Book XX: The Last Banquet of the Suitors

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Disorderly conduct of the serving-women⁠—Prayer of Ulysses for a favorable omen⁠—Its fulfillment⁠—Preparations for a feast of the suitors in the palace⁠—The feast⁠—Ulysses insulted by Ctesippus, who is reproved by Telemachus⁠—Strange prodigies observed by Theoclymenus, who leaves the hall. The noble chief, Ulysses, in the porch Lay down to rest. An undressed bullock's hide Was under him, and over that the skins Of sheep, which for the daily sacrifice The Achaians slew. Eurynomè had spread A cloak above him. There he lay awake, And meditated how he yet should smite The suitors down. Meantime, with cries of mirth And laughter, came the women forth to seek The suitors' arms. Ulysses, inly moved With anger, pondered whether he should rise And put them all to death, or give their shame A respite for another night, the last. His heart raged in his bosom. As a hound Growls, walking round her whelps, when she beholds A stranger, and is eager for the attack, So growled his heart within him, and so fierce Was 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 strength Devoured thy brave companions, thou couldst still Endure, till thou by stratagem didst leave The cave in which it seemed that thou must die." Thus he rebuked his heart, and, growing calm, His heart submitted; but the hero tossed From side to side. As when one turns and turns The stomach of a bullock filled with fat And blood before a fiercely blazing fire And wishes it were done, so did the chief Shift oft from side to side, while pondering how To lay a strong hand on the multitude Of shameless suitors⁠—he but one, and they So many. Meantime Pallas, sliding down From heaven, in form a woman, came, and there Beside 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 son Whom any man might covet for his own." Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus: "Truly, O goddess, all that thou hast said Is rightly spoken. This perplexes me⁠— How to lay hands upon these shameless men, When I am only one, and they a throng That fill the palace. Yet another thought, And mightier still⁠—if, by thy aid and Jove's, I slay the suitors, how shall I myself Be safe thereafter? Think, I pray, of this." And thus in turn the blue-eyed Pallas said: "O faint of spirit! in an humbler friend Than I am, in a friend of mortal birth And less farseeing, one might put his trust; But I am born a goddess, and protect Thy life in every danger. Let me say, And plainly say, if fifty armed bands Of men should gather round us, eager all To take thy life, thou mightest drive away, Unharmed by them, their herds and pampered flocks. But give thyself to sleep. To wake and watch All night is most unwholesome. Thou shalt find A happy issue from thy troubles yet." She spake, and, shedding slumber on his lids, Upward the glorious goddess took her way Back to Olympus, when she saw that sleep Had seized him, making him forget all care And slackening every limb. His faithful wife Was still awake, and sat upright and wept On her soft couch, and after many tears The glorious lady prayed to Dian thus:⁠— "Goddess august! Diana, child of Jove! I would that thou wouldst send into my heart A shaft to take my life, or that a storm Would seize and hurl me through the paths of air, And cast me into ocean's restless streams, As once a storm, descending, swept away The daughters born to Pandarus. The gods Had slain their parents, and they dwelt alone As orphans in their palace, nourished there By blessed Venus with the curds of milk, And honey, and sweet wine, while Juno gave Beauty 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 ask For them, of Jove the Thunderer, on the heights Of his Olympian mount, the crowning gift Of happy marriage⁠—for to Jove is known Whatever comes to pass, and what shall be The fortune, good or ill, of mortal men⁠— The Harpies came meantime, bore off the maids, And gave them to the hateful sisterhood Of Furies as their servants. So may those Who dwell upon Olympus make an end Of me, or fair-haired Dian strike me down, That, with the image of Ulysses still Before my mind, I may not seek to please One of less worth. This evil might be borne By one who weeps all day, and feels at heart A 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 deity Visits with fearful dreams. There lay by me, This very night, one like him, as he was When with his armed men he sailed for Troy; And I was glad, for certainly I deemed It was a real presence, and no dream." She spake. Just then, upon her car of gold, Appeared the Morn. The great Ulysses heard That voice of lamentation; anxiously He mused; it seemed to him as if the queen Stood over him and knew him. Gathering up In 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 ye Have led me graciously, o'er land and deep, Across the earth, and, after suffering much, To mine own isle, let one of those who watch Within the palace speak some ominous word, And grant a sign from thee without these walls." So prayed he. All-providing Jupiter Hearkened, and thundered from the clouds around The bright Olympian peaks. Ulysses heard With gladness. From a room within the house, In which the mills of the king's household stood, A woman, laboring at the quern, gave forth An omen also. There were twelve who toiled In making flour of barley and of wheat⁠— The strength of man. The rest were all asleep; Their tasks were done; one only, of less strength Than 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 here It is a portent. O perform for me, All helpless as I am, this one request! Let now the suitors in this palace take Their 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 words And Jove's loud thunder pleased Ulysses well; And now he deemed he should avenge himself Upon the guilty ones. The other maids Of that fair palace of Ulysses woke And came together, and upon the hearth Kindled a steady fire. Telemachus Rose from his bed in presence like a god, Put on his garments, hung his trenchant sword Upon his shoulder, tied to his fair feet The shapely sandals, took his massive spear Tipped with sharp brass, and, stopping as he reached The threshold, spake to Eurycleia thus:⁠— "Dear nurse, have ye with honor fed and lodged Our guest, or have ye suffered him to find A lodging where he might, without your care? Discerning as she is, my mother pays High 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 deserves No 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 thought Of sleep, she bade her maidens spread his couch; But he refused a bed and rugs, like one Inured to misery, and beneath the porch Slept on an undressed bull's hide and the skins Of sheep, and over him we cast a cloak." She spake; Telemachus, his spear in hand, Went forth, his fleet dogs following him. He sought The council where the well-greaved Greeks were met. Meantime the noble Eurycleia, child Of Ops, Pisenor's son, bespake the maids:⁠— "Come, some of you, at once, and sweep the floor, And sprinkle it, and on the shapely thrones Spread 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 today The 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 draw The water, while the others busily Bestirred themselves about the house. Then came The servants of the chiefs, and set themselves Neatly to cleave the wood. Then also came The women from the well. The swineherd last Came with three swine, the fattest of the herd. In that fair court he let them feed, and sought Ulysses, greeting him with courteous words:⁠— "Hast thou, O stranger, found among these Greeks More reverence? Art thou still their mark of scorn?" Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus: "O that the gods, Eumaeus, would avenge The insolence of those who meditate Violent deeds, and make another's house Their plotting-place, and feel no touch of shame!" So talked they with each other. Now appeared Melanthius, keeper of the goats. He brought Goats for the suitors' banquet; they were choice Beyond all others. With him also came Two goatherds. In the echoing portico He 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 here Continually; the Greeks have other feasts." He spake; Ulysses answered not, but shook His head in silence, planning fearful things. Philoetius now, a master-herdsman, came, And for the banquet of the suitors led A heifer that had never yeaned, and goats The fatlings of the flock; they came across The ferry, brought by those whose office is To 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 come To this our palace? of what parents born, And of what race, and where his native land? Unhappy seemingly, yet like a king In person. Sorrowful must be the lot Of men who wander to and fro on earth, When even to kings the gods appoint distress." He spake, and, greeting with his offered hand Ulysses, said in winged words aloud:⁠— "Stranger and father, hail! and mayst thou yet Be happy in the years to come at least, Though held in thrall by many sorrows now. Yet thou, All-father Jove! art most austere Of all the gods, not sparing even those Who have their birth from thee, but bringing them To grief and pain. The sweat is on my brow When I behold this stranger, and my eyes Are filled with tears when to my mind comes back The image of Ulysses, who must now, I think, be wandering, clothed in rags like thee, Among the abodes of men, if yet indeed He lives and sees the sweet light of the sun. But if that he be dead, and in the abode Of Pluto, woe is me for his dear sake! The blameless chief, who when I was a boy Gave to me, in the Cephalenian fields, The charge of all his beeves; and they are now Innumerable; the broad-fronted race Of cattle never would have multiplied So largely under other care than mine. Now other masters bid me bring my beeves For their own feasts. They little heed his son, The palace-heir; as little do they dread The vengeance of the gods; they long to share Among them the possessions of the king, So many years unheard from. But this thought Comes 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 worse To stay and tend another's beeves, and bear This spoil. And long ago would I have fled To some large-minded monarch, since this waste Is not to be endured, but that I think Still of my suffering lord, and hope that yet He 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 thee A well-discerning mind, I therefore say, And pledge my solemn oath⁠—Jove, first of gods, Be witness, and this hospitable board And hearth of good Ulysses, which has here Received me⁠—while thou art within these halls Ulysses will assuredly return, And, if thou choose to look, thine eyes shall see The 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 apart The suitors doomed Telemachus to death, And plotted how to take his life. Just then A 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 Telemachus Must fail. And now repair we to the feast." So spake Amphinomus, and to his words They all gave heed, and hastened to the halls Of the divine Ulysses, where they laid Their 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 distributed A share to each. Next mingled they the wine In the large bowls. The swineherd brought a cup To everyone. Philoetius, chief among The servants, gave from shapely canisters The bread to each. Melanthius poured the wine. Then putting forth their hands, they all partook The ready banquet. With a wise design, Telemachus near the stone threshold placed Ulysses, on a shabby seat, beside A little table, but within the walls Of that strong-pillared pile. He gave him there Part of the entrails, and poured out for him The wine into a cup of gold, and said:⁠— "Sit here, and drink thy wine among the rest, And from the insults and assaults of these It shall be mine to guard thee. For this house Is not the common property of all; Ulysses first acquired it, and for me⁠— And you, ye suitors, keep your tongues from taunts And hands from force, lest there be wrath and strife." He spake; the suitors, as they heard him, bit Their 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, endure These speeches of Telemachus. He makes High 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 Telemachus Heeded him not. Then through the city came The heralds with a hallowed hecatomb, Due to the gods. The long-haired people thronged The shady grove of Phoebus, archer-god. Now when the flesh was roasted and was drawn From off the spits, and each was given his share, They held high festival. The men who served The banquet gave Ulysses, where he sat, A portion equal to their own, for so His own dear son Telemachus enjoined. Yet did not Pallas cause the haughty crew Of suitors to refrain from stinging taunts, That so the spirit of Laertes' son Might be more deeply wounded. One there was Among the suitors, a low-thoughted wretch; Ctesippus was his name, and his abode Was Samos. Trusting in his father's wealth, He wooed the wife of the long-absent king Ulysses. 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 just Nor seemly to pass by, in such a feast, The guests, whoe'er they may be, that resort To this fair mansion of Telemachus. I also will bestow on him a gift Of hospitality, and he in turn May give it to the keeper of the bath, Or any other of the menial train That serve the household of Ulysses here." So speaking, with his strong right hand he flung A bullock's foot, which from a canister Hard by he plucked. Ulysses gently bowed His head, and shunned the blow, and grimly smiled. The missile struck the solid wall, and then Telemachus rebuked the suitor thus:⁠— "Ctesippus, well hast thou escaped with life, Not having hit the stranger, who himself Shrank from the blow; else had I pinned thee through With my sharp spear. Instead of wedding feast, Thy father would have celebrated here Thy funeral rites. Let no man in these halls Bear himself insolently in my sight Hereafter, for my reason now is ripe To know the right from wrong. I was of late A child, and now it is enough to bear That ye should slay our sheep, and drink our wine, And eat our bread⁠—for what can one man do Against so many? Cease this petty war Of wrong and hatred; but if ye desire To take my life, 'tis well; 'twere better so. And rather would I die by violence Than live to see these most unmanly deeds⁠— Guests driven away, and women-servants hauled Through these fair rooms by brutal wassailers." He ended, and the assembly all sat mute Till Agelaüs spake, Damastor's son:⁠— "O friends! let no man here with carping words Gainsay what is so rightly said, nor yet Insult the stranger more, nor one of those Who serve the household of the godlike chief Ulysses in his palace. I would say This word in kindness to Telemachus And to his mother; may it please them both! While yet the hope was cherished in your hearts That wise Ulysses would return, no blame Could fasten on the queen that she remained Unwedded, and resisted those who came To 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 wed The noblest of her wooers, and the one Who brings the richest gifts; and thou possess Thy father's wealth in peace, and eat and drink At 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 choice And marriage of my mother. I consent That she become the wife of whom she list, And him who offers most. But I should feel Great 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 moved The suitors. There they sat with wandering minds; They swallowed morsels foul with blood; their eyes Were filled with tears; their hearts foreboded woe. Then spake the godlike Theoclymenus:⁠— "Unhappy men! what may this evil be That overtakes you? Every brow and face And each one's lower limbs are wrapped in night, And moans arise, and tears are on your cheeks. The walls and all the graceful cornices Between the pillars are bedropped with blood, The portico is full, these halls are full Of shadows, hastening down to Erebus Amid the gloom. The sun is blotted out From 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 come From 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 make My way without; for clearly I perceive A coming evil, which no suitor here Will yet escape⁠—no one who, in these halls Of the great chief, Ulysses, treats with scorn His fellow-man, and broods o'er guilty plans." He spake, and, hastening from that noble pile, Came to Piraeus, in whose house he found A welcome. All the suitors, as he went, Looked at each other, and, the more to vex Telemachus, kept laughing at his guests. And thus an insolent youth among them said:⁠— "No man had ever a worse set of guests Than thou, Telemachus. For what a wretch That wandering beggar is, who always wants His bread and wine, and is unfit for work, And has no strength; in truth, a useless load Upon the earth he treads. The other guest Rises to play the prophet. If thou take My counsel, which I give thee for thy good, Let them at once be put on board a barque Of many oars, and we will send them hence To the Sicilians; they will bring a price." So talked the suitors, but he heeded not Their words, and, looking toward his father, held His peace, expecting when he would lay hands Upon that insolent crew. Penelope, Sage daughter of Icarius, took her place Right opposite upon a sumptuous seat, And heard the words of every man who spake Within the hall. They held that midday feast With laughter⁠—a luxurious feast it was, And mirthful; many victims had been slain To furnish forth the tables; but no feast Could be more bitter than the later one, To which the goddess and that valiant man Would bid the guilty crew of plotters soon.