Prevod
Meanwhile noble Odysseus lay down to sleep in the entrance hall. He spread an untanned oxhide beneath him and laid over it many fleeces of sheep the Achaeans had slaughtered. When he had lain down, Eurynome threw a cloak over him.
There Odysseus lay awake, brooding in his heart on the suitors’ destruction. Out of the hall came the women who had long been sleeping with the suitors, laughing and making merry with one another.
His spirit seethed within his breast. He pondered deeply in his mind and heart whether to spring after them and kill them, every one, or let them lie with the arrogant suitors one last, final time. His heart barked within him.
As a bitch standing over her tender puppies barks at a stranger and longs to fight, so his heart barked within him in outrage at their wicked deeds. He struck his breast and rebuked his heart: “Endure, my heart. You once endured something even more shameful.
“That was the day when the Cyclops, irresistible in his strength, devoured my brave companions. You endured until cunning brought you out of the cave, though you thought you were going to die.” So he spoke, chiding the heart within his breast, and his heart remained steadfast and obedient, enduring without respite. But he himself tossed from side to side.
As a man turns a stomach stuffed with fat and blood this way and that before a blazing fire, eager to have it roast quickly, so he tossed from side to side, pondering how he could lay hands on the shameless suitors, one man against so many. Then Athena came near him, descending from heaven in the likeness of a woman. She stood above his head and spoke: “Why are you still awake, most wretched of all men?
“This is your house, and here in the house are your wife and your son—a son such as any man might wish to have.” Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Yes, goddess, all you say is true. But my heart keeps pondering this: how can I lay hands on the shameless suitors, alone as I am, while they are always gathered together inside?
“And another, greater concern weighs on my mind. Even if I kill them through your will and Zeus’s, where could I escape afterward? I ask you to consider that.” Bright-eyed Athena answered him: “Stubborn man! Others put their trust in far weaker companions, mortals who know far less of cunning. But I am a goddess, and I watch over you continually through all your trials. I tell you plainly: even if fifty companies of mortal men surrounded us, eager to kill us in battle, you would still drive off their cattle and sturdy sheep.
“Now let sleep take you. It is wearisome to keep watch awake all night, and soon you will emerge from your troubles.” So she spoke and poured sleep over his eyelids. Then the goddess returned to Olympus.
As sleep that loosens the limbs took hold of him, easing the cares of his heart, his faithful wife awoke. Sitting up in her soft bed, she wept.
When she had wept to her heart’s content, that noble woman first prayed to Artemis: “Artemis, sovereign goddess, daughter of Zeus, if only you would strike an arrow into my breast and take my life this very moment! Or let a storm wind snatch me up and carry me away along the misty paths, to cast me into the mouth of backward-flowing Ocean.
“So the storm winds once carried off the daughters of Pandareus. The gods had killed their parents, leaving them orphaned in their house, and divine Aphrodite nurtured them with cheese, sweet honey, and pleasant wine. Hera gave them beauty and wisdom beyond all other women; chaste Artemis gave them stature, and Athena taught them glorious handiwork.
“But when divine Aphrodite went up to high Olympus to ask for the girls the fulfillment of a happy marriage—from Zeus who delights in thunder, for he knows all things, the good and ill fortune of mortal men—meanwhile the Harpies snatched the maidens away and gave them to the hateful Furies to serve them. So may the gods who dwell on Olympus make me vanish, or lovely-haired Artemis strike me down, so that I may go beneath the hateful earth with Odysseus still before my eyes, and never gladden the heart of a lesser man.
“Sorrow can still be borne when a person weeps by day, with a heart weighed down by grief, but sleep holds them through the night—for sleep brings forgetfulness of everything, good and evil alike, once it covers the eyelids. But on me a god sends even evil dreams.
“This very night someone lay beside me, his very likeness, just as he was when he went away with the army. My heart rejoiced, for I thought it no dream, but the truth at last.”
So she spoke, and at once Dawn of the golden throne appeared. Noble Odysseus heard her voice as she wept. He pondered, and it seemed to him that she had already recognized him and was standing beside his head.
Gathering up the cloak and fleeces on which he had slept, he laid them on a chair in the hall, then carried the oxhide outside. Raising his hands, he prayed to Zeus: “Father Zeus, if by your will you gods have brought me over land and sea to my own country, after afflicting me so cruelly, let someone among those waking within the house speak a word of omen for me, and outside let another sign from Zeus appear.”
So he prayed, and Zeus the wise heard him. At once he thundered from shining Olympus, high above the clouds, and noble Odysseus rejoiced. Then a woman grinding grain spoke a word of omen from a building nearby, where the mills of the shepherd of the people stood. Twelve women in all worked at them, making barley meal and wheat flour, the marrow of men.
The others were asleep, having ground their wheat, but one had not yet finished, the weakest of them all. She stopped her mill and spoke, a sign for her master: “Father Zeus, ruler of gods and men, how loudly you have thundered from the starry sky, though there is not a cloud anywhere! Surely this is a sign you are showing someone.
“Grant also to poor me the wish I am about to speak. May this be the last, the very last day the suitors enjoy their feast in Odysseus’s halls! They have worn out my knees with the heart-breaking toil of grinding their meal. May they dine here for the last time!”
So she spoke, and noble Odysseus rejoiced at the omen of her words and at Zeus’s thunder. Now, he thought, he would punish the guilty. Meanwhile the other serving women gathered through Odysseus’s beautiful house and kindled the tireless fire on the hearth.
Telemachus rose from bed, a man like a god, and dressed. He slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, bound fine sandals beneath his shining feet, and took a sturdy spear tipped with sharp bronze. Going to the threshold, he stood there and said to Eurycleia: “Dear nurse, have you treated our guest honorably in the house, with a bed and food, or does he lie there neglected?
“That is my mother’s way, wise though she is. On a whim she honors one man, though he is inferior, and sends a better man away without respect.” Thoughtful Eurycleia answered him: “Child, you should not blame her when she is blameless.
“He sat and drank wine for as long as he wished, but said he had no more appetite for food—she did ask him. When he began to think of bed and sleep, she told the maids to spread bedding for him. But he, like some utterly wretched and luckless man, would not sleep in a bed beneath blankets. He lay down in the entrance hall on an untanned oxhide and sheepskins, and we put a cloak over him.”
So she spoke, and Telemachus went out through the hall, spear in hand, with two swift dogs following him. He made his way to the assembly of the well-greaved Achaeans. Then Eurycleia, that noble woman, daughter of Ops, son of Peisenor, called to the maids: “Come now, some of you hurry and sweep the house, sprinkle the floor, and spread purple rugs over the well-made chairs. Others, sponge down all the tables and wash the mixing bowls and the double-handled cups. The rest of you go to the spring for water, and be quick to bring it back.
“The suitors will not stay away from the hall for long. They will return very early, since today is a festival for everyone.” So she spoke, and they listened and obeyed. Twenty went to the dark-watered spring, while the others busied themselves skillfully about the house.
The Achaeans’ menservants came in and split wood deftly and well. The women returned from the spring, and after them came the swineherd, bringing three fat hogs, the best of all his stock.
He left them to feed within the handsome enclosure, then spoke gently to Odysseus: “Stranger, do the Achaeans show you any more regard now, or do they still dishonor you in the hall as before?”
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Eumaeus, if only the gods would avenge the insults these men devise in their arrogance and wickedness, here in another man’s house! They have not a shred of shame.”
While they were speaking together, Melanthius the goatherd came up, driving goats, the finest in all his flocks, to make the suitors’ dinner. Two herdsmen followed with him.
He tethered the goats beneath the echoing portico, then addressed Odysseus with taunts: “Stranger, are you still here, plaguing the men in the house with your begging? Will you not get out?
“I doubt the two of us will part before you have tasted my fists, for your begging is beyond all bounds. There are other Achaean feasts.” So he spoke, but resourceful Odysseus said nothing. In silence he shook his head, brooding on vengeance.
A third man now joined them, Philoetius, a leader of men, bringing a barren cow and fat goats for the suitors. Ferrymen had brought them across, men who carried anyone who came to them.
He tethered the animals securely beneath the echoing portico, then stood beside the swineherd and asked: “Who is this stranger newly come to our house, swineherd? What people does he claim as his own? Where are his family and his native land?
“Poor man! In build he looks like a royal lord. But the gods bring misery on wandering men, when they spin a thread of sorrow even for kings.” With that he approached Odysseus and clasped his right hand, speaking these winged words: “Greetings, old friend. May good fortune be yours hereafter, though now you are beset by many troubles.
“Father Zeus, no other god is more destructive than you. You have no pity on men, though you yourself bring them into the world, but plunge them into misery and grievous pain. I broke into a sweat at the sight of you, and my eyes filled with tears as I remembered Odysseus. I think he too must be wandering among men in rags like these, if he is still alive somewhere and sees the sunlight.
“But if he is dead already and in the house of Hades, then alas for noble Odysseus! He put me in charge of his cattle in the land of the Cephallenians when I was still a boy. Now they have grown beyond counting: no man could have seen his broad-browed cattle multiply more richly. Yet other men order me to bring them here for their own food. They care nothing for the son in his own house, nor do they tremble at the gods’ vengeance. Already they are eager to divide the possessions of their long-absent lord.
“And this thought keeps turning in my heart: it would be wrong, while his son still lives, to take the cattle and go away to a foreign country, among strangers. Yet it is worse to stay here tending cattle that others have seized, and suffer misery.
“I would long ago have fled to some other mighty king, for things have grown unbearable. But I still hope that unhappy man may come back from somewhere and scatter the suitors through his house.”
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Herdsman, since you seem neither a wicked nor a foolish man, and I can see for myself that you have a thoughtful mind, I will tell you this and swear a solemn oath upon it. Let Zeus be my first witness among the gods, and this table of hospitality, and the hearth of noble Odysseus to which I have come: while you are still here, Odysseus will return home. You will see with your own eyes, if you wish, the killing of the suitors who lord it here.”
The herdsman answered him: “Stranger, if only the son of Cronus would fulfill your words! Then you would learn what strength I have, and how my hands obey it.” In the same way Eumaeus prayed to all the gods that wise Odysseus might return to his own home.
While they were speaking together, the suitors were plotting death and doom for Telemachus. But a bird came on their left, a high-flying eagle carrying a trembling dove.
Amphinomus addressed them: “Friends, this plan of ours will not succeed—the murder of Telemachus. Let us think of our feast instead.” So Amphinomus spoke, and his words pleased them.
They entered noble Odysseus’s house and laid their cloaks on chairs and seats. They slaughtered great sheep and fat goats, slaughtered fat hogs and a cow from the herd. They roasted the innards and shared them out, and mixed wine in the bowls. The swineherd distributed the cups.
Philoetius, a leader of men, served them bread in handsome baskets, and Melanthius poured the wine. They reached for the good food set before them.
Telemachus, carefully laying his plans, seated Odysseus inside the solidly built hall beside the stone threshold, setting down a shabby stool and a little table for him. He placed portions of the innards beside him and poured wine into a golden cup, then said: “Sit here now and drink your wine among the men. I myself will keep all the suitors’ insults and blows away from you, for this is no public house. It belongs to Odysseus, and he acquired it for me.
“And you, suitors, restrain your urge to abuse and strike, so that no quarrel or strife may arise.” So he spoke, and they all bit their lips, astonished that Telemachus should speak so boldly.
Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, addressed them: “Achaeans, let us accept Telemachus’s words, harsh though they are. He speaks with formidable threats. Zeus, son of Cronus, would not allow it—otherwise we would already have silenced him in these halls, clear-voiced speaker though he is.”
So Antinous spoke, but Telemachus paid no heed to his words. Meanwhile heralds were leading the gods’ sacred hecatomb through the town, and the long-haired Achaeans gathered beneath the shady grove of Apollo the far-shooter.
When the suitors had roasted the outer cuts of meat and drawn them off the spits, they divided the portions and enjoyed their splendid feast. The servers set beside Odysseus a portion equal to their own, as Telemachus, the dear son of noble Odysseus, had ordered.
But Athena would not let the overbearing suitors refrain altogether from heart-wounding insults, so that anguish might sink still deeper into the heart of Odysseus, son of Laertes. Among the suitors was a lawless man named Ctesippus, whose home was on Same. Trusting in his immense wealth, he courted the wife of Odysseus, who had been away so long.
Now he spoke among the arrogant suitors: “Listen to me, proud suitors, while I say something. The stranger has long since received an equal portion, as is proper. It is neither right nor fitting to deprive any guest of Telemachus who comes to this house.
“Come, let me too give him a guest-gift, so that he in turn may give a present to the bath attendant or to some other servant in noble Odysseus’s house.” With that, in his heavy hand he hurled an ox’s hoof,
taking it from a basket where it lay. Odysseus easily dodged it by tilting his head aside, and smiled a bitter, scornful smile. The hoof struck the well-built wall. Then Telemachus rebuked Ctesippus: “Ctesippus, it is better for you that you did not hit the stranger. He dodged the missile himself.
“Otherwise I would have driven my sharp spear through your middle, and instead of arranging your wedding, your father would have been busy with your burial here. So let no one commit outrages in my house. By now I understand and know what is good and what is bad. Before, I was still a child.
“Yet we have endured the sight of all this—our sheep slaughtered, our wine drunk, our bread consumed. It is hard for one man to hold back so many. But come, do me no more harm in your malice. If you are determined to kill me with the sword, I would welcome it. It would be far better to die than forever watch these shameful deeds: guests manhandled, and serving women dragged about disgracefully through this beautiful house.”
So he spoke, and they all fell silent. At last Agelaus, son of Damastor, spoke among them: “Friends, no one should take offense at what has been justly said and answer with abusive words. Do not mistreat the stranger, or any of the servants in noble Odysseus’s house.
“But I would offer Telemachus and his mother a gentle word of counsel, if it might please them both. As long as your hearts still hoped that wise Odysseus would return to this house, no one could blame you for waiting and keeping the suitors here. That was the better course, if Odysseus was to return and come home again. But now it is clear that he will never return.
“Come, sit beside your mother and tell her to marry the best man, the one who offers the most. Then you can enjoy all your father’s estate, eating and drinking in peace, while she tends another man’s house.”
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “No, Agelaus, by Zeus and by the sufferings of my father, who somewhere far from Ithaca has either died or wanders still, I am not delaying my mother’s marriage. I urge her to marry whom she wishes, and offer her countless gifts besides.
“But I shrink from driving her unwilling from the house with a harsh command. May no god ever bring that about!” So Telemachus spoke. But Pallas Athena roused unquenchable laughter in the suitors and drove their minds astray.
Now they laughed with jaws that seemed no longer their own, and the meat they ate was spattered with blood. Their eyes filled with tears, and their hearts sensed lamentation. Then godlike Theoclymenus spoke among them: “Ah, wretched men, what is this evil you are suffering? Night shrouds your heads, your faces, and your knees below.
“Wailing blazes up, and tears run down your cheeks. The walls and handsome roof-beams are splashed with blood. The porch is full of ghosts, and the courtyard too, rushing toward Erebus beneath the darkness. The sun has vanished from the sky, and an evil mist has spread over all.”
So he spoke, and they all laughed merrily at him. Eurymachus, son of Polybus, addressed them: “This stranger newly come from abroad has lost his mind.
“Quick, young men, escort him out of the house to the marketplace, since he thinks it is night in here.” Godlike Theoclymenus answered him: “Eurymachus, I do not ask you to provide me with escorts. I have eyes and ears and both my feet, and a mind in my breast that is by no means feeble.
“With these I shall go outside, for I see evil coming upon you, which none of you suitors will escape or avoid—you who insult men and devise wickedness in the house of godlike Odysseus.”
With that he left the well-appointed house and went to Peiraeus, who received him gladly. But the suitors looked at one another and taunted Telemachus, laughing at his guests. One of the swaggering young men would say: “Telemachus, no one has worse luck with guests than you. Look at this man you keep, a greedy vagabond, always wanting bread and wine, with no skill at work and no strength—a useless burden on the earth.
“And now this other fellow gets up to play the prophet! If you would take my advice, it would be far better: let us put these strangers aboard a many-oared ship and send them to the Sicels. They would fetch you a good price there.”
So the suitors spoke, but he paid no heed to their words. In silence he watched his father, always waiting for the moment when he would lay hands on the shameless suitors. Meanwhile thoughtful Penelope, daughter of Icarius, had set her beautiful chair opposite them and listened to every man’s words in the hall.
Laughing, they had prepared themselves a dinner, pleasant and satisfying, for they had slaughtered many beasts. But no supper could be less welcome than the one a goddess and a mighty man were soon to set before them. For they had been the first to devise shameful deeds.
