Book XIV: Meeting of Ulysses and Eumaeus

Then from the haven up the rugged pathUlysses went among the woody heights.He sought the spot where Pallas bade him meetThe noble swineherd, who of all that servedThe great Ulysses chiefly had in chargeTo bring the day’s supplies. He found him thereSeated beneath the portico, beforeHis airy lodge, that might be seen from far,Well built and spacious, standing by itself.Eumaeus, while his lord was far away,Had built it, though not bidden by the queenNor old Laertes, with the stones he drewFrom quarries thither. Round it he had setA hedge of thorns, encircling these with stakesClose set and many, cloven from the heartOf oak. Within that circuit he had madeTwelve sties, beside each other, for the swineTo lie in. Fifty wallowed in each sty,All females; there they littered. But the malesWere fewer, and were kept without; and theseThe suitor train made fewer every day,Feeding upon them, for Eumaeus sentAlways the best of all his fatling herd.These numbered twice nine score. Beside them sleptFour mastiffs, which the master swineherd fed,Savage as wolves. Eumaeus to his feetWas fitting sandals, which he carved and shapedFrom a stained ox-hide, while the other hindsWere gone on different errands—three to driveThe herds of swine—a fourth was sent to takeA fatling to the city, that the crewOf arrogant suitors, having offered himIn sacrifice, might feast upon his flesh.

The loud-mouthed dogs that saw Ulysses comeRan toward him, fiercely baying. He sat downAt once, through caution, letting fall his staffUpon the ground, and would have suffered thereUnseemly harm, within his own domain,But then the swineherd, following with quick steps,Rushed through the vestibule, and dropped the hide.He chid the dogs and, pelting them with stones,Drave them asunder, and addressed the king:—

“O aged man, the mastiffs of the lodgeHad almost torn thee, and thou wouldst have castBitter reproach upon me. Other griefsAnd miseries the gods have made my lot.Here sorrowfully sitting I lamentA godlike master, and for others tendHis fading swine; while, haply hungeringFor bread, he wanders among alien menIn other kingdoms, if indeed he livesAnd looks upon the sun. But follow me,And come into the house, that there, refreshedWith food and wine, old man, thou mayst declareWhence thou dost come and what thou hast endured.”

So the good swineherd spake, and led the wayInto the lodge, and bade his guest sit down,And laid thick rushes for his seat, and spreadOn these a wild goat’s shaggy hide to makeA soft and ample couch. Rejoiced to meetSo kind a welcome, thus Ulysses spake:—

“May Jupiter and all the deathless godsBestow on thee, my host, in recompenseOf this kind welcome, all thy heart’s desire!”

And then, Eumaeus, thou didst answer thus:“My guest, it were not right to treat with scornA stranger, though he were of humbler sortThan thou, for strangers and the poor are sentBy Jove; our gifts are small, though gladly given,As it must ever be with those who serveYoung masters, whom they fear. The gods themselvesPrevent, no doubt, the safe return of himWho loved me much, and would ere this have givenWhat a kind lord is wont to give his hind—A house, a croft, the wife whom he has wooed,Rewarding faithful services which GodHath prospered, as he here hath prospered mine.Thus would my master, had he here grown old,Have recompensed my toils; but he is dead.O that the house of Helen, for whose sakeSo many fell, had perished utterly!For he went forth at Agamemnon’s call,Honoring the summons, and on Ilium’s coast,Famed for its coursers, fought the sons of Troy.”

He spake, and girt his tunic round his loins,And hastened to the sties in which the herdsOf swine were lying. Thence he took out twoAnd slaughtered them, and singed them, sliced the flesh,And fixed it upon spits, and, when the wholeWas roasted, brought and placed it reeking hot,Still on the spits and sprinkled with white meal,Before Ulysses. Then he mingled wineOf delicate flavors in a wooden bowl,And opposite Ulysses sat him down,And thus with kindly words bespake his guest:—

“Feast, stranger, on these porkers. We who serveMay feed on them; it is the suitor trainThat banquet on the fatted swine—the menWho neither fear heaven’s anger nor are movedBy pity. The great gods are never pleasedWith violent deeds; they honor equityAnd justice. Even those who land as foesAnd spoilers upon foreign shores, and bearAway much plunder by the will of Jove,Returning homeward with their laden barques,Feel, brooding heavily upon their minds,The fear of vengeance. But these suitors know—For haply they have heard some god declare—That he, the king, is dead; they neither makeTheir suit with decency, nor will withdrawTo their own homes, but at their ease devourHis substance with large waste, and never spare.Of all the days and nights which JupiterGives to mankind is none when they requireA single victim only, or but two,For sacrifice, and lavishly they drainHis wine-jars. Once large revenues were his.No hero on the dark-soiled continentNor in the isle of Ithaca possessedSuch wealth as he, nor even twenty menTogether. Hear me while I give the amount.Twelve herds of kine that on the mainland grazeAre his, as many flocks of sheep, of swineAs many droves; as many flocks of goatsAre tended there by strangers, and by hinds,His servants. Here moreover, in the fieldsBeyond us, graze eleven numerous flocksOf goats, attended by his trusty men,Each one of whom brings daily home a goat,The finest of the fatlings. I meantimeAm keeper of these swine, and from the droveI choose and to the palace send the best.”

So spake the swineherd, while Ulysses ateThe flesh with eager appetite, and drankThe wine in silence, meditating woeTo all the suitors. When the meal was o’er,And he was strengthened by the food, his hostFilled up with wine the cup from which he drank.And gave it to Ulysses, who, well pleased,Received it, and with winged words replied:—

“What rich and mighty chief was he, my friend,Of whom thou speakest, and who purchased thee?Thou sayest that he died to swell the fameOf Agamemnon. Tell his name, for IPerchance know somewhat of him. JupiterAnd the great gods know whether I have seenThe man, and have some tidings for thy ear;For I have wandered over many lands.”

And then again the noble swineherd spake:“O aged man, no wanderer who should bringNews of Ulysses e’er would win his wifeAnd son to heed the tale. For roving men,In need of hospitality, are proneTo falsehood, and will never speak the truth.The vagabond who comes to IthacaGoes straightway to my mistress with his lies.Kindly she welcomes him, and cherishesAnd questions him, while tears abundantlyFall from her lids—such tears as women shedWhose lords have perished in a distant land.Thou too, old man, perchance, couldst readilyFrame a like fable, if someone would giveA change of raiment for thy news—a cloakAnd tunic. But the dogs and fowls of airHave doubtless fed upon the frame from whichThe life has passed, and torn from off his bonesThe skin, or fishes of the deep have preyedUpon it, and his bones upon the shoreLie whelmed in sand. So is he lost to us,And sorrow is the lot of all his friends,Mine most of all; for nowhere shall I findSo kind a master, though I were to comeInto my father’s and my mother’s house,Where I was born and reared. Nor do I pineSo much to look on them with my own eyes,And in my place of birth, as I lamentUlysses lost. Though he be far away,Yet must I ever speak, O stranger guest,His name with reverence, for exceedinglyHe loved me and most kindly cared for me;And though he is to be with us no more,I hold him as an elder brother still.”

Ulysses, the great sufferer, thus replied:“Since then, my friend, thou dost not say nor thinkThat he will come again, nor wilt believeMy words, I now repeat, but with an oath,Ulysses will return. Let this rewardBe given for my good news: the very hourWhen he once more is in his house, bestowOn me a comely change of raiment—cloakAnd tunic—nor will I accept the gift,Though great my need, until he comes again.For as the gates of hell do I detestThe man who, tempted by his poverty,Deceives with lying words. Now JupiterBear witness, and this hospitable boardAnd hearth of good Ulysses where I sit,That all which I foretell will come to pass.This very year Ulysses will return.He, when this month goes out, and as the nextIs entering, will be here in his domain,To be avenged on those, whoe’er they be,That dare insult his wife and noble son.”

And then, Eumaeus, thou didst answer thus:“Old man, I shall not give thee that reward,For never will Ulysses come againTo his own palace. Drink thy wine in peace,And let us give our thoughts to other things.Remind me not of this again; my heartGrows heavy in my bosom when I hearMy honored master named. But leave the oathUnsworn, and may Ulysses come, as weEarnestly wish—I and Penelope,And old Laertes, and the godlike youthTelemachus. And then, again, I bearPerpetual sorrow for Telemachus,My master’s son, to whom the gods had givenA generous growth like that of some young plant,And who, I hoped, would prove no less in worthThan his own father, and of eminent giftsIn form and mind. Some god, perchance some man,Hath caused that mind to lose its equal poise,And he is gone to Pylos the divineFor tidings of his father. Meanwhile hereThe arrogant suitors plan to lie in waitFor him as he returns, that utterlyThe stock of great Arcesius from our isleMay perish, and its name be heard no more.Speak we no more of him, be it his fateTo fall or flee; but O, may Saturn’s sonProtect him with his arm! And now, old man,Relate, I pray, thy fortunes; tell me true,That I may know who thou mayst be, and whenceThou earnest, where thy city lies, and whoThy parents were, what galley landed theeUpon our coast, and how the mannersBrought thee to Ithaca, and of what raceThey claim to be; for I may well supposeThou hast not come to Ithaca on foot.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered him:“I will tell all and truly. Yet if hereWere store of food, and wine for many days,And we might feast at ease within thy lodgeWhile other labored, I should hardly endIn a whole year the history of the woesWhich I have borne, and of the many toilsWhich it hath pleased the gods to lay on me.

“It is my boast that I am of the raceWho dwell in spacious Crete, a rich man’s son,Within whose palace many other sonsWere born and reared, the offspring of his wife;But me a purchased mother whom he madeHis concubine brought forth to him. And yetCastor Hylacides, from whom I sprang,Held me in equal favor with the rest;And he himself was honored like a godAmong the Cretan people, for his wealthAnd for his prosperous life and gallant sons.But fate and death o’ertook and bore him downTo Pluto’s realm, and his magnanimous sonsDivided his large riches, casting lots.Small was the portion they assigned to me;They gave a dwelling, but my valor wonA bride, the daughter of a wealthy house—For I was not an idler, nor in warA coward; but all that is with the past.And thou, who seest the stubble now, mayst guessWhat was the harvest, ere calamitiesHad come so thick upon me. Once did MarsAnd Pallas lend me courage, and the powerTo break through ranks of armed men. Whene’erI formed an ambush of the bravest chiefs,And planned destruction to the enemy,My noble spirit never set the fearOf death before me; I was ever firstTo spring upon the foes, and with my spearTo smite them as they turned their steps to flee.Such was I once in war; to till the fieldsI never liked, nor yet the household caresBy which illustrious sons are reared. I lovedShips well appointed, combats, polished spearsAnd arrows. Things that others hold in dreadWere my delight; some god inclined to themMy mind—so true it is that different menRejoice in different labors. Ere the sonsOf Greece embarked for Troy, I served in warNine times as leader against foreign foes,With troops and galleys under me, and thenI prospered; from the mass of spoil I choseThe things that pleased me, and obtained by lotStill other treasures. Thus my household grewIn riches, and I was revered and greatAmong the Cretans. When all-seeing JoveDecreed the unhappy voyage to the coastOf Troy, they made the great IdomeneusAnd me commanders of the fleet. No powerHad we—the public clamor was so fierce—To put the charge aside. Nine years we warred—We sons of Greece—and in the tenth laid wasteThe city of Priam, and embarked for home.Our fleets were scattered by the gods. For meDid all-disposing Jupiter ordainA wretched lot. But one short month I dweltHappy among my children, with the wifeWedded to me in youth, and my large wealth.And then I planned a voyage to the coastOf Egypt, with a gallant fleet, and menOf godlike valor. I equipped nine ships,And quickly came the people to embark.Six days on shore my comrades banqueted,And many a victim for the sacrificeAnd for the feast I gave; the seventh we sailedFrom Crete’s broad isle before a favoring windThat blew from the clear north, and easilyWe floated on as down a stream. No shipWas harmed upon its way; in health and easeWe sat, the wind and helmsmen guiding us,And came upon the fifth day to the landOf Egypt, watered by its noble streams.I bade my comrades keep beside our shipsUpon the strand, and watch them well. I placedSentries upon the Heights. Yet confidentIn their own strength, and rashly giving wayTo greed, my comrades ravaged the fair fieldsOf the Egyptians, slew them, and bore offTheir wives and little ones. The rumor reachedThe city soon; the people heard the alarmAnd came together. With the early mornAll the great plain was thronged with horse and foot,And gleamed with brass; while Jove, the Thunderer, sentA deadly fear into our ranks, where noneDared face the foe. On every side was death.The Egyptians hewed down many with the sword,And some they led away alive to toilFor them in slavery. To my mind there cameA thought, inspired by Jove; yet I could wishThat I had met my fate, and perished thereIn Egypt, such have been my sorrows since.I took the well-wrought helmet from my head,And from my shoulders dropped the shield, and flungThe javelin from my hand, and went to meetThe monarch in his chariot, clasped his kneesAnd kissed them. He was moved to pity me,And spared me. In his car he seated me,And bore me weeping home. Though many rushedAt me with ashen spears, to thrust me through—For furious was their anger—he forbade.He feared the wrath of Jove, the stranger’s friendAnd foe of wrong. Seven years I dwelt amongThe Egyptians, and I gathered in their landLarge wealth, for all were liberal of their gifts.But with the eighth revolving year there cameA shrewd Phoenician, deep in guile, whose craftHad wrought much wrong to many. With smooth wordsThis man persuaded me to go with himInto Phoenicia, where his dwelling layAnd his possessions. With him I abodeFor one whole year; and when its months and daysWere ended, and another year began,He put me in a ship to cross the seaTo Lybia. He had framed a treacherous plot,By making half the vessel’s cargo mine,To lure me thither, and to sell me thereFor a large price. I went on board constrained,But with misgivings. Under a clear sky,With favoring breezes from the north, we ranO’er the mid sea, beyond the isle of Crete.When we had left the isle, and saw no landBut only sky and sea, Saturnius badeA black cloud gather o’er our roomy ship.The sea grew dark below. On high the GodThundered again and yet again, and sentA bolt into our ship, which, as it feltThe lightning, reeled and shuddered, and was filledWith sulphur-smoke. The seamen from the deckFell headlong, and were tossed upon the wavesLike seamews round our galley, which the GodForbade them to regain. But JupiterGave to my hands, bewildered as I was,Our dark-prowed galley’s mast, unbroken yet,That by its aid I might escape. I woundMy arms around it, and the raging windsSwept me along. Nine days they bore me on,And on the tenth dark night a mighty surgeDrifted me, as it rolled, upon the coastOf the Thesprotians. There the hero-kingOf the Thesprotians freely sheltered meAnd fed me; for his well-beloved sonHad found me overcome with cold and toil,And took me by the hand and raised me up,And led me to his father’s house, and gaveSeemly attire, a tunic and a cloak.

“There heard I of Ulysses. Pheidon toldHow he received him as a guest and friend,When on his homeward voyage. Then he showedThe wealth Ulysses gathered, brass and gold,And steel divinely wrought. That store might serveTo feed, until ten generations pass,Another household. But the chief himself,So Pheidon said, was at Dodona then;For he had gone to hear from the tall oakOf Jupiter the counsel of the God,Whether to land in opulent Ithaca,After long years of absence, openlyOr in disguise. The monarch took an oathIn his own palace, pouring to the godsTheir wine, that even then the ship was launched,And the crew ready to attend him home.But me he first dismissed. There was a shipOf the Thesprotians just about to makeA voyage to Dulichium, rich in fieldsOf wheat. He bade them take me faithfullyTo King Acastus; but another thoughtFound favor with the crew, a wicked schemeTo plunge me deeper in calamity.And when our ship had sailed away from land,They hastened to prepare me for a lifeOf slavery. They took my garments off,Mantle and cloak, and clothed me in a vestAnd cloak, the very rags which thou dost see.The evening brought them to the pleasant fieldsOf Ithaca. They bound me in the shipWith a strong cord, and disembarked, and tookA hasty meal upon the ocean-side;Easily did the gods unbind my limbs.I wrapped a tattered cloth about my head,And, slipping from the polished rudder, broughtMy bosom to the sea, and spread my hands,And swam away. I soon had left the crewAt distance; then I turned and climbed the shore,Where it was dark with forest, and lay closeWithin its shelter, while they wandered roundAnd grumbled, but they ventured not to passInto the island farther on their search.They turned, and went on board their roomy barque.Thus mightily the gods delivered me,And they have brought me to a wise man’s lodge,And now I see it is my lot to live.”

Then thou, Eumaeus, thus didst make reply:“Unhappy stranger, thou hast deeply movedMy heart in telling all that thou hast borne,And all thy wanderings. Yet are some things wrong.Thou hast not spoken of Ulysses well.Why should a man like thee invent such tales,So purposeless? Of one thing I am sureConcerning his return—the gods all hateMy master, since they neither caused his deathIn the great war of Troy, nor, when the warWas over, suffered him to die at home,And in the arms of those who loved him most;For then would all the Greeks have reared to himA monument, and mighty would have beenThe heritage of glory for his son;But now ingloriously the harpy broodHave torn him. I, apart among my swine,Go never to the town, unless, perchance,The sage Penelope requires me there,When someone comes with tidings from abroad.Then those who sorrow for their absent lord,And those who waste his substance, both inquireNews of the king. For me, it suits me notEver to ask for tidings, since the dayWhen an Aetolian with a flattering taleDeceived me. He had slain a man, and cameWandering in many lands to my abode,And kindly I received him. He had seen,He said, my master with Idomeneus,Among the Cretans, putting in repairHis galleys, shattered by a furious storm,And in the summer time he would be here,Or in the autumn, bringing ample wealth,And his brave comrades with him. Seek not then,O aged sufferer, whom some deityHas guided hither, to amuse my griefWith fictions that may bring back pleasant thoughts,Since not for them I minister to theeAnd love thee, but through reverence for Jove—The stranger’s friend—and pity for thyself.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, spake again:“Within thy bosom thou dost bear a heartOf slow belief, since not the oath I takePersuades or even moves thee. Make we nowA covenant, and let the gods who dwellUpon Olympus be our witnesses,That when thy master comes to this abodeThou wilt bestow a tunic and a cloak,And wilt despatch me clothed in seemly garbHence to Dulichium, whither I would go.But if he come not as I have foretold,Then charge thy servants that they cast me downFrom a tall rock, that never beggar moreMay think to cozen thee with lying tales.”

The noble swineherd answered him and said:“Great would my honor be, and I should gainGreat praise for worth among the sons of men,If, having welcomed thee into my lodgeAnd spread the board for thee, I took thy life;Then boldly might I pray to Saturn’s son.But see, the supper hour is come, and soonWill my companions be within, and theyWill make a liberal banquet ready here.”

Thus did the twain confer. Now came the swine,And those who tended them. They penned the herdIn their enclosure, and a din of criesRose as they entered. Then the swineherd calledTo his companions: “Bring the best of all,And we will make an offering for the sakeOf one who comes from far and is my guest.And we will also feast, for we have toiledLong time in tendance of this white-toothed herd,And others waste, unpunished, what we rear.”

So spake he, and began to cleave the woodWith the sharp steel; the others chose and broughtA fatted brawn, and placed him on the hearth.Nor was the swineherd careless of the ritesDue to the gods—such was his piety.From off the white-toothed victim first he shearedThe bristles of the forehead, casting themInto the flames, and prayed to all the godsFor wise Ulysses and his safe return.Next, with a fragment of the oaken trunkWhich he had just then cleft, he smote the boar,And the life left it. Then they cut its throat,And, having singed it, quickly hewed the partsAsunder, while the swineherd took and laid,On the rich fat, raw portions from the limbsFor sacrifice, and other parts he cast,Sprinkled with flour of meal, into the flames;The rest they duly sliced and fixed on spits,And roasted carefully, and drew it back,And heaped it on the board. And now aroseThe swineherd to divide the whole, for wellHe knew the duty of a host. He madeSeven parts; and one he offered to the Nymphs,To Hermes, son of Maia, one, and bothWith prayer; the rest he set before the guests,But, honoring Ulysses, gave to himThe white-toothed victim’s ample chine. The king,The wise Ulysses, was well pleased, and said:—

“Eumaeus, be thou ever dear to JoveAs to myself, since with thy benefitsThou freely honorest such a one as I.”

And thou, Eumaeus, madest answer thus:“Eat, venerable stranger, and enjoyWhat is before us. At his pleasure GodGives or withholds; his power is over all.”

He spake, and burned to the eternal godsThe firstlings, and poured out the dark red wine,And to Ulysses, spoiler of walled towns,Who sat beside the table, gave the cup.Meantime to each Mesaulius brought the bread—A servant whom Eumaeus, while his lordWas far away, had taken for himself,Without the order of PenelopeOr old Laertes; from the Taphian tribeWith his own goods he bought him. Now the guestsPut forth their hands and shared the ready feast;And when their thirst and hunger were appeasedMesaulius took the bread away, and all,Satiate with food and wine, lay down to rest.

Then came the darkness on, without a moon;And Jupiter the whole night long sent downThe rain, and strong the showery west-wind blew.And now to try the swineherd, if with allHis kindly ministrations to his guestHe yet would spare to him his cloak, or bidAnother do the like, Ulysses spake:—

“Eumaeus, hearken thou, and all the rest,Thy comrades, while I utter boastful words.Wine makes me foolish, it can even causeThe wise to sing and laugh a silly laughAnd dance, and often to the lips it bringsWords that were better left unsaid. But sinceI have begun to prattle, I will notKeep back my thought. I would I were as youngAnd in the same full strength as when I formedPart of an ambush near the walls of Troy.The leaders were Ulysses, and the sonOf Atreus, Menelaus, with myselfThe third, for they desired it. When we reachedThe city and the lofty walls we layCouched in a marshy spot among the reedsAnd thick-grown shrubs, with all our armor on.’Twas an inclement night, and the north-windBlew bitter chill, the cold snow fell and layWhite like hoar frost; ice gathered on our shields.The rest had cloaks and tunics, and they sleptAt ease, their shoulders covered with their shields.I only, when I joined the squadron, leftMy cloak unwisely, for I had not thoughtOf such fierce cold. I went but with my shieldAnd my embroidered girdle. When the nightWas in its later watches, and the starsWere turning toward their set, I thus bespakeUlysses near me, thrusting in his sideMy elbow, and he listened readily:—

“ ‘Son of Laertes, nobly born and wise!Ulysses, I shall not be long amongThe living; for I perish with the cold.I have no cloak; some god misled my thought,So that I brought one garment and no more,And now I see there is no help for me.’

“I spake, and instantly his mind conceivedThis stratagem—such was his readinessIn council and in battle—and he saidTo me in a low voice: ‘Be silent now,And let no others of the Achaians hear!’And leaning on his elbow thus he spake:—

“ ‘Hear me, my friends: a dream has come from heavenInto my sleep. Far from our ships we lie;And now let someone haste to bear from usThis word to Agamemnon, Atreus’ son,The shepherd of the people, that he sendMore warriors to this ambush from the fleet.’

“He spake, and Thoas instantly arose—Andraemon’s son—and threw his purple cloakAside, and hastened toward the fleet. I tookGladly the garment he had left, and layTill Morning in her golden chariot came.And now I would that I were young again,And in the vigor of my prime, for thenSomeone among the swineherds in the stallsWould find, I think, a cloak for me, through loveAnd reverence of such a man; but nowThey hold me in slight favor, dressed in rags.”

And thus, Eumaeus, thou didst make reply:“O aged man! we see no cause of blameIn thy recital, and of all thy wordsNot one is unbecoming or inapt.Thou shalt not lack for garments, nor aught elseThat any suppliant in his povertyMight hope for at our hands tonight. With mornGird thou thy tatters on again; for hereWe have not many cloaks, nor many a changeOf raiment—only one for each of us.But when the son of our Ulysses comesAgain, he will provide thee with a cloakAnd tunic, and will send thee where thou wilt.”

He spake and rose, and made his guest a bedClose to the hearth, and threw on it the skinsOf sheep and goats, and there Ulysses lay,O’er whom the swineherd spread a thick large cloak,Which he had often worn for a defenceWhen a wild winter storm was in the air.

Thus slept Ulysses with the young men near.A couch within, and distant from his charge,Pleased not the swineherd, who first armed himself,And then went forth. Ulysses gladly sawThat while he was in distant lands his goodsWere watched so faithfully. Eumaeus hungAbout his sturdy shoulders a sharp sword,And wrapped a thick cloak round him, tempest-proof,And took the hide of a huge pampered goat,And a well-pointed javelin for defenceBoth against dogs and men. So went he forthTo take his rest where lay the white-toothed swine,Herded and slumbering underneath a rock,Whose hollow fenced them from the keen north-wind.