or to judge insufficient what the Immortals have wanted to accord me. Having found repose near my people, I no longer experience terrestrial desires, and I do not fear the jealousy of Nemesis, who is offended by excessively perfect happiness. It is rather from happy memories that I draw my melancholy.
“Sitting on the edge of groaning Amphitrite, I am thinking about my past life, the glories of yore, days full of travails, numerous joys and innumerable dolors. And while old age haunts me without respite, I do not have the courage, O goddess, to smile at the death that makes everything disappear. Is it not horrible to die at the summit of wisdom, rich in experience, without leaving any memory to generations to come?
“People repeat that it is dolorous to perish young, and that mortals ought to hope for a remote decease. My sentiment is entirely other. For, in sum, why have I collected the various spectacles of worlds, the sensualities of life and the sweet bitterness of passion, why have I harvested glory, if all of that must vanish when my eyes are closed by death? Is it worth the trouble of suffering so much, sin
ce the hand of the Fates will efface everything?”
And Ulysses looked at the daughter of Jupiter with such a great dolor that she was moved in her divine strength and replied:
“You are sad, sage Laertide, because of something inevitable. Mortal, you are subject to the fate of mortals. It is even necessary to thank the gods for being able to die, as Tiresias predicted for you, consumed by a long maturity and seeing your people prosper. As for your skill and your strength, they reside henceforth in your children. It is Telemachus who will continue your work and your race. Cease to lament, therefore, and formulate a more precise wish.”
The wily Ulysses looked at the goddess with an imploring eye. Then, without being discouraged, he said:
“I confess, O goddess, that I have wished to sense on my lips a drop of nectar, the sublime nourishment of the Olympians, a drop that would preserve from death not only my body but he memory of the actions that I accomplished and the treasures of my experience, everything that my consciousness has accumulated of the great and redoubtable. No one, among the Achaeans, has done or suffered what I have done and suffered. I would like that to remain indestructible, O goddess. But alas, I am asking the impossible. How could I be worthy of the marvelous beverage that your handsome cup-bearer, the incomparable Ganymede, pours out for the Olympians?”
“O ingenious and subtle man,” the goddess relied, laughing, “How belated you are in making your request, and how able you are to render it innocent. No, I cannot grant it to you. No one except for the gods may taste the delightful nectar that confers immortality, and in any case, whoever tasted it would feel his lips burning, consumed like embers. In spite of your wisdom and your travails, you are consecrated to death, and even the will of the Olympians could not save you from it.”
Having spoken thus, Minerva remained pensive. She looked at the bitter earth, the liquid plain that was deployed, mysterious and murmuring, and the distant islands what were posed like black bucklers in the midst of the waves. Her blue eyes fraternized with the ether.
Then she lowered her eyes toward the man again, and she continued:
“I cannot grant you what you desire, but as you are dear to me, since your life was almost an immortal work, and you summarize in yourself generations of men, I will create in your favor a new nectar, capable of being savored by ephemeral lips and delighting them. It will be my last favor to you—and Chiron, moreover, has already announced it to you.”
Having spoken, and taken on the aspect of a dove, she opened her wings, launched herself forth nimbly, and attained the inaccessible sky.
Ulysses remained pensive, with a leaven of vague delight in his heart.
X
He was returning now to his house, passing by Crow Rock, where his pigs were grazing on acorns. Near the spring of Arethusa, he paused to follow the women who were beating laundry with his gaze. His heart was wounded again by the memory of the Phaeacian virgin. He remembered the smile full of attractions, the beautiful arms and the marvelous complexion, all the graces of the body, comparable to those of Venus, which had inspired in those who gazed at Nausicaa the desire to repose with her on a bed.
He was still possessed by that vision when, as he drew away through the noisy wood, animated by the voice of springs, he perceived an unknown man coming toward him, wearing a garment unusual on the island.
“Venerable old man,” the stranger said to him, “I approach you without dread, even though you do not know me. Newly arrived in Ithaca, I request hospitality for a few days. If you are sheltered from need, as your rich clothing leads me to hope, receive me generously in your house, and the gods will accord you in return all that you desire.”
“Follow me to my dwelling and you will be my guest,” Ulysses replied, “for it is not permissible for anyone to send away travelers protected by Jupiter. There are enough fattened pigs, tender ewes and woolen blankets in my house for your sojourn in Ithaca to be comfortable and amiable.”
They arrived thus at the palace of the Laertides, and Ulysses asked the steward to temper the wine with water and to prepare the table, while Penelope took the stranger to the bath that reposes the limbs.
In the evening, in the hall brilliant with gold, Ulysses sat beside his guest, and uncovered the meats, offering him the best, after having burned the thighs in honor of the Immortals. When he had appeased his hunger, a need to learn new things came to him. He therefore addressed his guest and said to him:
“I do not think to offend you, stranger, in asking you the name of your homeland and the object of your voyages. Are you a warrior, a skillful navigator, or do you exercise the difficult and risky métier of thief, abducting beautiful virgins and heavy tripods? During my youth I knew all those métiers and, without boasting, I can affirm to you that I excelled in them. Now, it is my son who travels the seas in search of livestock and slaves. But times have changed and kings can no longer, as of old, gain immortal glory and amass riches in voyaging thus to distant lands.
The stranger, recognizing by the words and opulence of his host a pastor of peoples, rejoiced in that.
“I was born, O King, in Smyrna in Aeolia, built in accordance with the advice of Jupiter by the inhabitants of Phricon, celebrated for their horses. The waters of the sacred Meles bathed its shores. I am not a warrior and I have not distinguished myself in pillage. Destiny has given me the mission of guiding the learned virgins, daughter of Jupiter, who inspire songs and posses the marvelous and multiple secrets of music. Mentes, an honorable pilot, the son of the valorous Anchialus, left me here, wanting to go and send a few days in Leucadia. He will come back later to collect me in order to take me to Colophon and Cyma, which overlook the plains of Hermus.”
“You rejoice my heart, my guest, in telling me that you know the secrets of song, but I cannot hide my surprise. How is it that, free to follow arms, you prefer to be a poet?”
“My eyes are weak, my sight is darkening. I fear going blind. Thus it is destiny that has chosen that métier for me. My name is Melsigene and I am the son of Phemius.”
Ulysses remained silent, wondering privately, what purpose poets might serve. But he said nothing, because he was wise and to his innate prudence, old age had added mildness.
When the cup-bearer finally passed the bowl and the noble Penelope, once the object of so many desires and now touched by the years, came to sit down with the men, the stranger, obedient to his host’s invitation, took the lyre in his hands.
“Would you like me to sing you the war of Jupiter and the Giants, or the amours of Mars and the noble golden Venus?” he asked. “I have also composed a new song about the admirable and already forgotten deeds of the Achaeans who fought against Ilium. One of the kings of this country, the subtle Ulysses, took part in that admirable war.”
At his host’s request, he sang the destiny of the Achaeans and the evils that they endured and the fatigues that they suffered, until the day when the divine Ulysses, making use of the horse that Epeius made with the aid of Minerva, toppled proud Ilium.
The son of Laertes, who was hearing his remembered glories harmonized for the first time by the human voice, felt moved. A violent trouble rose all the way to his nostrils, and he could barely hold back his tears.
“O singer,” he said, when the stranger fell silent, “you are more worthy of admiration than any other mortal, and the Muses, daughters of Jupiter, have been singularly favorable to you. I visited multiple countries and saw marvelous things, but now you have just awakened impetuous and unknown emotions in me. Sing more of what you have learned of the adventures of the Achaeans and the return of Ulysses,”
“I have sung what I knew of them,” said the poet, sadly. “Renown vanishes when harmony does not aid it to fix itself in human memory. I am traveling expressly to collect, among the descendants of the Achaean warriors, the traditions of the past, and I beg you to tell me what you know about the last peregrinations of Ulysses. Fate was hard for those heroes and their works perished with them. That is why, while
singing about the gods, the labors of Hercules, the destruction of Thebes of the Hundred Gates, I can scarcely recount the recent combats of the Achaeans and their adventurous returns.”
“O divine singer,” the old man finally confessed, “I am Ulysses, still forgotten by the Fates, living and breathing in the innumerable memories of the past. If you wish me to talk to you about Troy and the fate of the heroes, and the death of Achilles and my return to the isle of Ithaca after my long wanderings, I will do so gladly. I would love the memory to be revived with the aid of the winged words full of rhythm that emerge from your lips.”
Then the young man fixed his vague eyes on the old man, with amazement.
“Forgive me if, on seeing myself in the home of one of the kings of Ithaca, I did not recognize you immediately, you, the greatest among mortals. My sight is troubled and I passed an afflicted youth. I knew, however, that I was going to encounter you, for the divine Apollo revealed it to me in his sanctuary at Delphi. I sense now that it was the will of the Immortals that I know you. Speak, recount to me the unique things that you have accomplished, the immense travails of the Achaeans, all the dolor and grandeur that the Tyndaride stimulated when, fleeing from the bed of her husband, she followed the handsome Trojan to proud Ilium...”
And then, while the flames of the torches vacillated, obfuscated by the smoke of mats, and the high-ceilinged halls scintillated with gold—the bucklers and the bows standing out, formidable, on the walls enameled with colors—Ulysses evoked the past before the quivering soul of the poet.
But he omitted to recount the voluptuous transformation of his wife and the passion she had provoked in him. He no longer talked about that. Recalling the advice of Minerva, he respected the virtue of Penelope.
XI
The trees flowered, and then shed their leaves, and the days became short and cold. Every evening the old man talked about his momentous years, and the young man wrought those words with his genius and communicated an ideal perfection to them. Sometimes, he also took up the lyre, and then Ulysses sensed his past revive and thought that the Fates were weaving destinies before his eyes, He saw once again the forgotten countries, the dangers he had run, the faces that had inspired desire or amity in him, and the others at which he had gazed hatefully.
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