_The hut of EUMÆUS. (Same background as Act I.) Some swine seen thro’
pens._
_EUMÆUS_ (_who is cutting a thong for his sandal_).
Let man serve God, but not for that require
An answerable favour: there is none
Outside himself: but yet within himself
He hath his guerdon and may be content.
Some three and thirty years of servitude
Have taught me this; dependence on the gods
Wins independence of the gods and fate. 300
I that was born a prince have lived a slave,—
No fault of mine;—and still if Zeus so willed
That man might look for favour, I might hope
Once more, ere I grow old, to make return
Unto my royal home and kingly sire,
—If yet he lives,—and rule myself the realm
I was born heir to: be good king Eumæus,
So should it be, Eumæus, king of men.
Nay—I must play the king over these swine; 309
This homestead for my kingdom, this hut for palace,
This bench my throne, these crowded pens and styes
My city; and I will boast ’twere hard to find
A commonwealth of men, whom equal justice
Flattered in distribution to this pitch
Of general content, such fat well-being
As holds among my folk, their laws regardant
Of them they govern and their good alone.
Ay, so: a king of beasts, no king at all.
Swineherd Eumæus; who would call me king?
Fool, fool! Serve God, Eumæus, and mend thy shoes.
And why complain? Had not Laertes too 321
A son that feared the gods? and where is he?
Would he not now be glad to be alive,
Were’t but to envy me who feed his swine,
And guard his goods from robbers, and pretend
The hope of his return; which is less like
For that Ulysses than for this Eumæus;—
There too I best him,—since ’tis easier
For any living slave to climb a throne,
Than for a king once dead to step again 330
Upon the joyous threshold of his house,
And take the loving kisses from the lips
Of wife and child.—Hark to the hounds. What foe
Invades my kingdom? O a piteous sight.
Off, dogs;—why they will rend him—Mesaulius, ho!
Cottus, call off the dogs! Will they not leave him?
To kennel, curs!—Ye heavens! Beggary
Is beggared in this miserable beggar.
_Enter Ulysses_ (_disguised_).
How wast thou near, old man, to end thy days
Beside my gate, and bring me shame and sorrow:
And that no fault of mine, so suddenly 341
Hast thou appeared. Come, come, sir; step within.
Surely ’tis food thou needest. On this table
Are bread and wine, and I can bring thee meat:
Sit and be satisfied.
_ULYSSES._
Now may the gods,
Since thou this day giv’st me so good a welcome,
Grant thee thy dearest wish, whate’er it be.
_Eum._ Thou art my guest, old man: and if there came
A meaner even than thou, I should not stint
To offer of my best. Strangers and beggars 350
Are sent from Zeus: and tho’ a poor man’s gift
Be poor, a hearty welcome makes it rich.
_Ul._ I pray the gods reward thee.
_Eum._ Nay, there’s the meat;
I’ll fetch it thee. [_Exit._
_Ul._ Was ever sound on earth
So musical as the remembered voice
That welcomes home? By heaven, ’twas yesterday
That I was here. No change at all: this bench,
This board:—the very hogs might be the same.
O my good bread and wine! And here’s his loaf,
The shape he ever made; and cut the same, 360
Scooped to the thumb. Hail, grape of Ithaca!
Good day to thee! (_Drinks._)
_Eum._ (_re-entering_). See, here is meat in plenty:
Fall to and spare not.
_Ul._ Thank thee, sir; I thank thee.
_Eum._ Art thou of Ithaca, old man?
_Ul._ Nay, sir;
Indeed I am not.
_Eum._ When cam’st thou then among us?
_Ul._ With this day’s sun I first beheld your isle.
_Eum._ Eh! hath a ship arrived so late in harbour?
Whence hails she?
_Ul._ From Thesprotia coasting south;
But driven far out to sea in beating back
Put in for water; when the notion took me 370
To leave her, and pursue my own starvation
Without the risk of drowning.
_Eum._ And how then
Cam’st thou aboard a vessel so ill-found?
_Ul._ My tale were long, sir, should I once begin:
And since I have seen no food since yestermorn,
Believe I’d lend thee ear rather than mouth.
_Eum._ Ay, so, no fool, and I was but a churl
To bid thee talk and eat: eat, sir, in peace.
_Ul._ I pray thee while I eat tell of thyself,
Whom here thou servest, and who rules this isle. 380
_Eum._ I am a servant, sir, that hath no master:
These swine I tend are no man’s: those I kill
I kill for any one; for on this isle
We pay our service to a gap between
A grandsire and a grandchild. Dost thou take me?
_Ul._ Yes, friend: thy master is away or dead.
_Eum._ Both as I think. The while, for lack of tidings,
We make believe he lives. His ancient father,
Decrepit and despairing, lies aloof,—
We call him king no longer;—and his son, 390
The old man’s grandchild, is away on quest
Of any tidings to be gleaned from those
Who years agone fought with his sire at Troy.
His widow keeps his house, and hath in hand
Some five or six score suitors. Judge from this
What hope hath beggary in Ithaca.
_Ul._ In all my wanderings never have I found
A kinder host. But since thou sayest thy master,
Whose absence makes thee masterless, was one
Who fought at Troy, I too was in that war; 400
If thou wouldst tell his name, I may know somewhat
To cheer his wife and child.
_Eum._ Try not that talk,
Old man. No more of him shall traveller hither
Come bringing tidings that may win their ear.
Lightly indeed for welcome’s sake will vagrants
Speak false, nor have they cause to wish for truth.
Nay, and there’s none strays to this isle, but goes
Seeking my mistress, and there spins his lie;
While she with tender care asks of each thing,
And from her sorrowing eyes the tears fall fast, 410
Hearing the name she doth not dare to speak.
And soon enough wouldst thou too coin thy tale,
Couldst thou but win a blanket for thy back:
The while for him vultures and wolves are like
To have stripped his bones of flesh—ay, ay, he is dead—
Or fish have preyed upon him, and his ribs
Bleach on the sea-shore, sunk in drifting sand.
Such fate is his, grievous to all who loved him,
And most to me; who ne’er shall find again
So kind a lord, wherever I may go: 420
Not even again if home to father and mother
I should return, where I was bred and born.
Nor are my tears for them, yearn as I do
With these eyes to behold them, and my country;
But my desire is for Ulysses gone:
Speaking whose name, stranger, tho’ far from hearing
I do obeisance (_towards Ul._); for he loved me well;
And worshipful I call him, be he dead.
_Ul._ If ’tis Ulysses, friend, whom thou lamentest,
I know he lives.
_Eum._ Try not that tale, I say. 430
_Ul._ Now, sir, tho’ thou deny it and think I lie,
Ulysses will return, and on that day
Give me my due; since I dare call on Zeus,
First of the gods, and by this friendly table
Swear, and his dear home whither I be come,
This thing shall be, and with the running year
He shall return.
_Eum._ Nay, ’tis not I shall pay
Thy recompense. Content thee, man, and drink.
Why wouldst thou force persuasion? Tell me rather
Thy own true story, who thou art and whence. 440
_Ul._ Would then that thou couldst give me food and wine,
Ay, and the gods fair sunshine and no toil,
The while my tale should last: for on this bench
Would I take comfort of thee many a day.
But of thy lord ...
_Eum._ Wilt thou not cease from that!
_Ul._ With my own ships I fought at Ilion;
And tho’ I look not now, in age and rags,
A master among men, nay, nor a foe
Many would fear, yet mayst thou see on me
The sign of what I have been, and I think 450
Still from the gratten one may guess the grain.
_Eum._ (_aside_). How age and misery will brag! And this
To me, who really am a king.
_Ul._ ’Twas then
I knew Ulysses, and have since, like him
And many a Greek, striven against destiny
To gain my home:—at length our ship was cast
On mountainous Thesprotia, where the king
Pheidon was kind to me, and there I heard—
Nor yet are many weeks passed since that day—
Full tidings of Ulysses, and I saw 460
What wealth his arm had gotten: he himself
Was travelled to Dodona, but by this
Should be returned.
_Eum._ Stranger, if all thy words,
That grow in number, should outreach in tale
The moments of his absence, they were vainly
Poured in mine ears.
_Ul._ Nay, then, and if indeed
Ulysses came himself, here of his friends
He would not be received.
_Eum._ Ay, that may be:
And time will change a man so from himself,
That oft I wonder none have e’er contrived 470
To make pretence to be Ulysses’ self.
That were a game for thee, old man, if age
Did not so far belie thee. Nay, nay, nay!
Signs there would be: and if these eyes should see him,
And seeing know not, I would serve them so
That they should see no more.
_Ul._ Now when he comes ...
_Eum._ Still harking back! I tell thee, friend, our thought
Is rather for his son Telemachus,
And his return; who when he promised well
To be his father’s match, went wandering hence 480
To Lacedæmon, seeking for his sire:
An idle quest and perilous, for I say
’Twould much increase the tender love of them
That woo the mother, could they kill the son,
And quarrel for the inheritance: and now
They have sent a ship to take him in the straits,
As he comes home: but may the gods protect him.
Tho’, till I see him safe, my heart is vexed.
_Ul._ Fear not; the gods will save him.
_Eum._ Thank thee, sir.
Hast ever been in Sparta?
_Ul._ Ask me nought, 490
If thou wilt credit nought; or shall I say
I have never lodged in Pitanè, nor drunk
Out of Eurotas, nor on summer noons
Gazed on the steep sun-checquered precipices
Of huge Taygetus?
_Eum._ Thy pardon, sir.
Hast eaten well?
_Ul._ Ay, to content: but, friend,
I shall not prey upon thee: an hour or two
I’ll rest me here; then, if thou shew the road
To good Ulysses’ house, I’ll e’en be gone.
Food must be there in plenty: I make no doubt 500
To beg a meal till I may serve for hire.
_Eum._ Why, man, what put this folly in thy head?
’Twere the short way to end thy days, to go
Among that insolent and godless herd,
To tempt their violence. Not such as thou
Their servants are: they that attend on them
Are young and gaily clad and fair of face:
And though the polished tables lack not food,
’Tis not for such as thou the hot feast smokes
From morn till eve, and the red wine is poured. 510
Bide here; for here thou vexest none, nor me
Nor any of my fellows. Bide awhile,
And if Telemachus return, I warrant
Thou shalt have no complaint. Hark, I hear feet:
Some one now comes.
_Ul._ And ’tis a friend; the dogs
Bark not, but fawn around. (_Aside._) If this be he!
I dare not rise and look.
_Enter Telemachus._
_Eum._ Why he! ’tis he!
Telemachus, my son Telemachus,
Art thou returned in safety?
_Ul._ (_aside._) Praised be the gods! I see my son indeed!
_TELEMACHUS_ (_to Eum._).