I
A clear, strong wind came down from the north, sent by the favour of
the mighty enchantress Circe, and over the trackless sea they sped,
where never furrow of mortal ship was seen before. After a long day's
sail they came to the farther shore of the ocean stream, which
surrounds the earth as with a girdle. There is the abode of the people
called the Cimmerians, wrapped in shadow and mist; for never doth the
sun look down upon them with his rays, neither when he climbs the
starry sky, nor yet when he goeth down unto the place of his rest. And
thus they dwell miserably under the curse of perpetual night.
As they peered through the gloom they saw what seemed a grove of dusky
trees, in shape like the poplar and willow, fringing the shore. "It is
the sign which Circe gave me," whispered Odysseus to his awestruck
comrades; "we are at the very gates of Hades." Landing in silence,
they carried the victims for sacrifice to the verge of the grove, and
Odysseus with his sword dug a trench, a cubit in length and breadth,
and poured about it a libation of mead and water and wine. Then the
sheep were slaughtered, and the trench was filled to the brim with
their blood. When the solemn rite was ended, Odysseus called in a loud
voice to the spirits of the dead, and waited in breathless expectation
with his men.
Presently a rustling sound was heard, like the sound of the autumn
wind in the dry leaves of the forest; it grew louder and louder, and
out of the gloom the ghosts came flocking, youths and maidens cut off
in their bloom, old men with all their burden of sorrow, and warriors
slain in battle, still wearing the bloodstained armour.[1] With a wild
unearthly cry they came crowding to the trench, eager to drink of the
blood. But Odysseus, though quaking with fear, stood his ground
firmly, and held his drawn sword over the trench to keep off the
multitude, until he had seen and spoken with Teiresias.
[Footnote 1: Compare "Stories from the Æneid," p. 119.]
Among the hosts of spirits there was one who lingered near the trench,
and seemed by his beseeching gestures and earnest looks to desire
speech with Odysseus. When his first fears were over Odysseus
recognised the features of Elpenor, who had come to an untimely end on
the morning of their journey, and whose body still lay unburied in the
house of Circe. Registering a mental vow to perform all due rites to
that poor spirit on his homeward voyage, Odysseus warned him back, and
stood waiting for the coming of the seer.
At last came one with tottering footsteps, leaning on a golden
sceptre, and halted on the farther edge of the trench. It seemed a
very aged man, with flowing white beard, and sightless eyes; and
Odysseus knew by these signs that he was in the presence of Teiresias,
the famous prophet of Thebes, who alone among departed spirits
preserves his understanding, while the rest are flitting phantoms,
with no sense at all. "What wouldst thou of me, Odysseus, son of
Laertes," said the spectre in faltering tones, "and wherefore hast
thou left the glad light of day to visit this drear and joyless realm
of the dead? Draw back from the trench, and put up thy sword in its
sheath, that I may drink of the blood and tell thee all that thou
wouldst know."
Thereupon Odysseus fell back, and sheathed his sword; and Teiresias,
when he had drunk of the blood, spoke again in firmer and clearer
tones: "Thou art fain to hear of thy home-coming, illustrious hero;
but thy path to Ithaca shall be beset with sorrows, because of the
wrath of Poseidon, whose son, Polyphemus, thou hast blinded.
Nevertheless thou and all thy company shall return safe to Ithaca, if
only ye leave untouched the sacred flocks and herds of Helios,[1] when
ye come to the island of Thrinacia. But if harm befall them at your
hands, from that hour thy ship and all her crew are doomed and forfeit
to destruction: and though thou thyself escape, yet thou shalt return
after many days, in evil plight, to a house of woe.[2] And now learn
how thou mayest at last appease the anger of the god who pursues thee
with his vengeance. When thou art once more master in thine own house
thou shalt go on a far journey, carrying with thee an oar of thy
vessel, until thou comest to a people that dwell far from the sea, and
know naught of ships or the mariner's art. And there shalt meet thee
by the way a man who shall say that thou bearest a winnowing shovel[3]
on thy shoulder; and this shall be a sign unto thee, whereby thou
shalt know that thou hast reached the end of thy journey. Then plant
thy oar in the ground, and offer sacrifice to Poseidon. This shall be
the end of thy toils, and death shall come softly upon thee where thou
dwellest in a green old age among thy happy people."
[Footnote 1: The sun god.]
[Footnote 2: The very words of Polyphemus, p. 93.]
[Footnote 3: The oar.]
When he had thus spoken Teiresias vanished into the darkness; and one
by one the spirits came up to the trench, as Odysseus suffered them,
and having drunk of the blood obtained strength to speak and answer
his questions. First among them was the spirit of his mother,
Anticleia, daughter of Autolycus, who had been hovering near during
his conference with Teiresias. When she had drunk she said: "Whence
comest thou, my son? Art thou still wandering on thy long voyage from
Troy, or hast thou been in Ithaca, and seen thy wife?"
"Nay, mother," answered Odysseus, "I am wandering still, still
treading the path of woe, since the day when I followed Agamemnon to
Troy. But tell me now, and answer me truly, what was the manner of thy
death? Came it slowly, by long disease, or did Artemis lay thee low in
a moment with a painless arrow from her bow?[1] And tell me of my
father and my son whom I left in Ithaca; do they still hold my
possessions, or hath some other thrust them with violence from my
seat? Tell me also of Penelope, my wedded wife, whether she abides
steadfast and guards my goods, or whether she is gone to cheer some
other man's heart."
[Footnote 1: Sudden death was ascribed to Artemis or Apollo.]
"Steadfast indeed she is," replied Anticleia, "and wondrous patient of
heart; all her thoughts are ever of thee. No one has yet usurped thy
place in Ithaca, but Telemachus still reaps thy fields and sits down
to meat with the noblest in the land. As to thy father, he comes no
more to the town, but dwells continually on his farm. He lives not
delicately, as princes use, but is clad in sorry raiment, and sleeps
in the winter among the ashes of the hearth with his thralls, and in
summer on a bed of dry leaves in his vineyard. There he lies forsaken,
heavy with years and sorrows, mourning for thee. And in such wise also
death came upon me, neither by wasting sickness nor by the gentle
shafts of Artemis, but my sore longing for thee, Odysseus, and for thy
sweet counsels, at last broke my heart."
A flood of tenderness overpowered Odysseus at these sad words, and he
sprang forward with arms outstretched to clasp his mother to his
breast. Thrice he essayed to embrace her, and thrice his arms closed
on emptiness,[1] while that ghostly presence still flitted before him
like a shadow or a dream. "O my mother," cried Odysseus in deep
distress, "why dost thou mock me thus? Come to my heart, dear mother;
let me hold thee in mine arms once more, and mingle my tears with
thine. Or art thou but the shadow of a shade, a phantom sent by
Persephone to deceive me?"
[Footnote 1: Compare "Stories from the Æneid," p. 24.]
"Persephone deceives thee not," answered the ghost, "but this is the
fashion of mortals when they die. Flesh and bone and sinew are
consumed by the might of fire, but the spirit takes flight and hovers
ever like a winged dream. But make haste and get thee back to the
daylight, and keep all that thou hast seen in memory that thou mayest
tell it to thy wife."
When the spirit of Anticleia was gone, a shadowy throng pressed
forward to the trench, all the ghosts of noble dames, wives and
daughters of princes. And Odysseus kept his place, sword in hand,
suffering them only to drink one by one, that he might question them
and learn their story. There he saw Alcmene, the mother of Hercules,
and Leda, to whose twin sons, Castor and Pollux, a strange destiny was
allotted; for after their death they rose to life again on alternate
days, one lying in the tomb, while the other walked the earth as a
living man. There too was Iphimedeia, mother of the giants Otus and
Ephialtes, who at nine years of age were nine fathoms in height and
nine cubits in breadth. Haughty were they, and presumptuous in their
youth; for they made war on the gods, and piled Ossa on Olympus, and
Pelion on Ossa, that they might scale the sky. But they perished in
their impiety, shot down by the bolts of Apollo's golden bow. Last
came Eriphyle, the false wife, who sold her husband's life for a
glittering bribe.
That dream of fair women melted away and another ghostly band
succeeded, the souls of great captains and mighty men of war. Foremost
among these was seen one of regal port, around whom was gathered a
choice company of veteran warriors, all gored and gashed with recent
wounds. He who seemed their leader stretched out his hands towards
Odysseus with a piteous gesture, and tears such as spirits weep[1]
gushed from his eyes. Instantly Odysseus recognised in that stricken
spirit his great commander Agamemnon, once the proud captain of a
thousand ships, now wandering, forlorn and feeble, with all his glory
faded.
[Footnote 1: "Tears such as _angels_ weep," Milton, "Paradise Lost,"
i. 619.]
"Royal son of Atreus," he said, in a voice broken with weeping, "is it
here that I find thee, great chieftain of the embattled Greeks? Say,
how comest thou hither, and what arm aimed the stroke which laid thee
low?" "Not in honour's field did I fall," answered Agamemnon, "nor yet
amid the waves. It was a traitor's hand that cut me off, the hand of
Ægisthus, and the guile of my accursed wife. He feasted me at his
board, and slaughtered me as one slaughters a stalled ox; and all my
company fell with me in that den of butchery. It was pitiful to see
all that brave band of veterans writhing in their death agony among
the tables loaded with good cheer, and goblets brimming with wine. But
that which gave me my sorest pang was the dying shriek of Cassandra,
daughter of Priam, who was struck down at my side by the dagger of
Clytæmnestra. Then the murderess turned away and left me with staring
eyes and mouth gaping in death. For naught is so vile, naught so
cruel, as a woman who hath hardened her heart to tread the path of
crime. Even so did she break her marriage vows, and afterwards slew
the husband of her youth. I thought to have found far other welcome
when I passed under the shadow of mine own roof-tree. But this
demon-wife imagined evil against me, and brought infamy on the very
name of woman."
"Strange ordinance of Zeus!" said Odysseus musingly, "which hath
turned the choicest blessing of man's life, the love of woman, into
the bitterest of curses for thee and for thy house. Yea, and upon all
the land of Hellas hath woe been brought by the deed of a
woman--Helen, thy brother's wife."
"Ay, trust them not," replied Agamemnon bitterly, "Never give thy
heart into a woman's keeping; she will rifle thy very soul's flower,
and then laugh thee to scorn. But why do I speak thus to thee? Thou
hast indeed a treasure in thy wife; no wiser head, no truer heart,
than hers. Happy art thou, and sweet the refuge which is prepared for
thee after all thy toils, Well I remember the day when we set sail
from Greece, and how fondly thou spakest of her, thy young bride, with
her babe at her breast. Now he will be a tall youth, and with what joy
will he look into the eyes of his father, whom he was then too young
to know!"
After that Odysseus was silent, his mind full of sweet and anxious
thoughts. Meanwhile other familiar forms had drawn near, the spirits
of warriors renowned, whose very names were as a battle-cry when they
dwelt on earth: Achilles, Patroclus, and Antilochus, and farther off,
looming dimly in the darkness, the gigantic shade of Ajax. Achilles
was the first to speak. "Son of Laertes," he said, "thou man of
daring, hast thou reached the limit of thy rashness, or wilt thou go
yet further? Are there no perils left for thee in the land of the
living that thou must invade the very realm of Hades, the sunless
haunts of the dead?"
"I came to inquire of Teiresias," answered Odysseus, "concerning my
return to Ithaca. All my life I am a bondslave to toil and woe; but
thou, Achilles, wast happy in thy life, honoured as a god by all the
sons of Hellas; and now thou art happy, even in death, for honour
waits on thy footsteps still."
"Tell me not of comfort in death," replied Achilles. "Rather would I
breathe the air of heaven, yea, though I were thrall to a man of
little substance, than reign as king over all the shades of the dead.
But give me some news of my son, Neoptolemus. Came he to fight with
the Trojans after I was gone, and did he acquit him well? And knowest
thou aught of my father, Peleus? Lives he still in honour and comfort
among my people, or has he been driven into beggary by violent men,
now that he is old and I am not near to aid him? Oh, for an hour of
life, with such might as was mine when I fought in the van for Greece?
Then should they pay a bitter reckoning, whosoever they be that wrong
him and keep him from his own."
"Of Peleus," answered Odysseus, "I have heard nothing, but of thy son,
Neoptolemus, I can tell thee much, for I myself brought him from
Scyros to fight in Helen's cause, and thereafter my eye was ever upon
him, to mark how he bore himself. In council none could vie with him,
save only Nestor and myself; ne'er saw I so rare a wit in so young a
head. And when the Greeks were arrayed in battle against the Trojans
he was never seen to hang back, but fought ever in the van among the
foremost champions, like a mighty man of war. Nor was it only in the
clamour and heat of war that he proved his mettle; for in that
perilous hour when we lay ambushed in the wooden horse, when the
stoutest hearts among us quailed, he never changed colour, but sat
fingering his spear and sword, waiting for the signal to go forth to
the assault. And after we had sacked the lofty towers of Troy he
received a goodly portion of the spoil, and a special prize of honour,
and so departed, untouched by point or blade, to his father's house."
When he heard these brave tidings of his son, Achilles rejoiced in
spirit, and strode with lofty gait along the plain of asphodel.
So one by one the spirits came up, and inquired of Odysseus of their
dear ones at home. Only the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon, stood
sullenly aloof; for between him and Odysseus there was an old quarrel.
After the death of Achilles a dispute arose among the surviving
chieftains for the possession of his armour. It was decided to refer
the matter to the Trojan captives in the camp, and they were asked who
of all the Greeks had done them most harm. They answered in favour of
Odysseus, who accordingly received the armour. Thereupon Ajax fell
into a frenzy of rage, and slew himself. When Odysseus saw him, and
marked his unforgiving mood, he was filled with remorse and pity, and
strove to soften his resentment with gentle words. "Ah! son of
Telamon," he said, "canst thou not forgive me, even here? Sorely the
Argives mourned thee, and heavy was the loss brought on them by thy
rash act. Thou wast a very tower of strength to the host, and we wept
for thee as for a second Achilles. Draw near, great prince, subdue thy
haughty spirit, and speak to me as thou wast wont to speak before the
will of heaven set enmity between us."
Thus earnestly Odysseus pleaded, but there was no reply, and the angry
spirit passed away into the gloom of Erebus.[1]
[Footnote 1: Compare the silence of Dido, "Stories from the Æneid," p.
123.]