ULYSSES REVISITS HIS PALACE.
Great is the consternation amongst the riotous crew in the palace, when
they find that Telemachus has escaped their toils, and has returned; and
great the joy of Penelope when she hears this good news from Eumæus,
which yet she hardly believes, until it is confirmed by a visit from her
son in person. The suitors receive him with feigned courtesy, though
some among them have already determined on his assassination. The
swineherd follows to the palace, bringing with him, by command of
Telemachus, the seeming beggar--for Ulysses has undergone a second
transformation, and is once more an aged man in mean apparel. As a poor
wanderer, dependent on public charity, he is sure to find that ready
admittance into the royal precincts which is so necessary for carrying
out his plans of vengeance, without raising the suspicions of the
present occupants. On the way they are met by Melanthius the goatherd,
whose character stands in marked contrast to that of Eumæus. He is
utterly faithless to his absent master’s interests, and has become the
ready instrument of his enemies. With mocking insolence he jeers at
Eumæus and his humble acquaintance, and even goes so far as to spurn the
latter with his foot. Ulysses fully justifies his character for patience
and endurance; though for a moment he does debate in his heart the
alternative, whether he should break the skull of the scoffer with his
club, or lift him from his feet and dash his brains out on the ground.
As he draws near the gates of his own palace he espies another old
retainer, of a different type, belonging to a race noted in all lands
and ages for its fidelity. There lies on the dunghill, dying of old age,
disease, and neglect, his dog Argus--the companion of many a long chase
in happier days. The dog has all Eumæus’s loyalty, and more than his
discernment. His instinct at once detects his old master, even through
the disguise lent by the goddess of wisdom. Before he sees him, he knows
his voice and step, and raises his ears--
“And when he marked Odysseus in the way,
And could no longer to his lord come near,
Fawned with his tail, and drooped in feeble play
His ears. Odysseus turning wiped a tear.”
Eustathius (who made none the worse archbishop because he was a thorough
lover of Homer) has remarked, somewhat pertinently, that the fate of his
dog draws from the imperturbable Ulysses the tears which he never sheds
for any thought of Penelope. But such lesser pathetic incidents have
often, in actual life, a stronger emotional effect than is produced by
the deeper affections.[40] But he masters his emotion, for this is no
time to betray himself, and follows Eumæus through the entrance-doors.
It is poor Argus’s last effort, and the old hound turns and dies--
“Just having seen Odysseus in the twentieth year.”
The story is told by the Greek poet with somewhat more prolixity of
detail than suits our modern notions of the pathetic, but the pathos of
the incident itself is of the simplest and purest kind.
In beggar’s guise Ulysses enters his own hall, and makes his rounds of
the party who sit there at table, soliciting some contribution of broken
meat to his wallet. None is so hard of heart as to refuse, except
Antinous. In vain does Ulysses compliment him on his princely beauty,
and remind him of the uncertainty of fortune, as evidenced by his own
present case:--
“Once to me also sorrow came not near,
And I had riches and a noble name,
And to the wandering poor still gave, whoever came.”
“Legions of slaves and many thousand things
I held, which God doth on the great bestow--
All that the ownership of large wealth brings.
But Zeus the Thunderer, for he willed it so,
Emptied my power, and sent a wave of woe.”
Antinous haughtily bids him stand off, and when Ulysses expresses his
wonder that in so fair a body should dwell so mean a spirit, hurls a
stool at him. The blow does not shake the strong frame of Ulysses, who
moves to the doorway, lays down his wallet, and lifts his voice in
solemn imprecation to the Powers on high who protect the stranger and
the poor:--
“Hear me, ye suitors of the queen divine!
Men grieve not for the wounds they take in fight,
Defending their own wealth, white sheep or kine;
But me (bear witness!) doth Antinous smite
Only because I suffer hunger’s bite,
Fount to mankind of evils evermore.
Now may Antinous, ere his nuptial night,
If there be gods and furies of the poor,
Die unavenged, unwept, upon the palace-floor.”
Even some amongst the young man’s companions are horrified by this
reckless violation of the recognised laws of charity and hospitality.
One of them speaks out in strong rebuke:--
“Not to thine honour hast thou now let fall,
Antinous, on the wandering poor this blow.
Haply a god from heaven is in our hall,
And thou art ripe for ruin: I bid thee know,
Gods in the garb of strangers to and fro
Wander the cities, and men’s ways discern;
Yea, through the wide earth in all shapes they go,
Changed, yet the same, and with their own eyes learn
How live the sacred laws--who hold them, and who spurn.”
This is one of those noble passages in which the creed of the poet soars
far above his mythology. The god who is the avenger of broken oaths, and
the protector of the poor and the stranger, though he bears the name of
Zeus or Jupiter, is a power of very different type from the Ruler of
Olympus, who indulges his sensual passions in base amours with
mortals,--who in the Iliad is perpetually engaged in domestic wrangles
with his queen, and even in the Odyssey wreaks a weak vengeance on
Ulysses merely to gratify the spite of Neptune.
“Meanwhile Telemachus sat far apart,
Feeding on fire; and deeper and more drear
Grew the sharp pang, that he saw stricken there
His own dear father, and the flower of kings.
Yet from his eyelids he let fall no tear,
But, filled in soul with dark imaginings,
Silently waved his head, and brooded evil things.”
Additional insults await the hero in his own hall. There comes from the
town a sturdy beggar, known as Irus--“the messenger”--by a kind of
parody on the name of the rainbow goddess, Iris, who performs the same
office for the immortals. Jealous of a rival mendicant, such as Ulysses
appears, he threatens to drive him from the hall. Ulysses quietly warns
him to keep his hands off--there is room enough for both. The young
nobles shout with delight at a quarrel which promises such good sport,
and at once form a ring for the combatants, and undertake to see fair
play. When the disguised king strips off his squalid rags for the
boxing-match, and discovers the brawny chest and shoulders for which he
was remarkable, Irus trembles at the thought of encountering him. But it
is too late: with a single blow Ulysses breaks his jaw, and drags him
out into the courtyard. The revellers now hail the conqueror with loud
applause, and award him the prize of victory--a goat-paunch filled with
mince-meat and blood, the prototype, apparently, both of the Scotch
haggis and the English black-pudding. Amphinomus--who has already shown
something of a nobler nature than the rest--adds a few words of generous
sympathy: he sees in the wandering mendicant one who has known better
days, and pledges him in a cup of wine, with a hope that brighter
fortunes are yet in store. Ulysses is touched with pity for the fate
which the young man’s evil companions are inevitably drawing on him. He
had heard, he tells him, of his father, Nisus--had known him, doubtless,
in fact--a wise and good man; such ought the son to be. He adds a voice
of ominous warning, tinged with that saddened view of man at his best
estate which continually breaks forth, even amidst the lighter passages
of the poet.
“Earth than a man no poorer feebler thing
Rears, of all creatures that here breathe or move;
Who, while the gods lend health, and his knees string,
Boasts that no sorrow he is born to prove.
But when the gods assail him from above,
Then doth he bear it with a bitter mind,
Dies without help, or liveth against love.”
Penelope now descends from her chamber for a moment into the hall, to
have speech with her son. The goddess Minerva has shed on her such
radiant grace and beauty, that her appearance draws forth passionate
admiration from Eurymachus. She does but taunt him in reply: most
suitors, she says, at least bring presents in their hand; these of hers
do but rob, where others give freely. They are all stung sufficiently
by her words to produce at once from their stores some costly
offerings--embroidered robes, chains and brooches and necklaces of gold
and electrum. The queen, after the practical fashion of the age, is not
too disdainful to carry them off to her chamber; while Ulysses--as
indeed seems more in accordance with his character--secretly rejoices to
see his wife thus “spoiling the Egyptians.” Some commentators have
apologised for this seeming meanness on the part of Penelope by the
explanation, that she does it to inspire them with false hopes of her
choosing one of them now at last for her husband, and so lulling them
into a false security in order to insure their easier destruction. But
it is best to take the moral tone of these early poems honestly, as we
find it, and not attempt to force it into too close agreement with our
own.
After some further acts of insult, still borne with a wrathful endurance
by Ulysses, the company quit the hall, as usual, for the night. Then
Penelope descends again from her chamber, and sitting by the hearth,
bids a chair be set also for the wandering stranger: she will hear his
tale. He represents himself to her as the brother of King Idomeneus of
Crete, and as having once in his brother’s absence entertained the great
Ulysses in his halls. To Penelope’s eager questions, by which she seeks
to test his veracity, he answers by describing not so much the person of
her husband as his distinctive dress. The queen recognises, in this
description, the curiously-embroidered mantle which she had worked for
him, and the golden clasp, “linked with twin stars,” which she had
fastened with her own hands when he parted from her to go to Troy. She
breaks into floods of tears at the recollection; while the disguised
Ulysses sets his eyes hard, “as though they were of horn or steel,” and
checks his rising tears. He comforts her with the assurance that he
brings recent news of her hero--of his shipwreck and visit to the
Phæacians; that he is even now on his way to Ithaca, last heard of in
the neighbouring island of Dulichium, within easy reach of home; nay,
this very year, he would be content to pledge himself, Ulysses shall
stand once more in his own halls. Incredulous, yet thankful for the
comfort, the queen orders the wanderer to be taken to the bath, and
entertained as an honoured guest. But he refuses all attendance save
that of the aged Eurycleia. She marks with wonder his likeness to her
absent master; but such resemblance, he assures her, has been noticed
frequently by others. As she bathes his feet, her eyes fall on a
well-remembered scar, left by a wound received from a boar’s tusk in his
youth while hunting on Mount Parnassus with his grandsire
Autolycus.[41] The old nurse doubts no longer. She lets the foot fall
heavily, and upsets the bath.
“Surely thou art Ulysses--yes, thou art--
My darling child, and I not knew my king
Till I had handled thee in every part!”
He puts his hand upon her throat, and forcibly checks her outcry; his
purpose is not to be known openly as yet, for he feels there are few,
even of his own household, whom he can trust. He charges her--even on
pain of death, much as he loves her--to keep his secret; then, refusing
all softer accommodation, he lies down in the vestibule on a couch of
bullhide, not sleeping, but nursing his wrath in a fever of
wakefulness.