“Alas!” cried he, “I greatly fear that we shall never see one of their
faces again.”
Then he told Ulysses all that had happened, as far as he knew it, and
added that he suspected the beautiful woman to be a vile enchantress, and
the marble palace, magnificent as it looked, to be only a dismal cavern
in reality. As for his companions, he could not imagine what had become
of them, unless they had been given to the swine to be devoured alive. At
this intelligence, all the voyagers were greatly affrighted. But Ulysses
lost no time in girding on his sword, and hanging his bow and quiver over
his shoulders, and taking a spear in his right hand. When his followers
saw their wise leader making these preparations, they inquired whither he
was going, and earnestly besought him not to leave them.
“You are our king,” cried they; “and what is more, you are the wisest man
in the whole world, and nothing but your wisdom and courage can get us
out of this danger. If you desert us, and go to the enchanted palace, you
will suffer the same fate as our poor companions, and not a soul of us
will ever see our dear Ithaca again.”
“As I am your king,” answered Ulysses, “and wiser than any of you, it is
therefore the more my duty to see what has befallen our comrades, and
whether anything can yet be done to rescue them. Wait for me here until
to-morrow. If I do not then return, you must hoist sail, and endeavor
to find your way to our native land. For my part, I am answerable for
the fate of these poor mariners, who have stood by my side in battle,
and been so often drenched to the skin, along with me, by the same
tempestuous surges. I will either bring them back with me, or perish.”
Had his followers dared, they would have detained him by force. But King
Ulysses frowned sternly on them, and shook his spear, and bade them stop
him at their peril.
Seeing him so determined, they let him go, and sat down on the sand, as
disconsolate a set of people as could be, waiting and praying for his
return.
It happened to Ulysses, just as before, that, when he had gone a few
steps from the edge of the cliff, the purple bird came fluttering towards
him, crying, “Peep, peep, pe—weep!” and using all the art it could to
persuade him to go no farther.
“What mean you, little bird?” cried Ulysses. “You are arrayed like a king
in purple and gold, and wear a golden crown upon your head. Is it because
I, too, am a king, that you desire so earnestly to speak with me? If you
can talk in human language, say what you would have me do.”
“Peep!” answered the purple bird, very dolorously. “Peep, peep, pe—we—ep!”
Certainly there lay some heavy anguish at the little bird’s heart; and
it was a sorrowful predicament that he could not, at least, have the
consolation of telling what it was. But Ulysses had no time to waste
in trying to get at the mystery. He therefore quickened his pace, and
had gone a good way along the pleasant wood path, when there met him a
young man of very brisk and intelligent aspect, and clad in a rather
singular garb. He wore a short cloak, and a sort of cap that seemed to
be furnished with a pair of wings; and from the lightness of his step,
you would have supposed that there might likewise be wings on his feet.
To enable him to walk still better (for he was always on one journey
or another), he carried a winged staff, around which two serpents were
wriggling and twisting.
In short, I have said enough to make you guess that it was Quicksilver;
and Ulysses (who knew him of old, and had learned a great deal of his
wisdom from him) recognized him in a moment.
“Whither are you going in such a hurry, wise Ulysses?” asked Quicksilver.
“Do you not know that this island is enchanted? The wicked enchantress
(whose name is Circe, the sister of King Æetes) dwells in the marble
palace which you see yonder among the trees. By her magic arts, she
changes every human being into the brute beast or fowl whom he happens
most to resemble.”
“That little bird, which met me at the edge of the cliff,” exclaimed
Ulysses, “was he a human being once?”
“Yes,” answered Quicksilver. “He was once a king, named Picus, and a
pretty good sort of a king, too, only rather too proud of his purple
robe, and his crown, and the golden chain about his neck; so he was
forced to take the shape of a gaudy feathered bird. The lions, and
wolves, and tigers, who will come running to meet you, in front of
the palace, were formerly fierce and cruel men, resembling in their
disposition the wild beasts whose forms they now rightfully wear.”
“And my poor companions,” said Ulysses. “Have they undergone a similar
change, through the arts of this wicked Circe?”
“You well know what gormandisers they were,” replied Quicksilver; and,
rogue that he was, he could not help laughing at the joke. “So you will
not be surprised to hear that they have all taken the shapes of swine!
If Circe had never done anything worse, I really should not think her so
very much to blame.”
“But can I do nothing to help them?” inquired Ulysses.
“It will require all your wisdom,” said Quicksilver, “and a little of my
own into the bargain, to keep your royal and sagacious self from being
transformed into a fox. But do as I bid you; and the matter may end
better than it has begun.”
While he was speaking, Quicksilver seemed to be in search of something;
he went stooping along the ground, and soon laid his hand on a little
plant with a snow-white flower, which he plucked and smelt of. Ulysses
had been looking at that very spot only just before; and it appeared
to him that the plant had burst into full flower the instant when
Quicksilver touched it with his fingers.
“Take this flower, King Ulysses,” said he. “Guard it as you do your
eyesight; for I can assure you it is exceedingly rare and precious, and
you might seek the whole earth over without ever finding another like
it. Keep it in your hand, and smell of it frequently after you enter the
palace, and while you are talking with the enchantress. Especially when
she offers you food or a draught of wine out of her goblet, be careful to
fill your nostrils with the flower’s fragrance. Follow these directions,
and you may defy her magic arts to change you into a fox.”
Quicksilver then gave him some further advice how to behave, and bidding
him be bold and prudent, again assured him that, powerful as Circe was,
he would have a fair prospect of coming safely out of her enchanted
palace. After listening attentively, Ulysses thanked his good friend, and
resumed his way. But he had taken only a few steps, when, recollecting
some other questions which he wished to ask, he turned round again, and
beheld nobody on the spot where Quicksilver had stood; for that winged
cap of his, and those winged shoes, with the help of the winged staff,
had carried him quickly out of sight.
When Ulysses reached the lawn, in front of the palace, the lions and
other savage animals came bounding to meet him, and would have fawned
upon him and licked his feet. But the wise king struck at them with his
long spear, and sternly bade them begone out of his path; for he knew
that they had once been bloodthirsty men, and would now tear him limb
from limb, instead of fawning upon him, could they do the mischief that
was in their hearts. The wild beasts yelped and glared at him, and stood
at a distance, while he ascended the palace steps.
On entering the hall, Ulysses saw the magic fountain in the center of
it. The up-gushing water had now again taken the shape of a man in a
long, white fleecy robe, who appeared to be making gestures of welcome.
The king likewise heard the noise of the shuttle in the loom, and the
sweet melody of the beautiful woman’s song, and then the pleasant voices
of herself and the four maidens talking together, with peals of merry
laughter intermixed. But Ulysses did not waste much time in listening to
the laughter or the song. He leaned his spear against one of the pillars
of the hall, and then, after loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped
boldly forward, and threw the folding doors wide open. The moment she
beheld his stately figure standing in the doorway, the beautiful woman
rose from the loom, and ran to meet him with a glad smile throwing its
sunshine over her face, and both her hands extended.
“Welcome, brave stranger!” cried she. “We were expecting you.”
And the nymph with the sea-green hair made a curtsey down to the ground,
and likewise bade him welcome; so did her sister with the bodice of oaken
bark, and she that sprinkled dewdrops from her fingers’ ends, and the
fourth one with some oddity which I cannot remember. And Circe, as the
beautiful enchantress was called (who had deluded so many persons that
she did not doubt of being able to delude Ulysses, not imagining how wise
he was), again addressed him:—
“Your companions,” said she, “have already been received into my palace,
and have enjoyed the hospitable treatment to which the propriety of their
behavior so well entitles them. If such be your pleasure, you shall first
take some refreshment, and then join them in the elegant apartments which
they now occupy. See, I and my maidens have been weaving their figures
into this piece of tapestry.”
She pointed to the web of beautifully woven cloth in the loom. Circe and
the four nymphs must have been very diligently at work since the arrival
of the mariners; for a great many yards of tapestry had now been wrought,
in addition to what I have before described. In this new part, Ulysses
saw his two and twenty friends represented as sitting on cushioned and
canopied thrones, greedily devouring dainties, and quaffing deep draughts
of wine. The work had not yet gone any further. O, no indeed. The
enchantress was far too cunning to let Ulysses see the mischief which her
magic arts had since brought upon the gormandisers.
“As for yourself, valiant sir,” said Circe, “judging by the dignity of
your aspect, I take you to be nothing less than a king. Deign to follow
me, and you shall be treated as befits your rank.”
So Ulysses followed her into the oval saloon, where his two and twenty
comrades had devoured the banquet, which ended so disastrously for
themselves, but all this while, he had held the snow-white flower in his
hand, and had constantly smelt of it while Circe was speaking; and as he
crossed the threshold of the saloon, he took good care to inhale several
long and deep snuffs of its fragrance. Instead of two and twenty thrones
which had before been ranged around the wall, there was now only a single
throne, in the center of the apartment. But this was surely the most
magnificent seat that ever a king or an emperor reposed himself upon,
all made of chased gold, studded with precious stones, with a cushion
that looked like a soft heap of living roses, and overhung by a canopy of
sunlight which Circe knew how to weave into drapery. The enchantress took
Ulysses by the hand, and made him sit down upon this dazzling throne.
Then clapping her hands, she summoned the chief butler.
“Bring hither,” said she, “the goblet that is set apart for kings to
drink out of. And fill it with the same delicious wine which my royal
brother, King Æetes, praised so highly, when he last visited me with my
fair daughter Medea. That good and amiable child! Were she now here, it
would delight her to see me offering this wine to my honored guest.”
But Ulysses, while the butler was gone for the wine, held the snow-white
flower to his nose.
“Is it a wholesome wine?” he asked.
At this the four maidens tittered; whereupon the enchantress looked
round at them with an aspect of severity.
“It is the wholesomest juice that ever was squeezed out of the grape,”
said she; “for, instead of disguising a man, as other liquor is apt to
do, it brings him to his true self, and shows him as he ought to be.”
The chief butler liked nothing better than to see people turned into
swine, or making any kind of a beast of themselves; so he made haste
to bring the royal goblet, filled with a liquid as bright as gold, and
which kept sparkling upward, and throwing a sunny spray over the brim.
But, delightfully as the wine looked, it was mingled with the most potent
enchantments that Circe knew how to concoct. For every drop of the pure
grape juice there were two drops of the pure mischief; and the danger of
the thing was, that the mischief made it taste all the better. The mere
smell of the bubbles, which effervesced at the brim, was enough to turn a
man’s beard into pig’s bristles, or make a lion’s claws grow out of his
fingers or a fox’s brush behind him.
“Drink, my noble guest,” said Circe, smiling as she presented him
with the goblet. “You will find in this draught a solace for all your
troubles.”
King Ulysses took the goblet with his right hand, while with his left he
held the snow-white flower to his nostrils, and drew in so long a breath
that his lungs were quite filled with its pure and simple fragrance.
Then, drinking off all the wine, he looked the enchantress calmly in the
face.
“Wretch,” cried Circe, giving him a smart stroke with her wand, “how dare
you keep your human shape a moment longer? Take the form of the brute
whom you most resemble. If a hog, go join your fellow-swine in the sty;
if a lion, a wolf, a tiger, go howl with the wild beasts on the lawn; if
a fox, go exercise your craft in stealing poultry. Thou hast quaffed off
my wine, and canst be man no longer.”
But, such was the virtue of the snow-white flower, instead of wallowing
down from his throne in swinish shape, or taking any other brutal form,
Ulysses looked even more manly and king-like than before. He gave the
magic goblet a toss, and sent it clashing over the marble floor, to
the farther end of the saloon. Then, drawing his sword, he seized the
enchantress by her beautiful ringlets, and made a gesture as if he meant
to strike off her head at one blow.
“Wicked Circe,” cried he, in a terrible voice, “this sword shall put
an end to thy enchantments. Thou shalt die, vile witch, and do no more
mischief in the world, by tempting human beings into the vices which make
beasts of them.”
The tone and countenance of Ulysses were so awful, and his sword gleamed
so brightly, and seemed to have so intolerably keen an edge, that Circe
was almost killed by the mere fright, without waiting for a blow. The
chief butler scrambled out of the saloon, picking up the golden goblet as
he went; and the enchantress and the four maidens fell on their knees,
wringing their hands, and screaming for mercy.
“Spare me!” cried Circe. “Spare me, royal and wise Ulysses. For now
I know that thou art he of whom Quicksilver forewarned me, the most
prudent of mortals, against whom no enchantments can prevail. Thou only
couldst have conquered Circe. Spare me, wisest of men. I will show
thee true hospitality, and even give myself to be thy slave, and this
magnificent palace to be henceforth thy home.”
The four nymphs, meanwhile, were making a most piteous ado; and
especially the ocean nymph with the sea-green hair, wept a great deal
of salt-water, and the fountain nymph, besides scattering dewdrops from
her fingers’ ends, nearly melted away into tears. But Ulysses would
not be pacified until Circe had taken a solemn oath to change back his
companions, and as many others as he should direct, from their present
forms of beast or bird into their former shapes of men.
“On these conditions,” said he, “I consent to spare your life. Otherwise
you must die upon the spot.”
With a drawn sword hanging over her, the enchantress would readily have
consented to do as much good as she had hitherto done mischief, however
little she might like such employment. She therefore led Ulysses out
of the back entrance of the palace, and showed him the swine in their
sty. There were about fifty of these unclean beasts in the whole herd;
and though the greater part were hogs by birth and education, there was
wonderfully little difference to be seen betwixt them and their new
brethren, who had so recently worn the human shape. To speak critically,
indeed, the latter rather carried the thing to excess, and seemed to make
it a point to wallow in the miriest part of the sty, and otherwise to
outdo the original swine in their own natural vocation. When men once
turn to brutes, the trifle of man’s wit that remains in them adds tenfold
to their brutality.
The comrades of Ulysses, however, had not quite lost the remembrance of
having formerly stood erect. When he approached the sty, two and twenty
enormous swine separated themselves from the herd, and scampered towards
him, with such a chorus of horrible squealing as made him clap both hands
to his ears. And yet they did not seem to know what they wanted, nor
whether they were merely hungry, or miserable from some other cause. It
was curious, in the midst of their distress, to observe them thrusting
their noses into the mire, in quest of something to eat. The nymph with
the bodice of oaken bark (she was the hamadryad of an oak) threw a
handful of acorns among them; and the two and twenty hogs scrambled and
fought for the prize, as if they had tasted not so much as a noggin of
sour milk for a twelvemonth.
“These must certainly be my comrades,” said Ulysses. “I recognize their
dispositions. They are hardly worth the trouble of changing them into
the human form again. Nevertheless, we will have it done, lest their
bad example should corrupt the other hogs. Let them take their original
shapes, therefore, Dame Circe, if your skill is equal to the task. It
will require greater magic, I trow, than it did to make swine of them.”
So Circe waved her wand again, and repeated a few magic words, at the
sound of which the two and twenty hogs pricked up their pendulous ears.
It was a wonder to behold how their snouts grew shorter and shorter, and
their mouths (which they seemed to be sorry for, because they could not
gobble so expeditiously) smaller and smaller, and how one and another
began to stand upon his hind legs, and scratch his nose with his fore
trotters. At first the spectators hardly knew whether to call them hogs
or men, but by and by came to the conclusion that they rather resembled
the latter. Finally, there stood the twenty-two comrades of Ulysses,
looking pretty much the same as when they left the vessel.
You must not imagine, however, that the swinish quality had entirely gone
out of them. When once it fastens itself into a person’s character, it
is very difficult getting rid of it. This was proved by the hamadryad,
who, being exceedingly fond of mischief, threw another handful of
acorns before the twenty-two newly restored people; whereupon down they
wallowed, in a moment, and gobbled them up in a very shameful way.
Then, recollecting themselves, they scrambled to their feet, and looked
more than commonly foolish.
“Thanks, noble Ulysses!” they cried. “From brute beasts you have restored
us to the condition of men again.”
“Do not put yourselves to the trouble of thanking me,” said the wise
king. “I fear I have done but little for you.”
To say the truth, there was a suspicious kind of a grunt in their voices,
and, for a long time afterwards, they spoke gruffly, and were apt to set
up a squeal.
“It must depend upon your own future behavior,” added Ulysses, “whether
you do not find your way back to the sty.”
At this moment, the note of a bird sounded from the branch of a
neighboring tree.
“Peep, peep, pe—wee—ep!”
It was the purple bird, who, all this while, had been sitting over their
heads, watching what was going forward, and hoping that Ulysses would
remember how he had done his utmost to keep him and his followers out of
harm’s way. Ulysses ordered Circe instantly to make a king of this good
little fowl and leave him exactly as she found him. Hardly were the words
spoken, and before the bird had time to utter another “pe—weep,” King
Picus leaped down from the bough of the tree, as majestic a sovereign
as any in the world, dressed in a long purple robe and gorgeous yellow
stockings, with a splendidly wrought collar about his neck, and a golden
crown upon his head. He and King Ulysses exchanged with one another the
courtesies which belong to their elevated rank. But from that time forth,
King Picus was no longer proud of his crown and his trappings of royalty,
nor of the fact of his being a king; he felt himself merely the upper
servant of his people, and that it must be his life-long labor to make
them better and happier.
As for the lions, tigers, and wolves (though Circe would have restored
them to their former shapes at his slightest word), Ulysses thought
it advisable that they should remain as they now were, and thus give
warning of their cruel dispositions, instead of going about under the
guise of men, and pretending to human sympathies, while their hearts had
the bloodthirstiness of wild beasts. So he let them howl as much as they
liked, but never troubled his head about them. And, when everything was
settled according to his pleasure, he sent to summon the remainder of his
comrades, whom he had left at the seashore. These being arrived, with the
prudent Eurylochus at their head, they all made themselves comfortable in
Circe’s enchanted palace, until quite rested and refreshed from the toils
and hardships of their voyage.
ULYSSES AND THE SIRENS
By Sir George W. Cox
When Ulysses and his men had left the island of the lady Circe, a fresh
breeze carried them merrily for several days over the sea. But after that
the wind sank down, and there was a calm. The sails flapped against the
mast, and they had to take them down and to row the ship on with their
long oars. The sun was shining hot and fierce, and the men were very
tired. There was not even a ripple upon the sea, and not a breath of air
to cool their burning faces.
Ulysses remembered how the lady Circe had told him that he would have to
pass near the Sirens’ island where the sea was always calm, and how she
said that he must take care not to listen to the Sirens’ song, if he did
not wish his ship to be dashed to pieces on the rocks. For, all day long,
the Sirens lay on the seashore, or swam about in the calm water, singing
so sweetly that no one who heard them could ever pass on without going to
them: and whoever went to them was killed upon the rocks, for the Sirens
were very beautiful and cruel, and they sang their soft enticing song,
to draw the sailors into the shallow water, that their ships might be
broken on the terrible reefs which lay hidden beneath the calm sea. When
Circe told Ulysses of the Sirens’ rocks, she said that he must fill his
sailors’ ears with wax, that they might not hear the song and be drawn in
upon those terrible reefs. So, as the sun shone down fiercely on their
heads, Ulysses thought they must be coming near to the island of the
Sirens; and he took a large lump of wax and pressed it in his fingers
till the hot sun made it soft and sticky. Then he called the men and told
them he must fill their ears with wax, so they would not hear the song of
the beautiful and cruel Sirens. But Ulysses was a very strange man, and
liked to hear and see everything; so he said that he must hear the song
himself, and that they must tie him to the mast for fear he should leap
into the sea to swim to the Sirens’ land.
Then he filled the sailors’ ears with wax so that they could hear
nothing; and they took a large rope and put it two or three times round
the arms and waist of Ulysses; and then they sat down again on their
benches, and began to row the ship on as quickly as they could.
Presently through the breathless air, and over the still and sleeping
sea, there came a sound so sweet and soothing that Ulysses thought that
he could no longer be living on the earth. Softer and sweeter it swelled
upon the ear, and it seemed to speak to him of rest and peace, although
he could hear no words; and he felt as if he could give up everything if
only he might hear those sweet sounds for ever. So he made signs to the
sailors to row on quicker; but presently the song rose in the sultry air,
more sweet and gentle and enticing; and it seemed to say:
“O tired and weary sailors, why do you toil so hard to row your ship
under this fierce hot sun? Come to us, and sit among these cool rocks:
come and rest—come and rest.”