Chapter II

It was past noon before Odysseus and Eumæus set out for the town; for Eumæus had conceived a great liking for his guest, and listened with delight to his wonderful tales of adventure. "Come," he said at last, when Odysseus had finished one of his long stories. "It is time to be going, though I would willingly have kept thee here. But my young lord has spoken and we must obey." "Lead on," said Odysseus, "I know what thou wouldst say; but first give me a staff to lean on, for I heard thee say that the path was rough."

So saying he threw his tattered wallet over his shoulder, and taking a stout staff, which Eumæus offered him, started with his friend across the hills. After a toilsome walk they reached the top of the hill which overlooked the town, and descending the slope they came to a copious spring of water, well fenced with stones, and shaded by a grove of alders. The water descended into a basin from the face of a rock in a cool and copious stream; and on either side stood an altar to the nymphs. "It is the common fountain of the townspeople," explained Eumæus. "The altars and the basin which receives the water are the work of our ancient kings."

Odysseus paused a moment, lost in the memories which were awakened by that familiar scene. But his reverie was rudely interrupted. While he stood gazing at the fountain, he heard a rude voice hailing them from the road, and looking round he saw a man leading a pair of fine goats towards the town. It was Melanthius, his own goatherd, who was bringing the best of his flock to make savoury meat for the wooers.

"Here are two birds of a feather!" shouted the fellow, in jeering tones--"that wretched swineherd, and a ravenous beggar. A fine guest thou art bringing to our young masters, and a fair welcome, without doubt, they will give him. Were it not better that I took him with me to my farm? He could sweep out the pens, and gather green shoots for the kids; and we would give him whey to drink, and put some flesh on these shrunk shanks[1] of his. But the lazy knave will do no work; he would rather rub his shoulders against every door-post, begging for broken meat. Broken bones will be his portion, if the wooers see him near the house of Odysseus."

[Footnote 1: "A world too wide for his shrunk shanks,"--Shakespeare: "As You Like It."]

While he uttered these taunts Melanthius had gradually come close to Odysseus, and with the last word he lifted up his foot and kicked him with all his force on the hip. Odysseus stood like a rock, and stirred not an inch from his ground; his first impulse was to seize the ruffian by the ankles, and dash out his brains on the road; but he checked himself with a great effort, and said not a word.

But Eumæus rebuked the goatherd, and invoked the vengeance of heaven against him. "Would that our noble master were here!" he cried, "he would soon make an end of thee, thou braggart! Unfaithful herdsman, that rovest ever about the town, leaving thy flock to underlings!"

"Go to, thou dog!" retorted Melanthius, with a savage laugh. "Wilt thou be ever harping on that string? Thy noble master is dust long ago, and I would that Telemachus were lying with him. As for thee, I will one day cast thee bound into a ship, and sell thee across the seas for a great price."

With that he left them, and stepped briskly out towards the house, while Odysseus and Eumæus followed more slowly. Presently they came to an extensive enclosure, standing conspicuously on a high level plateau overlooking the town. Behind the fence towered the roof of a great timber house. They passed through the outer gates, and as they entered the courtyard they heard the sounds of a harp, and the steam of roast flesh was borne to their nostrils.

"Take heed now," said Eumæus, lowering his voice, as they approached the door of the house. "I will go in first, and do thou follow me close, lest anyone find thee outside and do thee some hurt."

"Fear nothing for me," answered Odysseus, "I am no stranger to blows, for I have been sore buffeted on land and sea. The belly is a stern taskmaster, which compels us to face both wounds and death."

So saying he stepped aside to let Eumæus pass, then checked him with a hasty exclamation; for he had seen something which sent a pang of sorrow to his heart. Heaped up against the wall by the doorway was a great pile of refuse, left there until the thralls should carry it away and lay it on the fields; and there, grievously neglected, and almost blind with age, lay a great gaunt hound, to all seeming more dead than alive. What was the emotion of Odysseus when he recognised in that poor creature his old favourite, Argus, whom he had reared with his own hand, and trained to the chase, in the old days before he sailed to Troy! As he stooped down with a caressing gesture the hound feebly raised his head; a strange light came into his eyes, he drooped his ears, and wagged his tail, but was too weak to stir from the place where he lay. Odysseus brushed away a tear, and said to Eumæus: "'Tis strange that so fine a hound should lie thus uncared for in his old age. Or do his looks belie his qualities? Handsome he must have been, as I can see still; but perhaps his beauty was all he had to boast of."

"He was my master's favourite hound," answered Eumæus, "and there was none swifter or keener of scent in all the land. Formerly the young men would take him with them to hunt the wild goat or the hare or the deer; but now that he is sore stricken with years not one of the women will bring him a morsel to eat, or a little water to drink. So it ever is when the master is absent; for a slave has no conscience when his owner's eye is not upon him."

When Eumæus had entered the house, Odysseus lingered awhile, gazing sadly at the faithful Argus. The old hound raised himself, and struggled painfully to drag himself to his master's feet; but the effort was too much for him, and he sank back on his sorry bed, and breathed his last.

With a heavy heart Odysseus turned away, and passing into the hall sat down on the threshold and laid his scrip beside him. Telemachus was the first to notice him, and calling the swineherd, who was sitting near, he gave him a loaf of bread and a good handful of meat, and bade him carry it to the beggar. "And tell him to go round and beg of all the wooers," he said: "want and modesty agree ill together." Eumæus brought the gift and the message, which Odysseus received with a blessing on the giver. And when he had eaten he rose and went round the hall, begging of the wooers. All gave him something until he came to Antinous, who stared at him insolently and asked who he was.

"I saw the fellow," answered Melanthius, "a little while ago. Eumæus brought him hither, but who he is I know not."

"Ah! thou rogue," said Antinous to the swineherd, "we know thy ways! Why didst thou bring this caitiff to the town? Are there not beggars enough here already to mar our pleasure when we sit down to meat? 'Tis nought to thee, it seems, that these palmer-worms come swarming round the house to devour thy master's living."

"He is no guest of my inviting," answered Eumæus. "I would not invite to this house any wandering stranger, unless he were a prophet, or leech, or shipwright, or minstrel; and he is none of these. But thou art ever hard on the servants of Odysseus, and especially on me; yet I care not, so long as I satisfy Penelope and my young lord, Telemachus."

"Eumæus, thou art overbold of speech," said Telemachus; then turning to Antinous he added: "I thank thee for thy fatherly care, but we are not so poor that we need to drive the stranger from our doors--heaven forbid! Give him something; 'tis I that bid thee: but thou art ever better at taking than at giving."

"I will give him something, thou malapert boy," answered Antinous, grinding his teeth with rage, "something which will keep him from the house for three months to come." As he spoke he thrust forward a heavy footstool from under the table, and placed it ready at hand.

Meanwhile, Odysseus, having filled his wallet, was preparing to return to his place on the threshold. But first he came to Antinous, and addressed to him a long harangue in the common style of the professional beggar, who had seen better days and been brought to want by the malice of fortune. He concluded with a fragment of the story which he had already told to Eumæus.

Antinous heard him to the end with ill-disguised impatience, and then broke out in angry tones: "Who brought this wretched fellow here to vex us? Stand off from my table, thou shameless varlet! Egypt, sayest thou? I will send thee to Egypt, and with a vengeance, too! It is a shame to see how they have squandered good meat on a dog like thee"; and he pointed to the wallet, now filled with the cheap bounty of the wooers.

Odysseus drew back and made for the door, saying as he went: "Of a truth, I wonder to find so princely a presence wedded to so mean a temper."

When he heard that Antinous began to curse and to swear, and lifting the footstool he hurled it with all his force at the retreating figure of Odysseus. It struck him on the shoulder, with a crash that vibrated through the hall; but Odysseus heeded it not, but passed on without a pause or a stumble to his place on the threshold. When he was seated he complained loudly of the brutal conduct of Antinous. "Accursed be he," he said, "who lifts up his hand against a helpless beggar; may Heaven requite him for this foul deed!"

"Thou hadst best be quiet," said Antinous, "or we will drag thee by the heels through the hall, until we have stripped the flesh off thy bones."

But this was too much even for the wooers. "Antinous," said one of them, "it was ill done of thee to strike the hapless wanderer. Take heed that thou bring not a curse upon thyself, if there be gods in heaven to see such deeds. And what if a god should visit this house in some strange disguise, to make trial of our hearts? It were no new thing."

A chill seemed to have fallen on the company after this shameful incident. The wooers had ceased their clamour, and sat talking in low tones together; Odysseus and Telemachus sat silent in their places, brooding gloomily on the outrage; Antinous alone remained unmoved, being hardened, within and without, against all reproach.

When Penelope, who was sitting among her maidens in her chamber, heard how the stranger had been ill-treated, she cried: "So may Apollo smite thee, Antinous, thou godless man!" "Ay," said Eurycleia, "if prayers could slay them, not one of these men would see to-morrow's dawn."

"Go, one of you," said Penelope, "and bring hither the swineherd. I would fain speak with this stranger; who knows but he may have somewhat to tell me of Odysseus, my lord?" Eumæus was summoned, and having heard the desire of Penelope, he answered: "My queen, there is a rare pleasure awaiting thee. This man hath a tongue to charm thy very soul. Three days and nights he abode with me, and all that time he kept us spellbound by the tale of his adventures. It was as if we were listening to the lay of some rare minstrel, a god-gifted man, who sways all hearts as he will by the magic of his voice. And he brings sure tidings of Odysseus too, if we may believe what he says."

"Call him hither," answered Penelope, "that he may speak to me face to face. If his news be true, we may yet see the day when these men shall pay a heavy price for their plunder of our house."

As she spoke, a loud sneeze was heard in the room below. "It was my son," said Penelope, laughing, "I know it by the sound; and it is a sign that my words will be fulfilled. Make haste now, and bring the stranger to me."

Eumæus went, and presently returned with a message from the supposed beggar, to say that he feared fresh violence from the wooers, if he left his place by the door and passed through them again. The truth was that Odysseus feared recognition if he appeared before his wife in broad daylight; so he affected to complain of the indifference of Telemachus, who had allowed the savage deed of Antinous to go unpunished, and begged permission to wait until the evening, when the wooers would be gone home, and he could tell his story unmolested.

"He says well," answered Penelope, when she had heard the message. "And he seems to be a man of sense. We will wait until evening, as he desires."

The day was waning when Eumæus returned to the hall, and the wooers had already begun their evening pastimes. The swineherd went up to Telemachus, and said to him in a low tone: "It is time for me to return to my farm, that I may give an eye to the things which I have in charge. I leave thee to look to the house, and all that it contains; but above all be careful of thyself, for there are many here who wish thee ill."

The Beggar Irus

Just after Eumæus had left, a huge, ungainly fellow came slouching up to the place where Odysseus was sitting, and eyed him with a look of great disfavour. He was the town beggar, known far and wide in Ithaca as the greediest and laziest knave in the whole island. His real name was Arnæus, but from being employed to run errands about the place he had received the nickname of Irus. Highly indignant at finding his rights usurped by a new-comer, and thinking to find in that battered old man an easy victim, he began to rate his supposed rival in a big, blustering voice: "Give place, old man, to thy betters, and force me not to use my hands upon thee. Begone, and that quickly, or it shall be the worse for thee; out of the way, I say!"

With a stern look Odysseus answered him, and said: "What possesses thee, fellow, that thou seekest a quarrel with me? Thou art, as I perceive, a beggar like me, and I grudge thee not anything which thou mayest receive in the way of alms from those who sit here. There is room on this threshold for us both. But I warn thee not to provoke me to blows, for old as I am I will set a mark upon thee which thou wilt carry to thy death."

Trusting in his size, and encouraged by the nods and winks of the wooers who sat near, Irus was only too ready to take up the challenge. "Hark to the old starveling cur!" he shouted. "How glib of tongue he is, like any scolding hag! Get thee to thy fists then, since thou wilt have it so, and I will knock all thy teeth out, if thou hast any left"; and he thrust Odysseus with his foot.

All the wooers now came running up, and crowded round the exasperated beggars, hoping to see fine sport. Antinous took the lead, such a scene being exactly to his taste. "Here is matter for mirth," he cried, laughing, "for many a day. Make a ring quickly, and let them fight it out."

In the courtyard there was a red smouldering fire, on which two huge sausages were roasting, a sort of haggis made by filling the belly of a goat with fat and blood. It was determined to give one of these messes to the winner in the fight; and he also was henceforth to have the sole right to receive the broken meats at the wooers' feasts.

Odysseus now pretended to draw back, as if he feared an encounter with a man younger than himself; but at last he consented to the match, on condition that the wooers would swear an oath not to strike him a foul blow while he was fighting with Irus. To this they all agreed, and forthwith Odysseus stripped to the waist, and girded his rags about his loins. By some strange magic his limbs seemed to have filled out; and when the wooers saw his mighty chest and broad shoulders they cried out in amazement "Methinks Irus will pay dearly for his ire,"[1] said one. "Look what a brawny thigh the old carle shows under his rags!"

[Footnote 1: The pun is an attempt to reproduce a similar word-play in the original.]

Irus himself was not less astonished than dismayed, so that they were obliged to use force to make him face his opponent; and as he stood there quaking with fear Antinous reviled him bitterly, and threatened, if he were defeated, to carry him to the mainland, and hand him over to a robber chieftain, nicknamed the Mutilator, and notorious for his cruelties. "He will carve thee into collops and fling them to his dogs," said the ferocious prince.

Little encouraged, as may be supposed, this prospect, Irus in his despair aimed a blow at Odysseus, and struck him on the right shoulder. Then Odysseus, who had resolved to put forth but half his force, lest he should betray himself to the wooers, struck the wretched man under the ear. There was a crash of broken bones, and down went Irus in the dust, spitting blood, and beating the ground with his heels. The wooers hailed his fall with shouts of laughter, and Odysseus, seizing the prostrate beggar by the foot, dragged him through the courtyard gate, and propped him against the wall. "Sit there," he said, placing his staff in his hand, "and keep off dogs and swine. Methinks thou hast had enough of playing the tyrant among strangers and beggars."

When he returned to his place on the threshold he found the wooers in high good humour at the defeat of Irus. "May heaven fulfil all thy heart's desire!" cried one who sat near, "seeing that thou hast rid us of that hungry, brawling rogue." His words had a meaning which he little guessed, and Odysseus rejoiced when he heard them. Then Antinous brought the pudding, all steaming from the fire, and set it by him; and Amphinomus gave him two loaves, and filled a cup with wine. "Hail, old friend!" he said, offering the cup, "and mayest thou live to see happier days."

This Amphinomus differed in character from the other suitors, being a prudent and fair-minded man. Odysseus knew him and his father well, and being willing to save him, if possible, he looked earnestly at him, and said: "Amphinomus, thou seemest to be a man of understanding, and therefore I will give thee a word of warning. Hark, in thine ear! Quit this company at once! The day of doom is very near to them all, and I would not that thou shouldst perish with them."

These words, spoken in a low and solemn tone, so that none besides might hear, sent a chill to the heart of Amphinomus. Slowly and sadly he went back to his seat, his mind full of dark foreboding. Nevertheless, he did not profit by the warning; for he had thrown in his lot with that guilty band, and had to drink of the same cup.

Penelope and the Wooers