Part 28

Ulysses and divine Eumæus rose Soon as the morning could her eyes unclose, Made fire, brake fast, and to their pasture send The gather’d herds, on whom their swains attend. The self-tire barking dogs all fawn’d upon, Nor bark’d, at first sight of Ulysses’ son. The whinings of their fawnings yet did greet Ulysses’ ears, and sounds of certain feet, Who thus bespake Eumæus: “Sure some friend, Or one well-known, comes, that the mastiffs spend Their mouths no louder. Only some one near They whine, and leap about, whose feet I hear.” Each word of this speech was not spent, before His son stood in the entry of the door. Out-rush’d amaz’d Eumæus, and let go The cup to earth, that he had labour’d so, Cleans’d for the neat wine, did the prince-surprise, Kiss’d his fair forehead, both his lovely eyes, Both his white hands, and tender tears distill’d. There breath’d no kind-soul’d father that was fill’d Less with his son’s embraces, that had liv’d Ten years in far-off earth, now new retriev’d, His only child too, gotten in his age, And for whose absence he had felt the rage Of griefs upon him, than for this divin’d So-much-for-form was this divine-for-mind; Who kiss’d him through, who grew about him kissing, As fresh from death ’scap’d. Whom so long time missing, He wept for joy, and said: “Thou yet art come, Sweet light, sweet sun-rise, to thy cloudy home. O, never I look’d, when once shipp’d away For Pylos’ shores, to see thy turning day. Come, enter, lov’d son, let me feast my heart With thy sweet sight, new-come, so far apart. Nor, when you liv’d at home, would you walk down Often enough here, but stay’d still at town; It pleas’d you then to cast such forehand view About your house on that most damnéd crew.”[1] “It shall be so then, friend,” said he, “but now I come to glad mine eyes with thee, and know If still my mother in her house remain, Or if some Wooer hath aspir’d to gain Of her in nuptials; for Ulysses’ bed, By this, lies all with spiders’s cobwebs spread, In penury of him that should supply it.” “She still,” said he, “holds her most constant quiet, Aloft thine own house, for the bed’s respect; But, for her lord’s sad loss, sad nights and days Obscure her beauties, and corrupt their rays.” This said, Eumæus took his brazen spear, And in he went; when, being enter’d near Within the stony threshold; from his seat His father rose to him, who would not let Th’ old man remove, but drew him back and prest With earnest terms his sitting, saying: “Guest, Take here your seat again, we soon shall get Within our own house here some other seat. Here’s one will fetch it.” This said, down again His father sat, and to his son his swain Strew’d fair green osiers, and impos’d thereon A good soft sheepskin, which made him a throne. Then he appos’d to them his last-left roast, And in a wicker basket bread engrost, Fill’d luscious wine, and then took opposite seat To the divine Ulysses. When, the meat Set there before them, all fell-to, and eat. When they had fed, the prince said: “Pray thee say, Whence comes this guest? What seaman gave him way To this our isle? I hope these feet of his Could walk no water. Who boasts he he is?” “I’ll tell all truly son: From ample Crete He boasts himself, and says, his erring feet Have many cities trod, and God was he Whose finger wrought in his infirmity. But, to my cottage, the last ’scape of his Was from a Thesprot’s ship. Whate’er he is, I’ll give him you, do what you please; his vaunt Is, that he is, at most, a suppliant.” “Eumæus,” said the prince, “to tell me this, You have afflicted my weak faculties; For how shall I receive him to my house With any safety, that suspicious Of my young forces (should I be assay’d With any sudden violence) may want aid To shield myself? Besides, if I go home, My mother is with two doubts overcome, If she shall stay with me, and take fit care For all such guests as there seek guestive fare, Her husband’s bed respecting, and her fame Amongst the people; or her blood may frame A liking to some Wooer, such as best May bed her in his house, not giving least. And thus am I unsure of all means free To use a guest there, fit for his degree. But, being thy guest, I’ll be his supply For all weeds, such as mere necessity Shall more than furnish. Fit him with a sword, And set him where his heart would have been shor’d; Or, if so pleas’d, receive him in thy shed, I’ll send thee clothes, I vow, and all the bread His wish would eat, that to thy men and thee He be no burthen. But that I should be His mean to my house; where a company Of wrong-professing Wooers wildly live, I will in no sort author, lest they give Foul use to him, and me as gravely grieve. For what great act can anyone achieve Against a multitude, although his mind Retain a courage of the greatest kind? For all minds have not force in one degree.” Ulysses answer’d: “O friend, since ’tis free For any man to change fit words with thee, I’ll freely speak: Methinks, a wolfish pow’r My heart puts on to tear and to devour, To hear your affirmation, that, in spite Of what may fall on you, made opposite, Being one of your proportion, birth, and age, These Wooers should in such injustice rage. What should the cause be? Do you wilfully Endure their spoil? Or hath your empery Been such amongst your people, that all gather In troop, and one voice (which ev’n God doth father) And vow your hate so, that they suffer them? Or blame your kinsfolk’s faiths, before th’ extreme Of your first stroke hath tried them, whom a man, When strifes to blows rise, trusts, though battle ran In huge and high waves? Would to heav’n my spirit Such youth breath’d, as the man that must inherit Yet-never-touch’d Ulysses, or that he, But wand’ring this way, would but come, and see What my age could achieve (and there is Fate For Hope yet left, that he may recreate His eyes with such an object) this my head Should any stranger strike off, if stark dead I struck not all, the house in open force Ent’ring with challenge! If their great concourse Did over-lay me, being a man alone, (Which you urge for yourself) be you that one, I rather in mine own house wish to die One death for all, than so indecently See evermore deeds worse than death applied, Guests wrong’d with vile words and blow-giving pride, The women-servants dragg’d in filthy kind About the fair house, and in corners blind Made serve the rapes of ruffians, food devour’d Idly and rudely, wine exhaust, and pour’d Through throats profane; and all about a deed That’s ever wooing, and will never speed.” “I’ll tell you, guest, most truly,” said his son, “I do not think that all my people run One hateful course against me; nor accuse Kinsfolks that I in strifes of weight might use; But Jove will have it so, our race alone (As if made singular) to one and one His hand confining. Only to the king, Jove-bred Arcesius, did Laertes spring; Only to old Laertes did descend Ulysses; only to Ulysses’ end Am I the adjunct, whom he left so young, That from me to him never comfort sprung. And to all these now, for their race, arise Up in their house a brood of enemies. As many as in these isles bow men’s knees, Samos, Dulichius, and the rich-in-trees Zacynthus, or in this rough isle’s command, So many suitors for the nuptials stand, That ask my mother, and, mean space, prefer Their lusts to all spoil, that dishonour her. Nor doth she, though she loaths, deny their suits, Nor they denials take, though taste their fruits. But all this time the state of all things there Their throats devour, and I must shortly bear A part in all. And yet the periods Of these designs lie in the knees of Gods. Of all loves then, Eumæus, make quick way To wise Penelopé, and to her say My safe return from Pylos, and alone, Return thou hither, having made it known. Nor let, besides my mother, any ear Partake thy message, since a number bear My safe return displeasure.” He replied; “I know, and comprehend you. You divide Your mind with one that understands you well. But, all in one yet, may I not reveal To th’ old hard-fated Arcesiades Your safe return? Who, through his whole distress Felt for Ulysses, did not yet so grieve, But with his household he had will to live, And serv’d his appetite with wine and food, Survey’d his husbandry, and did his blood Some comforts fitting life; but since you took Your ship for Pylos, he would never brook Or wine or food, they say, nor cast an eye On any labour, but sits weeping by, And sighing out his sorrows, ceaseless moans Wasting his body, turn’d all skin and bones.” “More sad news still,” said he, “yet, mourn he still; For if the rule of all men’s works be will, And his will his way goes, mine stands inclin’d T’ attend the home-turn of my nearer kind.[2] Do then what I enjoin; which giv’n effect, Err nor to field to him, but turn direct, Entreating first my mother, with most speed, And all the secrecy that now serves need, To send this way their store-house guardian, And she shall tell all to the aged man.”[3] He took his shoes up, put them on, and went. Nor was his absence hid from Jove’s descent, Divine Minerva, who took straight to view, A goodly woman’s shape that all works knew, And, standing in the entry, did prefer Her sight t’ Ulysses; but, though meeting her, His son Telemachus nor saw nor knew. _The Gods’ clear presences are known to few._ Yet, with Ulysses, ev’n the dogs did see, And would not bark, but, whining lovingly, Fled to the stall’s far side. When she her eyne Mov’d to Ulysses; he knew her design, And left the house, pass’d the great sheep-cote’s wall, And stood before her. She bade utter all Now to his son, nor keep the least unlos’d, That, all the Wooers’ deaths being now dispos’d, They might approach the town; affirming; she Not long would fail t’ assist to victory. This said, she laid her golden rod on him, And with his late-worn weeds grac’d ev’ry limb, His body straighten’d, and his youth instill’d, His fresh blood call’d up, ev’ry wrinkle fill’d About his broken eyes, and on his chin The brown hair spread. When his whole trim wrought in, She issued, and he enter’d to his son, Who stood amaz’d, and thought some God had done His house that honour, turn’d away his eyes, And said; “Now guest, you grace another guise Than suits your late show. Other weeds you wear, And other person. Of the starry sphere You certainly present some deathless God. Be pleas’d, that to your here-vouchsaf’d abode We may give sacred rites, and offer gold, To do us favour.” He replied; “I hold No deified state. Why put you thus on me A God’s resemblance? I am only he That bears thy father’s name; for whose lov’d sake Thy youth so grieves, whose absence makes thee take Such wrongs of men.” Thus kiss’d he him, nor could Forbear those tears that in such mighty hold He held before, still held, still issuing ever; And now, the shores once broke, the springtide never Forbore earth from the cheeks he kiss’d. His son, By all these violent arguments not won To credit him his father, did deny His kind assumpt, and said, some Deity Feign’d that joy’s cause, to make him grieve the more; Affirming, that no man, whoever wore The garment of mortality, could take, By any utmost pow’r his soul could make, Such change into it, since, at so much will, Not Jove himself could both remove and fill Old age with youth, and youth with age so spoil, In such an instant. “You wore all the soil Of age but now, and were old; and but now You bear that young grace that the Gods indow Their heav’n-born forms withal.” His father said: “Telemachus! Admire, nor stand dismay’d, But know thy solid father; since within He answers all parts that adorn his skin. There shall no more Ulyssesses come here. I am the man, that now this twentieth year (Still under suff’rance of a world of ill) My country-earth recover. ’Tis the will The prey-professor Pallas puts in act, Who put me thus together, thus distract In aged pieces as ev’n now you saw, This youth now rend’ring. ’Tis within the law Of her free pow’r. Sometimes to show me poor, Sometimes again thus amply to restore My youth and ornaments, she still would please. _The Gods can raise, and throw men down, with ease.”_ This said, he sat; when his Telemachus pour’d Himself about him; tears on tears he show’r’d, And to desire of moan increas’d the cloud. Both wept and howl’d, and laid out shrieks more loud Than or the bird-bone-breaking eagle rears, Or brood-kind vulture with the crooked seres, When rustic hands their tender eyries draw, Before they give their wings their full-plum’d law. But miserably pour’d they from beneath Their lids their tears, while both their breasts did breathe As frequent cries; and, to their fervent moan, The light had left the skies, if first the son Their dumb moans had not vented, with demand What ship it was that gave the natural land To his bless’d feet? He then did likewise lay Hand on his passion, and gave these words way: “I’ll tell thee truth, my son: The men that bear Much fame for shipping, my reducers were To long-wish’d Ithaca, who each man else That greets their shore give pass to where he dwells. The Phæacensian peers, in one night’s date, While I fast slept, fetch’d th’ Ithacensian state, Grac’d me with wealthy gifts, brass, store of gold, And robes fair-wrought; all which have secret hold In caves that by the Gods’ advice I chus’d. And now Minerva’s admonitions us’d For this retreat, that we might here dispose In close discourse the slaughters of our foes. Recount the number of the Wooers then, And let me know what name they hold with men, That my mind may cast over their estates A curious measure, and confer the rates Of our two pow’rs and theirs, to try, if we Alone may propagate to victory Our bold encounters of them all, or prove The kind assistance of some others’ love.” “O father,” he replied, “I oft have heard Your counsels and your force of hand preferr’d To mighty glory, but your speeches now Your vent’rous mind exceeding mighty show. Ev’n to amaze they move me; for, in right Of no fit counsel, should be brought to fight Two men ’gainst th’ able faction of a throng. No one two, no one ten, no twice ten, strong These Wooers are, but more by much. For know, That from Dulichius there are fifty-two, All choice young men; and ev’ry one of these Six men attend. From Samos cross’d the seas Twice-twelve young gallants. From Zacynthus came Twice-ten. Of Ithaca, the best of name, Twice-six. Of all which all the state they take A sacred poet and a herald make. Their delicacies two, of special sort In skill of banquets, serve. And all this port If we shall dare t’ encounter, all-thrust-up In one strong roof, have great care lest the cup, Your great mind thirsts, exceeding bitter taste, And your retreat commend not to your haste Your great attempt, but make you say, you buy Their pride’s revenges at a price too high. And therefore, if you could; ’twere well you thought Of some assistant. Be your spirit wrought In such a man’s election, as may lend His succours freely, and express a friend.” His father answer’d: “Let me ask of thee; Hear me, consider, and then answer me. Think’st thou, if Pallas and the King of skies We had to friend, would their sufficiencies Make strong our part? Or that some other yet My thoughts must work for?” “These,” said he “are set Aloft the clouds, and are found aids indeed, As pow’rs not only that these men exceed, But bear of all men else the high command, And hold of Gods an overruling hand.” “Well then,” said he, “not these shall sever long Their force and ours in fights assur’d and strong. And then ’twixt us and them shall Mars prefer His strength, to stand our great distinguisher, When in mine own roofs I am forc’d to blows. But when the day shall first her fires disclose, Go thou for home, and troop up with the Wooers, Thy will with theirs join’d, pow’r with their rude pow’rs; And after shall the herdsman guide to town My steps, my person wholly overgrown With all appearance of a poor old swain, Heavy, and wretched. If their high disdain Of my vile presence make them my desert Affect with contumelies, let thy lov’d heart Beat in fix’d cónfines of thy bosom still, And see me suffer, patient of their ill. Ay, though they drag me by the heels about Mine own free earth, and after hurl me out, Do thou still suffer. Nay, though with their darts They beat and bruise me, bear. But these foul parts Persuade them to forbear, and by their names Call all with kind words; bidding, for their shames, Their pleasures cease. If yet they yield not way, There breaks the first light of their fatal day. In mean space, mark this: When the chiefly-wise Minerva prompts me, I’ll inform thine eyes With some giv’n sign, and then all th’ arms that are Aloft thy roof in some near room prepare For speediest use. If those brave men inquire Thy end in all, still rake up all thy fire In fair cool words, and say: ‘I bring them down To scour the smoke off, being so overgrown That one would think all fumes, that ever were Breath’d since Ulysses’ loss, reflected here. These are not like the arms he left behind, In way for Troy. Besides, Jove prompts my mind In their remove apart thus with this thought, That, if in height of wine there should be wrought, Some harsh contention ’twixt you, this apt mean To mutual bloodshed may be taken clean From out your reach, and all the spoil prevented Of present feast, perhaps ev’n then presented My mother’s nuptials to your long kind vows. _Steel itself, ready, draws a man to blows.’_ Thus make their thoughts secure; to us alone Two swords, two darts, two shields left: which see done Within our readiest reach, that at our will We may resume, and charge, and all their skill Pallas and Jove, that all just counsels breathe, May darken with secureness to their death. And let me charge thee now, as thou art mine, And as thy veins mine own true blood combine: Let, after this, none know Ulysses near, Not anyone of all the household there, Not here the herdsman, not Laertes be Made privy, not herself Penelopé But only let thyself and me work out The women’s thoughts of all things borne about The Wooers’ hearts; and then thy men approve, To know who honours, who with rev’rence love, Our well-weigh’d memories, and who is won To fail thy fit right, though my only son.” “You teach,” said he, “so punctually now, As I knew nothing, nor were sprung from you. I hope, hereafter, you shall better know What soul I bear, and that it doth not let The least loose motion pass his natural seat. But this course you propose will prove, I fear, Small profit to us; and could wish your care Would weigh it better as too far about. For time will ask much, to the sifting out Of each man’s disposition by his deeds; And, in the mean time, ev’ry Wooer feeds Beyond satiety, nor knows how to spare. The women yet, since they more easy are For our inquiry, I would wish you try, Who right your state, who do it injury. The men I would omit, and these things make Your labour after. But, to undertake The Wooers’ war, I wish your utmost speed, Especially if you could cheer the deed With some ostent from Jove.” Thus, as the sire Consented to the son, did here expire Their mutual speech. And now the ship was come, That brought the young prince and his soldiers home, The deep haven reach’d, they drew the ship ashore, Took all their arms out, and the rich gifts bore To Clitius’ house. But to Ulysses’ court They sent a herald first, to make report To wise Penelopé, that safe at field Her son was left; yet, since the ship would yield Most haste to her, he sent that first, and them To comfort with his utmost the extreme He knew she suffer’d. At the court now met The herald and the herdsman, to repeat One message to the queen. Both whom arriv’d Within the gates; both to be foremost striv’d In that good news. The herald, he for haste Amongst the maids bestow’d it, thinking plac’d The queen amongst them. “Now,” said he, “O queen, Your lov’d son is arriv’d.” And, then was seen The queen herself, to whom the herdsman told All that Telemachus enjoin’d he should; All which discharg’d, his steps he back bestows, And left both court and city for his sows. The Wooers then grew sad; soul-vex’d, and all Made forth the court; when, by the mighty wall They took their sev’ral seats, before the gates. To whom Eurymachus initiates. Their utter’d grievance. “O,” said he, “my friends, A work right-great begun, as proudly ends, We said, Telemachus should never make His voyage good, nor this shore ever take For his return’s receipt; and yet we fail, And he performs it. Come, let’s man a sail, The best In our election, and bestow Such soldiers in her as can swiftest row, To tell our friends that way-lay his retreat ‘Tis safe perform’d, and make them quickly get Their ship for Ithaca.” This was not said Before Amphinomus in port display’d The ship arriv’d, her sails then under-stroke, And oars resum’d; when, laughing, thus he spoke: “Move for no messenger. These men are come, Some God hath either told his turning home, Or they themselves have seen his ship gone by, Had her in chase, and lost her.” Instantly They rose, and went to port; found drawn to land The ship, the soldiers taking arms in hand. The Wooers themselves to council went in throng, And not a man besides, or old, or young, Let sit amongst them. Then Eupitheus’ son, Antinous, said: “See, what the Gods have done! They only have deliver’d from our ill The men we way-laid. Ev’ry windy hill Hath been their watch-tow’r, where by turns they stood Continual sentinel. And we made good Our work as well, for, sun once set, we never Slept wink ashore all night, but made sail ever, This way and that, ev’n till the morning kept Her sacred station, so to intercept And take his life, for whom our ambush lay; And yet hath God to his return giv’n way. But let us prosecute with counsels here His necessary death, nor anywhere Let rest his safety; for if he survive, Our sails will never in wish’d havens arrive; Since he is wise, hath soul, and counsel too, To work the people, who, will never do Our faction favour. What we then intend Against his person, give we present end, Before he call a council, which, believe, His spirit will haste, and point where it doth grieve, Stand up amongst them all, and urge his death Decreed amongst us. Which complaint will breathe A fire about their spleens, and blow no praise On our ill labours. Lest, they therefore raise Pow’r to exile us from our native earth, And force our lives’ societies to the birth Of foreign countries, let our speeds prevent, His coming home to this austere complaint, At field and far from town, or in some way Of narrow passage, with his latest day Shown to his forward youth, his goods and lands Left to the free division of our hands, The moveables made all his mother’s dow’r, And his, whoever Fate affords the pow’r To celebrate, with her sweet Hymen’s rites. Or if this please not, but your appetites Stand to his safety, and to give him seat In his whole birth-right, let us look to eat At his cost never more, but ev’ry man Haste to his home, and wed, with whom he can At home, and there lay first about for dow’r And then the woman give his second pow’r Of nuptial-liking, and, for last, apply His purpose with most gifts and destiny.” This silence caus’d; whose breach, at last, begun Amphinomus, the much renownéd son Of Nisus surnam’d Aretiades, Who from Dulichius full of flow’ry leas Led all the Wooers, and in chief did please The queen with his discourse, because it grew From roots of those good minds that did endue[4] His goodly person; who, exceeding wise, Us’d this speech: “Friends, I never will advise The prince’s death; for ’tis a damnéd thing To put to death the issue of a king. First, therefore, let’s examine, what applause The Gods will give it: If the equal laws Of Jove approve it, I myself will be The man shall kill him, and this company Exhort to that mind: If the Gods remain Adverse, and hate it, I advise, refrain.” This said Amphinomus, and pleas’d them all When all arose, and in Ulysses’ hall Took seat again. Then to the queen was come The Wooers’ plot, to kill her son at home, Since their abroad-design had miss’d success, The herald Medon (who the whole address Knew of their counsels) making the report. The Goddess of her sex, with her fair sort Of lovely women, at the large hall’s door (Her bright cheeks clouded with a veil she wore) Stood, and directed to Antinous Her sharp reproof, which she digested thus: “Antinous! Compos’d of injury! Plotter of mischief! Though reports that fly Amongst our Ithacensian people say That thou, of all that glory in their sway, Art best in words and counsels, th’ art not so. Fond, busy fellow, why plott’st thou the woe And slaughter of my son, and dost not fear The presidents of suppliants, when the ear Of Jove stoops to them? ’Tis unjust to do Slaughter for slaughter, or pay woe for woe, Mischief for kindness. Death for life sought, then, Is an injustice to be loath’d of men. Serves not thy knowledge to remember when Thy father fled to us? Who (mov’d to wrath Against the Taphian thieves) pursued with scathe The guiltless Thesprots; in whose people’s fear, Pursuing him for wreak, he landed here, They after him, professing both their prize Of all his chiefly-valued faculties, And more priz’d life. Of all whose bloodiest ends Ulysses curb’d them, though they were his friends. Yet thou, like one that no law will allow The least true honour, eat’st his house up now That fed thy father; woo’st for love his wife, Whom thus thou griev’st and seek’st her sole son’s life! Cease, I command thee, and command the rest To see all thought of these foul fashions ceas’d.” Eurymachus replied: “Be confident, Thou all-of-wit-made, the most fam’d descent Of king Icarius. Free thy spirits of fear. There lives not anyone, nor shall live here Now, nor hereafter, while my life gives heat And light to me on earth, that dares intreat With any ill touch thy well-lovéd son, But here I vow, and here will see it done, His life shall stain my lance. If on his knees The city-racer, Laertiades, Hath made me sit, put in my hand his food, And held his red wine to me, shall the blood Of his Telemachus on my hand lay The least pollution, that my life can stay? No! I have ever charg’d him not to fear Death’s threat from any. And, for that most dear Love of his father, he shall ever be Much the most lov’d of all that live to me. _Who kills a guiltless man from man may fly, From God his searches all escapes deny.”_ Thus cheer’d his words, but his affections still Fear’d not to cherish foul intent to kill Ev’n him whose life to all lives he preferr’d. The queen went up, and to her love appear’d Her lord so freshly, that she wept, till sleep (By Pallas forc’d on her) her eyes did steep In his sweet humour. When the even was come, The God-like herdsman reach’d the whole way home. Ulysses and his son for supper drest A year-old swine, and ere their host and guest Had got their presence, Pallas had put by With her fair rod Ulysses’ royalty, And render’d him an aged man again, With all his vile integuments, lest his swain Should know him in his trim, and tell his queen, In these deep secrets being not deeply seen. He seen, to him the prince these words did use: “Welcome divine Eumæus! Now what news Employs the city? Are the Wooers come Back from their scout dismay’d? Or here at home Will they again attempt me?” He replied: “These touch not my care. I was satisfied To do, with most speed, what I went to do; My message done, return. And yet, not so Came my news first; a herald (met with there) Forestall’d my tale, and told how safe you were. Besides which merely necessary thing, What in my way chanc’d I may over-bring, Being what I know, and witness’d with mine eyes. Where the Hermæan sepulchre doth rise Above the city, I beheld take port A ship, and in her many a man of sort; Her freight was shields and lances; and, methought, They were the Wooers; but, of knowledge, nought Can therein tell you.” The prince smil’d, and knew They were the Wooers, casting secret view Upon his father. But what they intended Fled far the herdsman; whose swain’s labours ended, They dress’d the supper, which, past want, was eat. When all desire suffic’d of wine and meat, Of other human wants they took supplies At Sleep’s soft hand, who sweetly clos’d their eyes.