A Guide to the Odyssey: A Commentary on the English Translation of Robert Fitzgerald

by Ralph J. Hexter;Robert Fitzgerald

  182 Meneláos feels a special responsibility, for it was to bring back his abducted but wandering wife that the whole Trojan expedition was undertaken.

  186–89 We may well doubt whether the king of Ithaka would have taken up Meneláos’ offer (which was probably not meant to be understood as anything more than a conventional compliment). Odysseus prefers rocky Ithaka to the blandishments of Kalypso in Book V, and he certainly would not have exchanged his Ithakan independence for fealty to Meneláos, no matter how rich the mainland soil.

  193 envious of “these things” [ta, 181], meaning the fantasy Meneláos has just sketched. Meneláos misses the mark in compassing the reasons the gods have not (yet) permitted Odysseus’ return.

  201 the son of shining Dawn: Memnon. His father was Titilonos, a mortal with whom the goddess Dawn fell in love and to whom (in some accounts) she was able to grant immortality. Kalypso has something like this in mind for Odysseus (see V. 142–43, 217–18).

  208 Dawn will soon be here: The implication is not that it is late but rather that on the morrow (and every subsequent day) there will be ample time for further expressions of grief. Given Peisís-tratos’ train of thought throughout the passage, his mention of Dawn (208), however standard, hardly seems casual. The balance of his speech (209–17) is about death and mourning, in particular the death of his brother Antílokhos, killed by Dawn’s son.

  215 no mean soldier: In Greek, “not the worst of the Argives” [199–200]. The figure of litotes or understatement occurs frequently in Homer and other epics and may bespeak the same kind of prudence we observe when characters speak as if the worst has already happened or when they seek to avoid envy of the gods.

  215–16 Like Telémakhos, who does not know his father, Peisístratos has never known his older brother. Added almost as an afterthought, this fact doubles Peisístratos’ loss and brings the depth of his grief home to us.

  227 sons: Close to the surface is Meneláos’ regret that he, unlike Nestor or Odysseus, has no legitimate male heir.

  235ff. If there is any real substance behind Helen’s magic anodyne, it is more likely to be an Egyptian herbal concoction called kyphi than opium. (On the Egyptian connection, see IV.245–46). However, recourse to pharmacology is likely misguided. For all its subtle insights into the minds of its characters, The Odyssey is not “realistic” according to modern conceptions of the term. How could it be? Our notion of “reality” excludes the supernatural. Homer’s is a true representation of a world where gods and mortals interact and magic is potent. Helen’s epithet “sprung from Zeus” [219] (omitted from line 234 by Fitzgerald) recalls to our minds at the very beginning of this passage the fact that she is semidivine. (See also “Zeus’s daughter,” 243.)

  250ff. Although Helen ostensibly ministered her drug to relieve the pain her husband and her guests felt as they remembered their losses, the sequence here suggests that some sort of mind and judgment alteration is the ideal preparation—at least from the teller’s perspective—for the somewhat self-serving narrative which follows. As we will see, Helen’s picture of her loyalty to the Greeks even while she was in Troy is contradicted by the anecdote Meneláos tells (287ff.).

  258–59 Amusing words to come out of the mouth of any singer of The Odyssey, even if he has here adopted Helen’s voice.

  262–68 The disguise in which Odysseus penetrates the Trojan citadel is the same he will employ to return undetected to his home; here the beating is self-inflicted.

  271–72 One of the internal contradictions of Helen’s account: if, as she seems to imply, Odysseus’ filthy condition and rags were essential elements of his disguise, why did he permit himself to be bathed, anointed, and given fine clothes, even by Helen? (She did first swear “on oath not to give him away,” 272–73.)

  282 the mad day: Helen does not deny her guilt but mitigates it somewhat by attributing her culpable behavior to ate [261], a folly or overwhelming passion. It is not quite the modern American plea of “innocent by virtue of insanity.” “Involuntary adultery” would be closer (on the analogy of “involuntary manslaughter”), or the idea of excusing adultery as the same sort of “crime of passion” which, when it applies to men punishing their wives and their lovers caught flagrante delicto, can go unpunished in some societies.

  287 An excellent tale, my dear …: This is deliciously polite irony. No need to have a scene in front of the guests! Meneláos simply relates an anecdote which gives Helen’s the lie. The wooden horse (see VIII.533–47) was brought beneath Troy’s walls after the scene Helen has just described, yet she had claimed to have “repented” and “come round” “long before” (280) that time. Under the pretense of merely telling another story about Odysseus, he effectively contradicts her. Perhaps through his years with Helen, Meneláos has developed some resistance to her drugs. The young men, under their influence and polite to boot, notice nothing. As listeners and readers, we have only heard of Helen’s drugs, not imbibed them, so we can exercise some discretion. Of course, we cannot give more credit to Meneláos’ account simply because it comes second or because he is a man and Helen a woman (although many Greek men would have been inclined to do so for the latter reason).

  295–98 On the one hand, attributing Helen’s aid to the Trojans to some “superhuman power” [daimôn, 275] would seem to clear her or would at least mitigate the guilt. On the other, to mention “Deïphobos, that handsome man” is a jab, since after Paris’ death Helen took up with Deïphobos.

  301 making your voice sound like their wives: Ancient scholars ridiculed the implausibility of this idea: among obvious problems, how did Helen know which heroes were inside so that she could know which voices to imitate? How and when had Helen met all these wives so that she knew their voices well enough to imitate them? However, we are not to seek logical answers to all questions: there’s something magical about Helen. Nevertheless, it is worth noting that we have only Meneláos’ testimony for this; it could be that he and the others heard their wives’ voices in Helen’s voice and inferred her intent from their experience.

  In the 1954 film of The Odyssey, with Kirk Douglas as Odysseus, this idea is transferred to the Seirênês. (In Homer, there is no hint of this aspect of the song of the Seirênês, see XII.220–45.) The film is not Homer, of course, but it is great fun and well worth seeing. And it represents a piece of modern mythography that is in essence no different from the transformations that the Homeric material was undergoing all the time at the hands of the bards.

  306–11 This brief episode, even down to the detail of Antiklos’ name, foreshadows Odysseus’ squelching of Eurýkleia, when she almost blurts out his name (XIX.557ff.). It is not in all ancient texts, and ancient scholars advanced reasons to excise it. If it is not original to the conception of the first singer of The Odyssey, it has been added along the way to flesh out and harmonize this narrative of the wooden horse with material described elsewhere in the epic cycle—as well as for the sake of the foreshadowing. (This brief excursion into Homeric textual criticism may stand for hundreds of other similar points; the reader, particularly the modern reader, will often be unaware of the fact that behind the text editors print, or a translator translates, lie many thousands of decisions. It seems that we will have to add to the list of questions that cannot be answered with absolute certainty not only “Who was Homer?” but “What was the real Homeric text of The Odyssey?” Fortunately, the poem itself withstands the uncertainty, like a painting which is a recognized masterpiece despite centuries of accumulated grime.)

  360–61 Fawns … lion’s … doe … sucklings: Similes are less frequent in The Odyssey than in The Iliad, but those the poet employs are almost always drawn (as in The Iliad) from nature; animal life is the richest source for similes in both epics.

  375 Ancient of the Sea: Proteus, as Meneláos explains in the next passage.

  378 Egypt: For the Greeks the source not only of wealth but also of wisdom.

  379 hekatombs: Sacrifices, strictly speaking, of on
e hundred oxen each, but even the gods didn’t count the animals per sacrifice, only the number of sacrifices.

  394 The seashore is again the site of an epiphany. The wisdom that Telémakhos gleans from Meneláos is greater, not lesser, for coming to him at second hand (like epic tales handed down from singer to singer). Meneláos needs Eidothea’s help even to learn how to seize and interrogate Proteus, indeed, even to learn that Proteus exists and has significant wisdom. (The name “Eidothea” may mean either “knowing goddess” or “goddess of many forms;” for both name and helper function, see Leukothea, V.346ff.)

  In the “miniepic” of the first four books, the entire episode of Meneláos and Proteus corresponds to the nekuia or underworld voyage of the larger structure. As in the case of the underworld journey, the traveler must follow a strict set of prescriptions. (In Vergilian terms, Eidothea is Meneláos’ Sibyl, who guides Aeneas through Hades in Book VI of The Aeneid.) Proteus himself is a shape changer or djinn—once held, he is compelled to answer Meneláos’ questions.

  411ff. A young girl, taken to be a goddess, and a marooned sailor meet on the strand, and in response to his request for aid she tells him how to obtain substantive assistance from her father. As we shall see, the encounter here bears an uncanny resemblance to the one between Nausikaa and Odysseus (Book VI), and Meneláos’ companions donning sealskins to trick Proteus foreshadows in some details Odysseus in Polyphêmos’ cave (Book IX). Story elements serve comparable functions, motifs recur, multiple scenes are of the same type—all this is characteristic of popular traditional literary forms, whether folk-or fairy tales or oral-formulaic poetry. This said, however, the anticipations remain noteworthy and further bind the first four books, the so-called Telemachy, to the story of Odysseus. Indeed, as we have seen, Odysseus is never absent from these books.

  471–76 The “stench” of the sealskins may seem a surprising touch of “realism” in so fantastic an episode, but it is not uncharacteristic of authentic folktales, or dreams for that matter. Later critics found the use of divine ambrosia, as a sort of pomade against the foul smell of the sealskins, an even more serious breach of decorum, and Vergil, when imitating the episode, has the goddess Cyrene anoint her son Aristaeus’ entire body (Georgics IV.415–16).

  480 At noon: In the hot Mediterranean climate, midday, when sensible people seek shadow and rest, is also a time when spirits walk about. (“Only mad dogs and Englishmen / go out in the midday sun.”—Noël Coward)

  481 In Homer, we have the further detail that Proteus’ seals are “well fed” [zatrepheas, 451]. Homer seems to have enjoyed a mild play on words here that cannot be rendered in English: the same form [lekto], occurring in the same metrical slot in both lines, means “count” in one place [451; Fitzgerald 481] and, from a different verb, “lie down to sleep” [453; Fitzgerald 483] in the second. Oral traditions on the whole seem to license such wordplay or paronomasia more than written traditions: the pun (as anecdote, not figure) is itself an exclusively oral genre, while neoclassical critics reading Shakespeare feel compelled to apologize for his “indulging in” wordplay, which was an essential part of the spoken theater for which he composed. Although the play on two senses of lekto is a minor example, coming as it does in this passage it provides an opportunity to note that, like Proteus, the singer is a shape changer.

  493 Son of Atreus: It goes without saying that, as a god, Proteus has long since identified the captain among his captors and knows his name. He only feigns ignorance of the god who instructed Meneláos in the way to trap him and the reason for his doing so; in fact, Meneláos calls him on this make-believe (498). This remark by Meneláos also puts Proteus on notice that Meneláos is on the lookout for further trickery.

  511 Nile: It is interesting that “Egypt” in the Greek serves Homer as the term for both the land and the river which floods it, while the Greek form of “Nile” appears in neither Iliad nor Odyssey.

  530 Many … died, many remain: This kind of “polar” expression—that is, describing the two extreme possibilities or poles—is typical perhaps of all language, but certainly of ancient pronouncements.

  533–34 One is alive …: Homer actually has Proteus say “and one” [498] rather than just “one,” even if he goes on to describe the two “lost” during the homecoming (534–73) and has to be prompted by Meneláos (586–89) to speak of this third, the castaway. Fitzgerald’s translation has the disadvantage of suggesting that “Aias” is the other of two, of which the castaway is the first. For this reason I would have rendered the opening of line 534 “Now Aias.”

  This Aias is not Télamonian Aías, who contended with Odysseus for the right to wear the arms of the slain Akhilleus, lost the debate, and as a consequence went mad and committed suicide (the subject of Sophocles’ tragedy Ajax). Rather, this is the Lokrian Aias, whose father was Oïleus and who attempted to ravish the Trojan priestess Kassandra, thereby arousing the wrath of the gods, Athena in particular. (The more common English version of the name, Ajax, is based on the Latin form.)

  538–40 Aias here is the type or model of the disdainer of the gods, and his impious insolence brings instant retribution.

  547ff. Meanwhile your brother …: Proteus speaks of Meneláos’ brother, Agamémnon, who technically reached home safely (557–58) but met foul play there. Although Odysseus is not there to hear it, Proteus’ description of what went wrong because of Agamémnon’s open arrival is ample justification for the lengths to which Odysseus goes to disguise his own return. While the murder of Agamémnon is news, grievous news to Meneláos at the time Proteus tells him, we and Telémakhos have heard this story repeatedly. Orestês, the example ever held up before Telémakhos as a “role model,” appears at 582–83. At the moment of Proteus’ exchange with Meneláos described here, Orestês was only a prospective avenger, and Proteus is or pretends to be uncertain whether Meneláos or Orestês will kill Aigísthos.

  572 The implication of “of either company,” in Greek “of the Atreid” [i.e., Agamémnon, 536] and “of Aigísthos” [537], is that Aigísthos killed all witnesses, even the members of his own retinue.

  583 the feast: Aigísthos’ burial, an occasion for feasting for Orestês and Meneláos but also part of the rites accorded even Aigísthos (see III.278–79, above).

  586ff. The news of Odysseus that Telémakhos has sought so long is placed last, for maximum tension. Even then it is excruciatingly brief (591–96). And although Proteus goes on to prophesy Meneláos’ safe return, he says nothing about Odysseus, no doubt a disappointment to Telémakhos but obviously very much to Homer’s purpose.

  599ff. Elysion is the Greek paradise, not some heaven but a field or pasture, its most significant characteristic being its temperate climate. This is by no means the standard afterlife destination of Greeks and is accorded Meneláos because he is the husband of Zeus’ daughter Helen, as Proteus explains (607–8). The only other inhabitant of Elysion we know of is Rhadamanthos (600; it really ought to be “Rhadamanthys” [564]), of Kretan provenance and inserted into Greek mythology as Zeus’ son by Europa. The Kretan connection may suggest that Elysion reflects Minoan conceptions of the afterlife. The name Elysion itself refers to the holiness of any place or person “struck by lightning” (enêlysios). (On this, see West, HWH 1.227 [on IV.563ff.], following Burkert for the last detail.)

  629–33 It was customary not for the guest to bring a gift to his host—that might have seemed like payment—but for the host to exhibit his largess further by giving gifts to his guests upon their departure.

  641–51 Telémakhos, with admirable but slightly gauche frankness, asks for something more fitting for Ithaka. In his description of the “island of islands,” rockier than the rich plains of the mainland, one catches a sentiment which comes close to being universal to humanity (if anything is): namely, the love of one’s birthplace, however poor, simply because it is familiar.

  658 a wine bowl …: An even better gift, because it is the work of Hephaistos (660), the divine smith and
metalworker.

  661 Sidon: Coastal city of the Phoinikians, although in Homer’s day Tyre was the chief center of power, as Sidon had been in Mycenaean times. Still, the throwback to the earlier heroic age is probably the result not of Greek traditions, poetic or otherwise, but of current Phoinikian formulae: 1 Kings 16:31 provides roughly contemporaneous confirmation that the rulers of Tyre styled themselves “kings of Sidon.” Hoekstra notes that in Homer, Sidonians “are always associated with craftsmanship, whereas the Phoenicians appear as traders” (in HWH 2.239 [on XV. 117–18]). The contrasting usage is striking at XV.505–17. The Greeks never caught up with the Phoinikians as seafaring traders throughout the Mediterranean. The Phoinikians established trading factories and settlements in Spain, on the mainland and islands of Italy, and of course in North Africa. Shortly after Homer’s time, the Phoinikian settlement Carthage would grow into a mercantile sea power in its own right, playing America to the England of Phoinikia.

  668ff. This is a remarkable and remarkably subtle transition from Sparta to Ithaka. (Analytic critics have thought otherwise.) The simultaneous action in Fitzgerald’s translation is indeed suggested in the Greek, but indirectly and approximately. There is no phrase which can be rendered “At that same hour” (668, or, for that matter, the “distant” of the following Une). Rather, Homer effects the transition by contrast. The final scene in Sparta is the characteristic Dorian feast, where guests supplied the comestibles. Homer then leaps to Ithaka simply with “but”: “But the suitors were taking pleasure with the discus before Odysseus’ hall” [mnêstêres de paroithen Odussêos megaroio/diskoisin terponto, 625–26]. “Taking pleasure” is a key term: unlike the Spartan guests who contribute their produce to their lord to enable his hospitality, the Ithakan suitors continue to consume Odysseus’ property, as Telémakhos has often emphasized, abusing the “hospitality” of their lord’s family. Fitzgerald renders their hybris with “arrogant lords” (672).