by Homer
Book 23
The Argument
Ulysses to his wife is known,
A brief sum of his travels shown.
Himself, his son, and servants go
T’ approve the wooers’ overthrow.
Another Argument
Psi
For all annoys
Sustain’d before,
The true wife’s joys
Now made the more.
Book 23
The servants thus inform’d, the matron goes
Up where the queen was cast in such repose,
Affected with a fervent joy to tell
What all this time she did with pain conceal.
Her knees revok’d their first strength, and her feet
Were borne above the ground with wings to greet
The long-griev’d queen with news her king was come;
And, near her, said: ‘Wake, leave this withdrawn room,
That now your eyes may see at length, though late,
The man return’d, which all the heavy date
Your woes have rack’d out, you have long’d to see.
Ulysses is come home, and hath set free
His court of all your wooers, slaughtering all
For wasting so his goods with festival,
His house so vexing, and for violence done
So all ways varied to his only son.’
She answer’d her: ‘The gods have made thee mad,
Of whose pow’r now thy pow’rs such proof have had.
The gods can blind with follies wisest eyes,
And make men foolish, so to make them wise.
For they have hurt ev’n thy grave brain, that bore
An understanding spirit heretofore.
Why hast thou wak’d me to more tears, when moan
Hath turn’d my mind with tears into her own?
Thy madness much more blameful, that with lies
Thy haste is laden, and both robs mine eyes
Of most delightsome sleep, and sleep of them,
That now had bound me in his sweet extreme,
T’ embrace my lids and close my visual spheres.
I have not slept so much this twenty years,
Since first my dearest sleeping-mate was gone
For that too-ill-to-speak-of Ilion.
Hence, take your mad steps back. If any maid
Of all my train besides a part had play’d
So bold to wake, and tell mine ears such lies,
I had return’d her to her housewif’ries
With good proof of my wrath to such rude dames.
But go, your years have sav’d their younger blames.’
She answer’d her: ‘I nothing wrong your ear,
But tell the truth. Your long-miss’d lord is here,
And with the wooers’ slaughter his own hand,
In chief exploit, hath to his own command
Reduc’d his house; and that poor guest was he
That all those wooers wrought such injury.
Telemachus had knowledge long ago
That ’twas his father, but his wisdom so
Observ’d his counsels, to give surer end
To that great work to which they did contend.’
This call’d her spirits to their conceiving places;
She sprung for joy from blames into embraces
Of her grave nurse, wip’d every tear away
From her fair cheeks, and then began to say
What nurse said over thus: ‘O nurse, can this
Be true thou say’st? How could that hand of his
Alone destroy so many? They would still
Troop all together. How could he then kill
Such numbers so united?’ ‘How,’ said she,
‘I have not seen nor heard, but certainly
The deed is done. We sat within in fear,
The doors shut on us, and from thence might hear
The sighs and groans of every man he slew,
But heard nor saw more, till at length there flew
Your son’s voice to mine ear, that call’d to me,
And bade me then come forth, and then I see
Ulysses standing in the midst of all
Your slaughter’d wooers, heap’d up like a wall,
One on another round about his side.
It would have done you good to have descried
Your conquering lord all smear’d with blood and gore
So like a lion. Straight, then, off they bore
The slaughter’d carcasses, that now before
The forecourt gates lie, one on another pil’d.
And now your victor all the hall, defil’d
With stench of hot death, is perfuming round,
And with a mighty fire the hearth hath crown’d.
Thus, all the death remov’d, and every room
Made sweet and sightly, that yourself should come
His pleasure sent me. Come, then, take you now
Your mutual fills of comfort. Grief on you
Hath long and many suff’rings laid; which length,
Which many suff’rings, now your virtuous strength
Of uncorrupted chasteness hath conferr’d
A happy end to. He that long hath err’d
Is safe arriv’d at home; his wife, his son,
Found safe and good; all ill that hath been done
On all the doers’ heads, though long prolong’d,
His right hath wreak’d, and in the place they wrong’d.’
She answer’d: ‘Do not you now laugh and boast
As you had done some great act, seeing most
Into his being; for you know he won
(Ev’n through his poor and vile condition)
A kind of prompted thought that there was plac’d
Some virtue in him fit to be embrac’d –
By all the house, but most of all by me,
And by my son that was the progeny
Of both our loves. And yet it is not he,
For all the likely proofs ye plead to me.
Some god hath slain the wooers in disdain
Of the abhorred pride he saw so reign
In those base works they did. No man alive,
Or good or bad, whoever did arrive
At their abodes once, ever could obtain
Regard of them; and therefore their so vain
And vile deserts have found as vile an end.
But for Ulysses, never will extend
His wish’d return to Greece, nor he yet lives.’
‘How strange a queen are you,’ said she, ‘that gives
No truth your credit; that your husband, set
Close in his house at fire, can purchase yet
No faith of you, but that he still is far
From any home of his! Your wit’s at war
With all credulity ever! And yet now
I’ll name a sign shall force belief from you:
I bath’d him lately, and beheld the scar
That still remains a mark too ocular
To leave your heart yet blinded; and I then
Had run and told you, but his hand was fain
To close my lips from th’ acclamation
My heart was breathing, and his wisdom won
My still retention, till he gave me leave
And charge to tell you this. Now then receive
My life for gage of his return; which take
In any cruel fashion, if I make
All thi
s not clear to you.’ ‘Lov’d nurse,’ said she,
‘Though many things thou know’st, yet these things be
Veil’d in the counsels th’ uncreated gods
Have long time mask’d in; whose dark periods
’Tis hard for thee to see into. But come,
Let’s see my son, the slain, and him by whom
They had their slaughter.’ This said, down they went;
When, on the queen’s part, divers thoughts were spent:
If, all this giv’n no faith, she still should stand
Aloof, and question more, or his hugg’d hand
And loved head she should at first assay
With free-giv’n kisses. When her doubtful way
Had pass’d the stony pavement, she took seat
Against her husband, in the opposite heat
The fire then cast upon the other wall.
Himself set by the column of the hall,
His looks cast downwards, and expected still
When her incredulous and curious will
To shun ridiculous error, and the shame
To kiss a husband that was not the same,
Would down, and win enough faith from his sight.
She silent sat, and her perplexed plight
Amaze encounter’d. Sometimes she stood clear
He was her husband; sometimes the ill wear
His person had put on transform’d him so
That yet his stamp would hardly current go.
Her son, her strangeness seeing, blam’d her thus:
‘Mother, ungentle mother! Tyrannous
In this too curious modesty you show!
Why sit you from my father, nor bestow
A word on me t’ enquire and clear such doubt
As may perplex you? Found man ever out
One other such a wife that could forbear
Her lov’d lord’s welcome home, when twenty year
In infinite suff’rance he had spent apart.
No flint so hard is as a woman’s heart.’
‘My son,’ said she, ‘amaze contains my mind,
Nor can I speak and use the common kind
Of those enquiries, nor sustain to see
With opposite looks his count’nance. If this be
My true Ulysses now return’d, there are
Tokens betwixt us of more fitness far
To give me argument he is my lord;
And my assurance of him may afford
My proofs of joy for him from all these eyes
With more decorum than object their guise
To public notice.’ The much-sufferer brake
In laughter out, and to his son said: ‘Take
Your mother from the prease, that she may make
Her own proofs of me, which perhaps may give
More cause to the acknowledgments that drive
Their show thus off. But now, because I go
So poorly clad, she takes disdain to know
So loath’d a creature for her loved lord.
Let us consult, then, how we may accord
The town to our late action. Some one slain
Hath made the all-left slaught’rer of him fain
To fly his friends and country; but our swords
Have slain a city’s most supportful lords,
The chief peers of the kingdom; therefore see
You use wise means t’ uphold your victory.’
‘See you to that, good father,’ said the son,
‘Whose counsels have the sov’reign glory won
From all men living. None will strive with you,
But with unquestion’d garlands grace your brow,
To whom our whole alacrities we vow
In free attendance. Nor shall our hands leave
Your onsets needy of supplies to give
All the effects that in our pow’rs can fall.’
‘Then this,’ said he, ‘to me seems capital
Of all choice courses: bathe we first, and then
Attire we freshly, all our maids and men
Enjoining likewise to their best attire.
The sacred singer then let touch his lyre,
And go before us all in graceful dance,
That all without, to whose ears shall advance
Our cheerful accents, or of travellers by,
Or firm inhabitants, solemnity
Of frolic nuptials may imagine here.
And this perform we, lest the massacre
Of all our wooers be divulg’d about
The ample city, ere ourselves get out
And greet my father in his grove of trees;
Where, after, we will prove what policies
Olympius shall suggest to overcome
Our latest toils, and crown our welcome home.’
This all obey’d; bath’d, put on fresh attire
Both men and women did. Then took his lyre
The holy singer, and set thirst on fire
With songs and faultless dances; all the court
Rung with the footings that the numerous sport
From jocund men drew and fair-girdled dames;
Which heard abroad, thus flew the common fames:
‘This sure the day is when the much-woo’d queen
Is richly wed. O wretch, that hath not been
So constant as to keep her ample house
Till th’ utmost hour had brought her foremost spouse.’
Thus some conceiv’d, but little knew the thing.
And now Eurynome had bath’d the king,
Smooth’d him with oils, and he himself attir’d
In vestures royal. Her part then inspir’d,
The goddess Pallas deck’d his head and face
With infinite beauties, gave a goodly grace
Of stature to him, a much plumper plight
Through all his body breath’d, curls soft and bright
Adorn’d his head withal, and made it show
As if the flowery hyacinth did grow
In all his pride there, in the general trim
Of every lock and every curious limb.
Look how a skilful artizan, well seen
In all arts metalline, as having been
Taught by Minerva and the god of fire,
Doth gold with silver mix so that entire
They keep their self-distinction, and yet so
That to the silver from the gold doth flow
A much more artificial lustre than his own,
And thereby to the gold itself is grown
A greater glory than if wrought alone,
Both being stuck off by either’s mixtion:
So did Minerva her’s and his combine;
He more in her, she more in him, did shine.
Like an immortal from the bath he rose,
And to his wife did all his grace dispose,
Encount’ring thus her strangeness: ‘Cruel dame,
Of all that breathe, the gods past steel and flame
Have made thee ruthless. Life retains not one
Of all dames else that bears so overgrown
A mind with abstinence, as twenty years
To miss her husband, drown’d in woes and tears,
And at his coming keep aloof, and fare
As of his so long absence and his care
No sense had seiz’d her. Go, nurse, make a bed,
That I alone may sleep; her heart is dead
To all reflection!’ To him thus replied
The
wise Penelope: ‘Man half deified,
’Tis not my fashion to be taken straight
With bravest men, nor poorest use to slight.
Your mean appearance made not me retire,
Nor this your rich show makes me now admire,
Nor moves at all; for what is all to me
If not my husband? All his certainty
I knew at parting; but, so long apart,
The outward likeness holds no full desert
For me to trust to. Go, nurse, see address’d
A soft bed for him, and the single rest
Himself affects so. Let it be the bed
That stands within our bridal chamber-stead,
Which he himself made. Bring it forth from thence,
And see it furnish’d with magnificence.’
This said she to assay him, and did stir
Ev’n his establish’d patience, and to her;
Whom thus he answer’d: ‘Woman! Your words prove
My patience strangely. Who is it can move
My bed out of his place? It shall oppress
Earth’s greatest understander; and, unless
Ev’n god himself come, that can easily grace
Men in their most skills, it shall hold his place;
For man, he lives not that (as not most skill’d,
So not most young) shall easily make it yield,
If, building on the strength in which he flows,
He adds both levers too and iron crows.
For in the fixture of the bed is shown
A masterpiece, a wonder; and ’twas done
By me, and none but me, and thus was wrought:
There was an olive-tree that had his growth
Amidst a hedge, and was of shadow proud,
Fresh, and the prime age of his verdure show’d,
His leaves and arms so thick that to the eye
It show’d a column for solidity.
To this had I a comprehension
To build my bridal bow’r; which all of stone,
Thick as the tree of leaves, I rais’d, and cast
A roof about it nothing meanly grac’d,
Put glu’d doors to it, that op’d art enough.
Then from the olive every broad-leav’d bough
I lopp’d away; then fell’d the tree, and then
Went over it both with my axe and plane,
Both govern’d by my line. And then I hew’d
My curious bedstead out; in which I shew’d
Work of no common hand. All this begun,
I could not leave till to perfection
My pains had brought it; took my wimble, bor’d
The holes, as fitted, and did last afford
