Chapter 8
To Penelope, weaving in her chamber, was carried the story of the beggar at whom the abhorred Antinoüs had thrown a stool, and she sent for him to ask if he had tidings of Ulysses. He refused to go to her, however, until the suitors had withdrawn for the night; and as he sat among the revellers, he caught the first glimpse of his wife, as she came down among her maids, to reproach her son for exposing himself to danger among the suitors, and for allowing the beggar to be injured.
When darkness fell and the hall was deserted, Telemachus, with the assistance of his father, removed all the weapons from the walls. After Telemachus had retired to his chamber, Penelope came down, and sitting upon her ivory throne conversed with the beggar, questioning him about his story until he was driven to invent tales that seemed like truth, and asking about her husband while the tears ran down her fair cheeks. By a great effort Ulysses kept his tears from falling as he beheld his wife weeping over him; he assured her that her husband would soon return, but he would accept no clothing as a reward for his tidings. The aged Eurycleia, who was called forth to wash his feet, came near betraying her master when she recognized a scar made by a wild boar's tusk, but he threatened her into silence. Soon after, Penelope and her maids withdrew, and left Ulysses to meditate vengeance through the night.
The next morning, when the suitors again sat in the banquet-hall, Penelope descended to them and declared that she had determined to give her hand to the one of the suitors who could draw the great bow of Ulysses and send the arrow through twelve rings set on stakes planted in the ground. Up to the polished treasure-chamber she went, and took down the great bow given to Ulysses by Iphitus. As she took it from its case her tears fell, but she dried them and carried it and the steel rings into the hall. Gladly Ulysses hailed this hour, for he knew the time had come when he should destroy the suitor band. That morn many omens had warned him, and he had revealed himself to his faithful men, Eumaeus, and Philoetius the master-herdsman, that they might assist him. Telemachus, though astonished at his mother's decision, first took the bow; if he succeeded in bending it, his mother would not have to leave her home. He would have bent the bow at the fourth attempt had not his father's glance warned him to yield it to the suitors.
Although the bow was rubbed and softened with oil, all failed in their attempts to draw it; and when the beggar asked to be allowed to try, their wrath burst forth. What shame would be theirs if the beggar succeeded in doing that in which they had failed! But Telemachus, who asserted his rights more day by day, insisted that the beggar should try to bend the bow, if he so desired. Sending his mother and her maids to their bower, he watched his father as he easily bent the mighty bow, snapped the cord with a sound at which the suitors grew pale, and sent the arrow through the rings. Then casting aside his rags, the supposed beggar sprang upon the threshold, and knowing that by his orders, Eumaeus, Philoetius, and Eurycleia had secured the portals so that escape was impossible, he sent his next shaft through the throat of Antinoüs. "Dogs! ye thought I never would return! Ye dreaded not the gods while ye devoured my substance and pursued my wife! Now vengeance is mine! Destruction awaits you all!"
Too late Eurymachus sprang up and besought the monarch to grant them their lives if they made good their waste and returned to their homes. Ulysses had brooded too long over his injuries; his wife and son had suffered too many years from their persecutions for him to think of mercy. Eurymachus fell by the next brass-tipped shaft, and for every arrow in the quiver a suitor lay dead until the quiver was empty. Then Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus, provided with weapons and armor, stood forth with Ulysses, and withstood the suitors until all were slain, save Medon the herald and Phemius the minstrel, for both of whom Telemachus pleaded, since they had been coerced by the others. Giving the destruction of the false serving-maids to his three assistants, Ulysses ordered the hall to be cleansed, and after greeting his faithful servants and weeping with them, sent Eurycleia up to the bower to tell Penelope that her master had at last arrived.
Penelope was too fearful of deceit to believe instantly that the beggar sitting beside the lofty column was her husband, though as she looked at him wonderingly, she sometimes fancied that she saw Ulysses, and again could not believe that it was he. So long was she silent that Telemachus reproached her for her hardness of heart; but Ulysses, better guessing the difficulty, ordered that all should take the bath and array themselves in fresh garments while the harper played gay melodies, that those passing should not guess the slaughter that had occurred, but should fancy that a wedding was being celebrated. When Ulysses again appeared, refreshed and handsomely attired, Penelope, still uncertain, determined to test his knowledge of her chamber. "Bear out the bed made by his own hands," she commanded Eurycleia, "that he may rest for the night."
"Who has dared move my bed?" cried Ulysses; "the couch framed upon the stump of an olive-tree, round which I built a stone chamber! I myself cunningly fitted it together, and adorned it with gold, silver, and ivory."
Then Penelope, who knew that no one save herself, Ulysses, and one handmaiden had ever seen the interior of that chamber, fell on his neck and welcomed the wanderer home. "Pray, be not angry with me, my husband. Many times my heart has trembled lest some fraud be practised on me, and I should receive a stranger to my heart."
Welcome as land to the shipwrecked mariner was Ulysses to Penelope. Both wept as he held her in his arms, and the rosy-fingered morn would have found them thus, weeping, with her fair, white arms encircling his neck, had not Pallas prolonged the night that he might relate to her the story of his wanderings. Then, happy in their reunion, the years of sorrow all forgotten, sleep overcame them. At dawn, bidding a brief farewell to his wife, Ulysses went forth to visit his father, and settle as best he might the strife which he knew would result from the slaughter of the suitors.
After Ulysses' mother had died of grief at the prolonged absence of her son, Laertes passed his days wretchedly in a little habitation remote from the palace. There Ulysses found him and made himself known; and there he, Laertes, Telemachus, the aged Dolius, and his six sons faced the people who had been roused to battle by the speech of Eupeithes, whose son Antinoüs had been the first of the suitors to fall by the hand of Ulysses. Not heeding the warning of the herald Medon that the suitors had been slain justly, they attacked Ulysses and his handful of followers.
Eupeithes fell first by the spear of Laertes, and a great slaughter would have ensued, had not the combatants been silenced by the voice of Pallas, who commanded all strife to cease. Frightened by this divine command, the enemy fled; and Pallas, descending in the form of Mentor, plighted a covenant between them that Ulysses might live peacefully among them the remainder of his life.
SELECTIONS FROM THE ODYSSEY.
THE PALACE OF ALCINOÜS.
Ulysses, having been directed by Nausicaa, reached the gate of the city, and was there met by Pallas in the guise of a maiden with an urn, who instructed him how to approach the king and queen. He passed through the town, wrapped in a cloud by Pallas, and paused on the threshold of Alcinoüs's palace.
For on every side beneath The lofty roof of that magnanimous king A glory shone as of the sun or moon. There from the threshold, on each side, were walls Of brass that led towards the inner rooms, With blue steel cornices. The doors within The massive building were of gold, and posts Of silver on the brazen threshold stood, And silver was the lintel, and above Its architrave was gold; and on each side Stood gold and silver mastiffs, the rare work Of Vulcan's practised skill, placed there to guard The house of great Alcinoüs, and endowed With deathless life, that knows no touch of age. Along the walls within, on either side, And from the threshold to the inner rooms, Were firmly planted thrones on which were laid Delicate mantles, woven by the hands Of women. The Phæacian princes here Were seated; here they ate and drank, and held Perpetual banquet. Slender forms of boys In gold upon the shapely altars stood, With blazing torches in their hands to light At eve the palace guests; while fifty maids Waited within the halls, where some in querns Ground small the yellow grain; some wove the web Or twirled the spindle, sitting, with a quick Light motion, like the aspen's glancing leaves. The well-wrought tissues glistened as with oil. As far as the Phæacian race excel In guiding their swift galleys o'er the deep, So far the women in their woven work Surpass all others. Pallas gives them skill In handiwork and beautiful design. Without the palace-court and near the gate, A spacious garden of four acres lay. A hedge enclosed it round, and lofty trees Flourished in generous growth within,--the pear And the pomegranate, and the apple-tree With its fair fruitage, and the luscious fig And olive always green. The fruit they bear Falls not, nor ever fails in winter time Nor summer, but is yielded all the year. The ever-blowing west-wind causes some To swell and some to ripen; pear succeeds To pear; to apple, apple, grape to grape, Fig ripens after fig. A fruitful field Of vines was planted near; in part it lay Open and basking in the sun, which dried The soil, and here men gathered in the grapes, And there they trod the wine-press. Farther on Were grapes unripened yet, which just had cast The flower, and others still which just began To redden. At the garden's furthest bound Were beds of many plants that all the year Bore flowers. There gushed two fountains: one of them Ran wandering through the field; the other flowed Beneath the threshold to the palace-court, And all the people filled their vessels there. Such were the blessings which the gracious gods Bestowed on King Alcinoüs and his house. _Bryant's Translation, Book VII._
THE BENDING OF THE BOW.
Penelope, weary of the importunities of the suitors, determined to end the contest by giving them the bow of Ulysses and allowing the one who could successfully send the arrow through the steel rings to become her husband. Having announced her intention, she ascended the stairs to the treasure chamber, where the bow was kept.
Now when the glorious lady reached the room, And stood upon the threshold, wrought of oak And polished by the workman's cunning hand, Who stretched the line upon it, and set up Its posts, and hung its shining doors, she loosed With a quick touch the thong that held the ring, Put in the key, and with a careful aim Struck back the sounding bolts. As when a bull Roars in the field, such sound the beautiful doors, Struck with the key, gave forth, and instantly They opened to her. Up the lofty floor She stepped, where stood the coffer that contained The perfumed garments. Reaching forth her hand, The queen took down the bow, that hung within Its shining case, and sat her down, and laid The case upon her knees, and, drawing forth The monarch's bow, she wept aloud. As soon As that new gush of tears had ceased to fall, Back to the hall she went, and that proud throng Of suitors, bearing in her hand the bow Unstrung, and quiver, where the arrows lay Many and deadly. Her attendant maids Brought also down a coffer, where were laid Much brass and steel, provided by the king For games like these. The glorious lady then, In presence of the suitors, stood beside The columns that upheld the stately roof. She held a lustrous veil before her cheeks, And while on either side of her a maid Stood modestly, bespake the suitors thus:--
"Hear, noble suitors! ye who throng these halls, And eat and drink from day to day, while long My husband has been gone; your sole excuse For all this lawlessness the claim ye make That I become a bride. Come then, for now A contest is proposed. I bring to you The mighty bow that great Ulysses bore. Whoe'er among you he may be whose hand Shall bend this bow, and send through these twelve rings An arrow, him I follow hence, and leave This beautiful abode of my young years, With all its plenty,--though its memory, I think, will haunt me even in my dreams."
She spake, and bade the master of the swine, The good Eumaeus, place the bow and rings Of hoary steel before the suitor train. In tears he bore the bow and laid it down. The herdsman also wept to see again His master's bow.
* * * * *
He (Telemachus) spake and, rising, from his shoulders took The purple cloak, and laid the trenchant sword Aside; and first he placed the rings of steel In order, opening for them in the ground A long trench by a line, and stamping close The earth around them. All admired the skill With which he ranged them, never having seen The game before. And then he took his place Upon the threshold, and essayed the bow; And thrice he made the attempt, and thrice gave o'er, Yet hoping still to draw the cord, and send An arrow through the rings. He would have drawn The bow at the fourth trial, but a nod Given by his father caused him to forbear, Though eager for the attempt.
* * * * *
... And then Eupeithes' son, Antinoüs, to the crowd of suitors said:--
"Rise one by one, my friends, from right to left. Begin where he begins who pours the wine." So spake Antinoüs, and the rest approved. Then rose Leiodes, son of Oenops, first. He was their seer, and always had his seat Beside the ample bowl. From deeds of wrong He shrank with hatred, and was sore incensed Against the suitors all. He took the bow And shaft, and, going to the threshold, stood And tried the bow, yet bent it not; it galled His hands, for they were soft, and all unused To such a task.
... The swineherd went Forward along the hall, and, drawing near The wise Ulysses, gave into his hands The bow.
* * * * *
... but when the wary chief Had poised and shrewdly scanned the mighty bow, Then, as a singer, skilled to play the harp, Stretches with ease on its new fastenings A string, the twisted entrails of a sheep, Made fast at either end, so easily Ulysses bent that mighty bow. He took And drew the cord with his right hand; it twanged With a clear sound as when a swallow screams. The suitors were dismayed, and all grew pale. Jove in loud thunder gave a sign from heaven. The much-enduring chief, Ulysses, heard With joy the friendly omen, which the son Of crafty Saturn sent him. He took up A winged arrow, that before him lay Upon a table drawn; the others still Were in the quiver's womb; the Greeks were yet To feel them. This he set with care against The middle of the bow, and toward him drew The cord and arrow-notch, just where he sat, And aiming opposite, let fly the shaft. He missed no ring of all; from first to last The brass-tipped arrow threaded every one. Then to Telemachus Ulysses said:--
"Telemachus, the stranger sitting here Hath not disgraced thee. I have neither missed The rings, nor found it hard to bend the bow; Nor has my manly strength decayed, as these Who seek to bring me to contempt pretend; And now the hour is come when we prepare A supper for the Achaians, while the day Yet lasts, and after supper the delights Of song and harp, which nobly grace a feast."
He spake, and nodded to Telemachus, His well-beloved son, who girded on His trenchant sword, and took in hand his spear, And, armed with glittering brass for battle, came And took his station by his father's seat.
Then did Ulysses cast his rags aside, And, leaping to the threshold, took his stand On its broad space, with bow and quiver filled With arrows. At his feet the hero poured The winged shafts, and to the suitors called:--
"That difficult strife is ended. Now I take Another mark, which no man yet has hit. Now I shall see if I attain my aim, And, by the aid of Phoebus, win renown."
He spake; and, turning, at Antinoüs aimed The bitter shaft--Antinoüs, who just then Had grasped a beautiful two-eared cup of gold, About to drink the wine. He little thought Of wounds and death; for who, when banqueting Among his fellows, could suspect that one Alone against so many men would dare, However bold, to plan his death, and bring On him the doom of fate? Ulysses struck The suitor with the arrow at the throat. The point came through the tender neck behind, Sideways he sank to earth; his hand let fall The cup; the dark blood in a thick warm stream Gushed from the nostrils of the smitten man. He spurned the table with his feet, and spilled The viands; bread and roasted meats were flung To lie polluted on the floor. Then rose The suitors in a tumult, when they saw The fallen man; from all their seats they rose Throughout the hall, and to the massive walls Looked eagerly; there hung no buckler there, No sturdy lance for them to wield. They called Then to Ulysses with indignant words:--
"Stranger! in evil hour hast thou presumed To aim at men; and thou shalt henceforth bear Part in no other contest. Even now Is thy destruction close to thee. Thy hand Hath slain the noblest youth in Ithaca. The vultures shall devour thy flesh for this."
So each one said; they deemed he had not slain The suitor wittingly; nor did they see, Blind that they were, the doom which in that hour Was closing round them all. Then with a frown The wise Ulysses looked on them, and said:--
"Dogs! ye had thought I never would come back From Ilium's coast, and therefore ye devoured My substance here, and offered violence To my maid-servants, and pursued my wife As lovers, while I lived. Ye dreaded not The gods who dwell in the great heaven, nor feared Vengeance hereafter from the hands of men; And now destruction overhangs you all."
He spake, and all were pale with fear, and each Looked round for some escape from death.
_Bryant's Translation, Books XXI., XXII_.
THE KALEVALA.
"Songs preserved from distant ages."
The national epic of Finland, the Kalevala, or Place of Heroes, stands midway between the purely epical structure, as exemplified in Homer, and the epic songs of certain nations.
It is a purely pagan epic, and from its complete silence as to Finland's neighbors, the Russians, Germans, and Swedes, it is supposed to date back at least three thousand years.
The first attempt to collect Finnish folk-song was made in the seventeenth century by Palmsköld and Peter Bäng. In 1733, Maxenius published a volume on Finnish national poetry, and in 1745 Juslenius began a collection of national poems. Although scholars saw that these collected poems were evidently fragments of a Finnish epic, it remained for two physicians, Zacharias Topelius and Elias Lönnrot, to collect the entire poem. Topelius, though confined to his bed by illness for eleven years, took down the songs from travelling merchants brought to his bedside. His collections were published in 1822 and 1831. Lönnrot travelled over Finland, collecting the songs, which he published, arranged in epical form, in 1835. A revised edition was published in 1849.
The Kalevala consists of fifty parts, or runes, containing twenty-two thousand seven hundred and ninety-three lines. Its historical foundation is the contests between the Finns and the Lapps.
Its metre is the "eight syllabled trochaic with the part-line echo," alliteration also being used, a metre familiar to us through Longfellow's "Hiawatha."
The labors of a Wolf are not necessary to show that the Kalevala is composed of various runes or lays, arranged by a compiler. Topelius and Lönnrot were conscientious collectors and compilers, but they were no Homers, who could fuse these disconnected runes into one great poem. The Kalevala recites many events in the lives of different heroes who are not types of men, like Rama, or Achilles, or Ulysses, but the rude gods of an almost savage people, or rather, men in the process of apotheosis, all alike, save in the varying degrees of magic power possessed by each.
The Finnish lays are interesting to us because they are the popular songs of a people handed down with few changes from one generation to another; because they would have formed the material for a national epic if a great poet had arisen; because of their pictures of ancient customs, and particularly the description of the condition of women, and because of their frequently beautiful descriptions of nature. But because they are simply runes "loosely stitched together" we can regard them only with interest and curiosity, not with admiration.
BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE KALEVALA.
Andrew Lang's Homer and the Epic, pp. 412-419;
Andrew Lang's Kalevala, or the Finnish National Epic (in his Custom and Myth), 1885, pp. 156-179;
C. J. Billson's Folk-songs, comprised in the Finnish Kalevala, Folk-Lore, 1895, vi. pp. 317-352;
F. C. Cook's Kalevala, Contemporary, 1885, xlvii., pp. 683-702;
Preface of J. M. Crawford's Translation of the Kalevala, 1891.
STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE KALEVALA.
The Kalevala, Tr. by J. M. Crawford, 2 vols., 1891;
The Kalevala, Tr. by W. F. Kirby, through the German translation of Schiefner;
Selections from the Kalevala, Tr. from a German version by J. A. Porter, with an introduction and analysis of the Poem, 1868.
THE STORY OF THE KALEVALA.
Wainamoinen was born upon the ocean after his mother, Ilmatar, daughter of the illimitable Ether, had floated upon its surface for more than seven hundred years. During this time Ilmatar had created the islands, the rocks, and the continents. After eight years of swimming through the ocean, studying his surroundings, Wainamoinen left the waters and swam to a barren promontory, where he could rest himself on dry land and study the sun, the moon, and the starry skies. At last he called to him Pellerwoinen, that the slender youth might scatter seeds broadcast upon the island, sowing in their proper places the birch, the alder, the linden, the willow, the mountain ash, and the juniper. It was not long until the eyes of the sower were gladdened by the sight of trees rising above the hitherto barren soil.
But as Wainamoinen cast his eyes over the place he perceived that the oak, the tree of heaven, was wanting. The acorn planted in the sterile soil developed not until Tursas, the giant, arose from the ocean, burned some meadow grasses, and raking together the ashes, planted therein the acorn, from which soon sprang up a mighty oak-tree whose branches hid the sun rays and the starlight.
The oak-tree must be felled if the land was to prosper, but who could fell it? "Help me, Kapé, daughter of the Ether, help me, my ancient mother, to uproot this terrible tree that shuts out the sunshine," cried Wainamoinen.
Straightway arose from the ocean a little being clad in copper,--cap, boots, gloves, and belt. He was no longer than a man's forefinger, and the blade of the hatchet at his belt was but a finger's breadth. "Art thou divine, or human?" queried Wainamoinen. "Tell me who thou art. Thou surely hast the bearing of a hero, though so small. But thou must be of the race of the pygmies, and therefore useless."