Book XX: The Last Banquet of the Suitors

The noble chief, Ulysses, in the porchLay down to rest. An undressed bullock’s hideWas under him, and over that the skinsOf sheep, which for the daily sacrificeThe Achaians slew. Eurynomè had spreadA cloak above him. There he lay awake,And meditated how he yet should smiteThe suitors down. Meantime, with cries of mirthAnd laughter, came the women forth to seekThe suitors’ arms. Ulysses, inly movedWith anger, pondered whether he should riseAnd put them all to death, or give their shameA respite for another night, the last.His heart raged in his bosom. As a houndGrowls, walking round her whelps, when she beholdsA stranger, and is eager for the attack,So growled his heart within him, and so fierceWas his impatience with that shameless crew.He smote his breast, and thus he chid his heart:—

“Endure it, heart! thou didst bear worse than this.When the grim Cyclops of resistless strengthDevoured thy brave companions, thou couldst stillEndure, till thou by stratagem didst leaveThe cave in which it seemed that thou must die.”

Thus he rebuked his heart, and, growing calm,His heart submitted; but the hero tossedFrom side to side. As when one turns and turnsThe stomach of a bullock filled with fatAnd blood before a fiercely blazing fireAnd wishes it were done, so did the chiefShift oft from side to side, while pondering howTo lay a strong hand on the multitudeOf shameless suitors—he but one, and theySo many. Meantime Pallas, sliding downFrom heaven, in form a woman, came, and thereBeside his bed stood over him, and spake:—

“Why, most unhappy of the sons of men,Art thou still sleepless? This is thine abode,And here thou hast thy consort and a sonWhom any man might covet for his own.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“Truly, O goddess, all that thou hast saidIs rightly spoken. This perplexes me—How to lay hands upon these shameless men,When I am only one, and they a throngThat fill the palace. Yet another thought,And mightier still—if, by thy aid and Jove’s,I slay the suitors, how shall I myselfBe safe thereafter? Think, I pray, of this.”

And thus in turn the blue-eyed Pallas said:“O faint of spirit! in an humbler friendThan I am, in a friend of mortal birthAnd less farseeing, one might put his trust;But I am born a goddess, and protectThy life in every danger. Let me say,And plainly say, if fifty armed bandsOf men should gather round us, eager allTo take thy life, thou mightest drive away,Unharmed by them, their herds and pampered flocks.But give thyself to sleep. To wake and watchAll night is most unwholesome. Thou shalt findA happy issue from thy troubles yet.”

She spake, and, shedding slumber on his lids,Upward the glorious goddess took her wayBack to Olympus, when she saw that sleepHad seized him, making him forget all careAnd slackening every limb. His faithful wifeWas still awake, and sat upright and weptOn her soft couch, and after many tearsThe glorious lady prayed to Dian thus:—

“Goddess august! Diana, child of Jove!I would that thou wouldst send into my heartA shaft to take my life, or that a stormWould seize and hurl me through the paths of air,And cast me into ocean’s restless streams,As once a storm, descending, swept awayThe daughters born to Pandarus. The godsHad slain their parents, and they dwelt aloneAs orphans in their palace, nourished thereBy blessed Venus with the curds of milk,And honey, and sweet wine, while Juno gaveBeauty and wit beyond all womankind,And chaste Diana dignity of form,And Pallas every art that graces life.Then, as the blessed Venus went to askFor them, of Jove the Thunderer, on the heightsOf his Olympian mount, the crowning giftOf happy marriage—for to Jove is knownWhatever comes to pass, and what shall beThe fortune, good or ill, of mortal men—The Harpies came meantime, bore off the maids,And gave them to the hateful sisterhoodOf Furies as their servants. So may thoseWho dwell upon Olympus make an endOf me, or fair-haired Dian strike me down,That, with the image of Ulysses stillBefore my mind, I may not seek to pleaseOne of less worth. This evil might be borneBy one who weeps all day, and feels at heartA settled sorrow, yet can sleep at night.For sleep, when once it weighs the eyelids down,Makes men unmindful both of good and ill,And all things else. But me some deityVisits with fearful dreams. There lay by me,This very night, one like him, as he wasWhen with his armed men he sailed for Troy;And I was glad, for certainly I deemedIt was a real presence, and no dream.”

She spake. Just then, upon her car of gold,Appeared the Morn. The great Ulysses heardThat voice of lamentation; anxiouslyHe mused; it seemed to him as if the queenStood over him and knew him. Gathering upIn haste the cloak and skins on which he slept,He laid them in the palace on a seat,But bore the bull’s hide forth in open air,And lifted up his hands and prayed to Jove:—

“O Father Jove, and all the gods! if yeHave led me graciously, o’er land and deep,Across the earth, and, after suffering much,To mine own isle, let one of those who watchWithin the palace speak some ominous word,And grant a sign from thee without these walls.”

So prayed he. All-providing JupiterHearkened, and thundered from the clouds aroundThe bright Olympian peaks. Ulysses heardWith gladness. From a room within the house,In which the mills of the king’s household stood,A woman, laboring at the quern, gave forthAn omen also. There were twelve who toiledIn making flour of barley and of wheat—The strength of man. The rest were all asleep;Their tasks were done; one only, of less strengthThan any other there, kept toiling on.She paused a moment, stopped the whirling stone,And spake these words—a portent for the king:—

“O Father Jove, the king of gods and men!Thou hast just thundered from the starry heaven,And yet there is no cloud. To someone hereIt is a portent. O perform for me,All helpless as I am, this one request!Let now the suitors in this palace takeTheir last and final pleasant feast today—These men who make my limbs, with constant toil,In grinding corn for them, to lose their strength,Once let them banquet here, and then no more.”

She spake; the omen of the woman’s wordsAnd Jove’s loud thunder pleased Ulysses well;And now he deemed he should avenge himselfUpon the guilty ones. The other maidsOf that fair palace of Ulysses wokeAnd came together, and upon the hearthKindled a steady fire. TelemachusRose from his bed in presence like a god,Put on his garments, hung his trenchant swordUpon his shoulder, tied to his fair feetThe shapely sandals, took his massive spearTipped with sharp brass, and, stopping as he reachedThe threshold, spake to Eurycleia thus:—

“Dear nurse, have ye with honor fed and lodgedOur guest, or have ye suffered him to findA lodging where he might, without your care?Discerning as she is, my mother paysHigh honor to the worse among her guests,And sends the nobler man unhonored hence.”

And thus the prudent Eurycleia said:“My child, blame not thy mother; she deservesNo blame. The stranger sat and drank his wine,All that he would, and said, when pressed to eat,That he desired no more. And when he thoughtOf sleep, she bade her maidens spread his couch;But he refused a bed and rugs, like oneInured to misery, and beneath the porchSlept on an undressed bull’s hide and the skinsOf sheep, and over him we cast a cloak.”

She spake; Telemachus, his spear in hand,Went forth, his fleet dogs following him. He soughtThe council where the well-greaved Greeks were met.Meantime the noble Eurycleia, childOf Ops, Pisenor’s son, bespake the maids:—

“Come, some of you, at once, and sweep the floor,And sprinkle it, and on the shapely thronesSpread coverings of purple tapestry;Let others wipe the tables with a sponge,And cleanse the beakers and the double cups,While others go for water to the fount,And bring it quickly, for not long todayThe suitors will be absent from these halls.They will come early to the general feast.”

She spake; the handmaids hearkened and obeyed,And twenty went to the dark well to drawThe water, while the others busilyBestirred themselves about the house. Then cameThe servants of the chiefs, and set themselvesNeatly to cleave the wood. Then also cameThe women from the well. The swineherd lastCame with three swine, the fattest of the herd.In that fair court he let them feed, and soughtUlysses, greeting him with courteous words:—

“Hast thou, O stranger, found among these GreeksMore reverence? Art thou still their mark of scorn?”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“O that the gods, Eumaeus, would avengeThe insolence of those who meditateViolent deeds, and make another’s houseTheir plotting-place, and feel no touch of shame!”

So talked they with each other. Now appearedMelanthius, keeper of the goats. He broughtGoats for the suitors’ banquet; they were choiceBeyond all others. With him also cameTwo goatherds. In the echoing porticoHe bound his goats. He saw Ulysses there,And thus accosted him with railing words:—

“Stranger, art thou still here, the palace pest,And begging still, and wilt thou ne’er depart?We shall not end this quarrel, I perceive,Till thou hast tried the flavor of my fist.It is not decent to be begging hereContinually; the Greeks have other feasts.”

He spake; Ulysses answered not, but shookHis head in silence, planning fearful things.

Philoetius now, a master-herdsman, came,And for the banquet of the suitors ledA heifer that had never yeaned, and goatsThe fatlings of the flock; they came acrossThe ferry, brought by those whose office isTo bear whoever comes from shore to shore.He bound his animals in the sounding porch,And went and, standing by the swineherd, said:—

“Who, swineherd, is the stranger newly comeTo this our palace? of what parents born,And of what race, and where his native land?Unhappy seemingly, yet like a kingIn person. Sorrowful must be the lotOf men who wander to and fro on earth,When even to kings the gods appoint distress.”

He spake, and, greeting with his offered handUlysses, said in winged words aloud:—

“Stranger and father, hail! and mayst thou yetBe happy in the years to come at least,Though held in thrall by many sorrows now.Yet thou, All-father Jove! art most austereOf all the gods, not sparing even thoseWho have their birth from thee, but bringing themTo grief and pain. The sweat is on my browWhen I behold this stranger, and my eyesAre filled with tears when to my mind comes backThe image of Ulysses, who must now,I think, be wandering, clothed in rags like thee,Among the abodes of men, if yet indeedHe lives and sees the sweet light of the sun.But if that he be dead, and in the abodeOf Pluto, woe is me for his dear sake!The blameless chief, who when I was a boyGave to me, in the Cephalenian fields,The charge of all his beeves; and they are nowInnumerable; the broad-fronted raceOf cattle never would have multipliedSo largely under other care than mine.Now other masters bid me bring my beevesFor their own feasts. They little heed his son,The palace-heir; as little do they dreadThe vengeance of the gods; they long to shareAmong them the possessions of the king,So many years unheard from. But this thoughtComes to my mind again, and yet again:Wrong were it, while the son is yet alive,To drive the cattle to a foreign land,Where alien men inhabit; yet ’tis worseTo stay and tend another’s beeves, and bearThis spoil. And long ago would I have fledTo some large-minded monarch, since this wasteIs not to be endured, but that I thinkStill of my suffering lord, and hope that yetHe may return and drive the suitors hence.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answering, said:“Herdsman, since thou dost seem not ill inclined,Nor yet unwise, and I perceive in theeA well-discerning mind, I therefore say,And pledge my solemn oath—Jove, first of gods,Be witness, and this hospitable boardAnd hearth of good Ulysses, which has hereReceived me—while thou art within these hallsUlysses will assuredly return,And, if thou choose to look, thine eyes shall seeThe suitors slain, who play the master here.”

And thus the master of the herds rejoined:“Stranger, may Jupiter make good thy words!Then shalt thou see what strength is in my arm.”

Eumaeus also prayed to all the gods,That now the wise Ulysses might return.So talked they with each other, while apartThe suitors doomed Telemachus to death,And plotted how to take his life. Just thenA bird—an eagle—on the left flew by,High up; his talons held a timid dove.And then Amphinomus bespake the rest:—

“O friends, this plan to slay TelemachusMust fail. And now repair we to the feast.”

So spake Amphinomus, and to his wordsThey all gave heed, and hastened to the hallsOf the divine Ulysses, where they laidTheir cloaks upon the benches and the thrones,And slaughtering the choice sheep, and fading goats,And porkers, and a heifer from the herd,Roasted the entrails, and distributedA share to each. Next mingled they the wineIn the large bowls. The swineherd brought a cupTo everyone. Philoetius, chief amongThe servants, gave from shapely canistersThe bread to each. Melanthius poured the wine.Then putting forth their hands, they all partookThe ready banquet. With a wise design,Telemachus near the stone threshold placedUlysses, on a shabby seat, besideA little table, but within the wallsOf that strong-pillared pile. He gave him therePart of the entrails, and poured out for himThe wine into a cup of gold, and said:—

“Sit here, and drink thy wine among the rest,And from the insults and assaults of theseIt shall be mine to guard thee. For this houseIs not the common property of all;Ulysses first acquired it, and for me—And you, ye suitors, keep your tongues from tauntsAnd hands from force, lest there be wrath and strife.”

He spake; the suitors, as they heard him, bitTheir pressed lips, wondering at Telemachus,Who uttered such bold words. Antinoüs then,Eupeithes’ son, bespake his fellows thus:—

“Harsh as they are, let us, O Greeks, endureThese speeches of Telemachus. He makesHigh threats, but had Saturnian Jove allowed,We should, ere this, and in these very halls,Have quieted our loud-tongued orator.”

So spake the suitor, but TelemachusHeeded him not. Then through the city cameThe heralds with a hallowed hecatomb,Due to the gods. The long-haired people throngedThe shady grove of Phoebus, archer-god.

Now when the flesh was roasted and was drawnFrom off the spits, and each was given his share,They held high festival. The men who servedThe banquet gave Ulysses, where he sat,A portion equal to their own, for soHis own dear son Telemachus enjoined.

Yet did not Pallas cause the haughty crewOf suitors to refrain from stinging taunts,That so the spirit of Laertes’ sonMight be more deeply wounded. One there wasAmong the suitors, a low-thoughted wretch;Ctesippus was his name, and his abodeWas Samos. Trusting in his father’s wealth,He wooed the wife of the long-absent kingUlysses. To his insolent mates he said:—

“Hear me, ye noble suitors, while I speak.This stranger has received an equal share,As is becoming; for it were not justNor seemly to pass by, in such a feast,The guests, whoe’er they may be, that resortTo this fair mansion of Telemachus.I also will bestow on him a giftOf hospitality, and he in turnMay give it to the keeper of the bath,Or any other of the menial trainThat serve the household of Ulysses here.”

So speaking, with his strong right hand he flungA bullock’s foot, which from a canisterHard by he plucked. Ulysses gently bowedHis head, and shunned the blow, and grimly smiled.The missile struck the solid wall, and thenTelemachus rebuked the suitor thus:—

“Ctesippus, well hast thou escaped with life,Not having hit the stranger, who himselfShrank from the blow; else had I pinned thee throughWith my sharp spear. Instead of wedding feast,Thy father would have celebrated hereThy funeral rites. Let no man in these hallsBear himself insolently in my sightHereafter, for my reason now is ripeTo know the right from wrong. I was of lateA child, and now it is enough to bearThat ye should slay our sheep, and drink our wine,And eat our bread—for what can one man doAgainst so many? Cease this petty warOf wrong and hatred; but if ye desireTo take my life, ’tis well; ’twere better so.And rather would I die by violenceThan live to see these most unmanly deeds—Guests driven away, and women-servants hauledThrough these fair rooms by brutal wassailers.”

He ended, and the assembly all sat muteTill Agelaüs spake, Damastor’s son:—

“O friends! let no man here with carping wordsGainsay what is so rightly said, nor yetInsult the stranger more, nor one of thoseWho serve the household of the godlike chiefUlysses in his palace. I would sayThis word in kindness to TelemachusAnd to his mother; may it please them both!While yet the hope was cherished in your heartsThat wise Ulysses would return, no blameCould fasten on the queen that she remainedUnwedded, and resisted those who cameTo woo her in the palace. Better so,Had he come home again. Yet now, ’tis clear,He comes no more. Go then, Telemachus,And, sitting by thy mother, bid her wedThe noblest of her wooers, and the oneWho brings the richest gifts; and thou possessThy father’s wealth in peace, and eat and drinkAt will, while she shall find another home.”

And thus discreet Telemachus replied:“Nay, Agelaüs, for I swear by Jove,And by my father’s sufferings, who has died,Or yet is wandering, far from Ithaca,That I do nothing to delay the choiceAnd marriage of my mother. I consentThat she become the wife of whom she list,And him who offers most. But I should feelGreat shame to thrust her forth against her will,And with unfilial speeches; God forbid!”

He ended here, and Pallas, as he spake,To inextinguishable laughter movedThe suitors. There they sat with wandering minds;They swallowed morsels foul with blood; their eyesWere filled with tears; their hearts foreboded woe.Then spake the godlike Theoclymenus:—

“Unhappy men! what may this evil beThat overtakes you? Every brow and faceAnd each one’s lower limbs are wrapped in night,And moans arise, and tears are on your cheeks.The walls and all the graceful cornicesBetween the pillars are bedropped with blood,The portico is full, these halls are fullOf shadows, hastening down to ErebusAmid the gloom. The sun is blotted outFrom heaven, and fearful darkness covers all.”

He spake, and loud they laughed. Eurymachus,The son of Polybus, in answer said:—

“The stranger prattles idly; he is comeFrom some far land. Conduct him through the door,Young men, and send him to the marketplace,Since all things here are darkened to his eyes.”

Then spake the godlike Theoclymenus:“Eurymachus, from thee I ask no guide,For I have eyes and ears, and two good feet,And in my breast a mind as sound as they,And by the aid of these I mean to makeMy way without; for clearly I perceiveA coming evil, which no suitor hereWill yet escape—no one who, in these hallsOf the great chief, Ulysses, treats with scornHis fellow-man, and broods o’er guilty plans.”

He spake, and, hastening from that noble pile,Came to Piraeus, in whose house he foundA welcome. All the suitors, as he went,Looked at each other, and, the more to vexTelemachus, kept laughing at his guests.And thus an insolent youth among them said:—

“No man had ever a worse set of guestsThan thou, Telemachus. For what a wretchThat wandering beggar is, who always wantsHis bread and wine, and is unfit for work,And has no strength; in truth, a useless loadUpon the earth he treads. The other guestRises to play the prophet. If thou takeMy counsel, which I give thee for thy good,Let them at once be put on board a barqueOf many oars, and we will send them henceTo the Sicilians; they will bring a price.”

So talked the suitors, but he heeded notTheir words, and, looking toward his father, heldHis peace, expecting when he would lay handsUpon that insolent crew. Penelope,Sage daughter of Icarius, took her placeRight opposite upon a sumptuous seat,And heard the words of every man who spakeWithin the hall. They held that midday feastWith laughter—a luxurious feast it was,And mirthful; many victims had been slainTo furnish forth the tables; but no feastCould be more bitter than the later one,To which the goddess and that valiant manWould bid the guilty crew of plotters soon.