Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Then the goddess Athena, bright-eyed, put it into the mind of Penelope, wise daughter of Icarius, to set out the bow and the gray iron axeheads before the suitors, in Odysseus's own hall, to be both a contest and the start of their killing. She climbed the steep stairway of her house and took in her strong hand a curved bronze key, finely made, with a handle of ivory, and went with her waiting-women to the farthest storeroom, where the treasures of her lord lay heaped, bronze and gold and hard-worked iron. There too lay the great curved bow and the quiver full of groaning arrows, gifts a guest-friend had given Odysseus long ago in Lacedaemon when they met — Iphitus, son of Eurytus, a man who looked like a god.
The two of them had come together in Messene, in the house of wise Ortilochus. Odysseus had gone there to collect a debt the whole district owed him, for men of Messene had lifted flocks from Ithaca, three hundred head, driving them off in their benched ships along with their herdsmen. For their sake Odysseus, still only a boy, had made that long journey as an envoy, sent out by his father and the other elders. Iphitus, for his part, was hunting horses he had lost — twelve mares in foal, with sturdy mules running beside them. Those very horses would later be his death and his doom, for when he came to the house of Heracles, Zeus's iron-hearted son, that man who knew great deeds, killed him though he was a guest under his own roof — a brutal act, with no fear of the gods' anger and no regard for the table he himself had set before him. He killed him, and afterward kept the strong-hoofed horses for himself in his halls.
It was while searching for these horses that Iphitus had met Odysseus, and he gave him the bow which great Eurytus had once carried and which, dying, he left to his son in his high house. In return Odysseus gave him a sharp sword and a sturdy spear, the beginning of a warm friendship between them — though they never came to know each other over a shared table, for before that could happen the son of Zeus killed Iphitus, son of Eurytus, that man who looked like a god, the very one who had given him the bow. Odysseus never carried that bow with him when he went to war in his black ships; he kept it at home as a memorial of his dear friend, and only bore it within his own land.
Now, when Penelope in her divinity reached that storeroom and stepped up onto the oak threshold — which a carpenter long ago had planed with skill and trued to the line, setting the doorposts into it and hanging the shining doors — she quickly loosed the strap from its hook, thrust in the key, and shot back the bolts, aiming straight. The doors groaned as loud as a bull bellowing at pasture in a meadow — so loudly did the fine doors groan when struck by the key, and they swung open before her at once.
She stepped up onto the raised platform where the chests stood, each one holding sweet-smelling clothes. Reaching up from there she took the bow down from its peg, case and all, in its shining cover. Then she sat down right there, laid the case across her knees, and wept aloud as she drew the bow of her lord out of it. When she had had her fill of tearful weeping, she went on into the hall to the proud suitors, carrying in her hand the great curved bow and the quiver full of groaning arrows. Her waiting-women carried along with her a chest holding the iron and bronze, the prizes of that lord's contest.
When she, shining among women, reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar of the well-built roof, holding a shimmering veil before her cheeks, with a trusted attendant standing on either side of her. At once she spoke out to the suitors, saying:
"Listen to me, you overbearing suitors, who have descended on this house to eat and drink without end, day after day, while its master has been gone so long — you could find no other excuse to offer than this, that you are burning to marry me and make me your wife. Come then, suitors, since here is your contest set before you. I will set out the great bow of godlike Odysseus, and whichever of you strings it most easily in his hands and shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes, with that man I will go, leaving behind this house where I was a bride, this very beautiful house, so full of the good life — one I think I will remember, even in my dreams, forever after."
So she spoke, and told Eumaeus, the noble swineherd, to set the bow and the gray axeheads before the suitors. Eumaeus took them with tears in his eyes and set them down; and the cowherd, on the other side, wept too when he saw the bow of his master. Antinous rebuked them both, calling out:
"Fools, you country oafs, who think only of the day at hand — why are you two shedding tears, stirring up grief in her heart, when it already lies heavy enough with sorrow, now that she has lost her husband? Sit quietly and eat, or else go outside to cry, and leave the bow right here — a grim contest for us suitors, for I do not think this polished bow will be strung easily. There is no man among us all like the man Odysseus was. I saw him myself once — I remember it well, though I was only a small child then."
So he spoke, but in his heart he hoped he would be the one to string the bowcord and shoot the arrow through the iron. Yet he was to be the very first to taste an arrow from the hands of blameless Odysseus — the man he now dishonored as he sat in his hall, and whom he was even now urging his companions on against. Then the strong figure of Telemachus spoke among them:
"Well now, truly Zeus, son of Cronus, has made me a fool. My own dear mother, wise as she is, says she will go off with another man and leave this house behind — and here I am laughing, delighting in my own foolish heart. Come then, suitors, since here is your contest set before you, a woman the like of whom does not exist now anywhere in Achaea, not in holy Pylos, not in Argos, not in Mycenae, not even here in Ithaca or on the dark mainland — and you all know this as well as I do; what need have I to praise my own mother? Come, do not put this off with excuses, do not hold back any longer from stringing the bow — let us see what will happen. I myself would like to try my hand at this bow. If I string it and shoot the arrow through the iron, then my honored mother would not grieve me by leaving this house with another man, since I would then be left behind quite able to carry off my father's fine prizes of contest."
With that he sprang up, threw the purple cloak from his shoulders, and set aside the sharp sword that hung there too. First he dug a single long trench for all the axes, set them upright in a line, trued them to the cord, and stamped the earth firm around them; and everyone who watched was amazed at how neatly he set them up, since none had ever seen it done before. Then he went and stood on the threshold and tried the bow. Three times he made it quiver, straining to draw it, and three times he had to let the effort go, though in his heart he still hoped to string the cord and shoot the arrow through the iron. And he would have strung it on the fourth pull, straining with all his strength, but Odysseus shook his head at him and held him back, eager as he was. Then the strong figure of Telemachus spoke again among them:
"Well, it seems I am fated to stay weak and useless forever — or else I am simply too young yet, and cannot trust my hands to fight off a man who turns hostile first. But come, you who are stronger than I am, try your hand at this bow, and let us bring the contest to its end."
So saying he set the bow down on the ground, leaning it against the smooth, close-fitted doors, and rested the swift arrow against its fine curved tip, then went back and sat down on the chair he had risen from. Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke to them then:
"Rise in turn, my friends, all of you moving from left to right, starting from the place where the wine is poured."
So spoke Antinous, and his words pleased them all. Leiodes rose first, son of Oenops, who served them as their seer and always sat farthest back by the fine mixing bowl; he alone despised their wanton ways, and was angered by all the suitors' conduct. He was the first now to take up the bow and the swift arrow. He went and stood on the threshold and tried the bow, but he could not string it — his hands grew tired straining at it, hands soft and unused to work — and he said to the suitors:
"Friends, I cannot string it; let another take it up. This bow will rob many of our best men here of life and spirit, since it is far better to die than to go on living and fail to win what we have gathered here for, day after day, always hoping. Even now there is someone here who still expects and longs in his heart to marry Penelope, wife of Odysseus. But once he has tried the bow and seen for himself, let him then go seeking some other well-dressed woman of Achaea with gifts of courtship, and let her marry whoever offers the most and comes as fate decrees."
So he spoke, and set the bow down, leaning it against the smooth, close-fitted doors, and rested the swift arrow against its fine curved tip, then went back and sat down on the chair he had risen from. Antinous rebuked him, calling out:
"Leiodes, what a word has slipped past the fence of your teeth — a terrible, ugly word, and I am angry just hearing it — if this bow really is going to rob our best men of life and spirit, just because you cannot string it. Your honored mother did not bear you to be the sort of man to handle a bow and arrows. But other proud suitors will string it soon enough."
So he spoke, and called out to Melanthius, the goatherd:
"Quick now, Melanthius, light a fire in the hall, and set a big stool beside it with a fleece on it, and bring out a great round cake of fat from what is stored inside, so that we younger men can warm the bow, greasing it well, and try it again, and bring this contest to its end."
So he spoke, and Melanthius quickly kindled a steady fire, brought up a stool and set a fleece on it, and brought out a great round cake of fat from what was stored inside. The young men warmed the bow and tried it, but they could not string it — they fell far too short in strength. Antinous still held back from trying, and so did godlike Eurymachus, the leaders of the suitors, by far the best of them all in standing.
Meanwhile the two of them, the cowherd and the swineherd of godlike Odysseus, went out from the hall together, and Odysseus himself went out after them, out of the house. When they were outside the doors and the courtyard, he spoke to them with gentle words:
"Cowherd, and you too, swineherd — should I speak a certain thing, or keep it hidden? My heart tells me to speak it out. What kind of men would you be, to stand by Odysseus, if somehow he came from somewhere, just like this, suddenly, and some god brought him here? Would you stand by the suitors, or by Odysseus? Tell me exactly what your hearts and minds tell you to do."
Then the herdsman of the cattle answered him:
"Father Zeus, if only you would bring that wish to pass — that the man might come, and some god might lead him here! Then you would see what strength is in me, and what my hands can do."
And Eumaeus prayed in the same way to all the gods, that wise Odysseus might come home again to his own house. When Odysseus had learned the true feeling in both their hearts, he spoke to them again, answering:
"He is here already — I myself, home at last, after great suffering, in the twentieth year, come back to my own native land. I see that of all my servants, only you two have longed for my return; from none of the others have I heard a prayer for me to come home again. So to you both I will tell plainly how things will be. If a god brings the proud suitors down under my hand, I will find wives for each of you and give you property, and houses built close by my own, and from then on you will be companions and brothers to Telemachus in my eyes. But look — I will show you another clear sign, so that you may know me well and trust me in your hearts — this scar, where a boar's white tusk once gashed me, when I went to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus."
With these words he pulled the rags back from the great scar. When the two of them had seen it and understood every part of it, they wept, throwing their arms around wise Odysseus, and kissed his head and shoulders in their joy, and Odysseus in turn kissed their heads and hands. And the light of the sun would have gone down on their weeping, if Odysseus himself had not checked them, saying:
"Stop this weeping and wailing now, or someone may come out of the hall and see us, and go tell what is happening inside. Go in one at a time, not all together — I first, then you after me. And let this be the sign between us: all the rest, all the proud suitors, will refuse to let the bow and quiver be given to me. But you, noble Eumaeus, carry the bow through the hall and put it into my hands, and tell the women to bar the close-fitted doors of the hall, and if any of them hears groaning or the crash of men inside our walls, tell them not to rush out but to stay right where they are, quietly, at their work. And to you, noble Philoetius, I give this charge — bar the courtyard gate with its bolt, and quickly lash it fast."
With these words he went back into the well-built house and sat down again on the chair from which he had risen; and the two servants of godlike Odysseus went in after him.
By now Eurymachus was turning the bow in his hands, warming it this way and that at the fire's blaze, but even so he could not string it, and his proud heart groaned within him. Deeply troubled, he spoke out, saying:
"What shame — grief for myself, and grief for all of us. It is not so much the marriage I mourn, sore as that is — there are plenty of other Achaean women, some here in sea-girt Ithaca itself, others in other cities. What grieves me is that we should fall so far short in strength of godlike Odysseus, that we cannot even string his bow. It will be a disgrace for men yet to come to hear of."
Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him:
"Eurymachus, it will not be so — you know that yourself. Today is the sacred festival of the god, kept throughout the district; who would go stringing bows on a day like this? Let it rest quietly. As for the axes, let us leave them all standing where they are — I do not think anyone will come into the hall of Odysseus, son of Laertes, and carry them off. Come, let the wine-steward pour a first round for us all, so that after we have poured libation we may set the curved bow aside. In the morning tell Melanthius the goatherd to bring in goats, the very best from all his herds, so that we may lay their thighs on the fire for Apollo, the archer-god of fame, and then try the bow again and bring this contest to its end."
So spoke Antinous, and his words pleased them all. Then the heralds poured water over their hands, and young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine, and served it round to everyone, pouring first a portion for libation. When they had poured their offering and drunk as much as their hearts desired, resourceful Odysseus spoke among them, his mind working toward his own ends:
"Hear me, suitors of the far-famed queen, and let me say what my heart within me urges. I appeal above all to Eurymachus and godlike Antinous, since he spoke rightly just now, when he said to set the bow aside for today and leave the outcome to the gods — in the morning a god will give the strength to whomever he wishes. But come, give the polished bow to me, so that among you I may test the strength left in my hands, and see whether I still have the power I once had in these supple limbs, or whether wandering and neglect have already worn it away."
At this they all grew violently angry, afraid that he might actually string the polished bow. Antinous rebuked him, calling out:
"You wretched stranger, you have not even a grain of sense left in you. Are you not content to feast at ease among us, your betters, missing nothing of the meal, and even to listen in on our talk and our conversation — something no other beggar or stranger is allowed to do? It is the sweet wine that is doing you harm, wine that ruins other men too, whoever gulps it down and does not drink in moderation. Wine was what maddened the Centaur, famous Eurytion, in the hall of great-hearted Pirithous, when he came among the Lapiths; once wine had crazed his wits, he went wild and did terrible harm throughout the house of Pirithous. Grief seized the heroes there, and they sprang up and dragged him out through the doorway into the courtyard, hacking off his ears and nose with pitiless bronze —"
and sawing off his nose. Wrecked in his own wits, he went off dragging his ruin along with a mind gone blind. That was the start of the feud between Centaurs and men, but the Centaur himself, heavy with wine, found the trouble first. So I tell you plainly what disaster you are courting if you string that bow: you will find no kindness among our people here. We will pack you off at once in a black ship to King Echetus, the maimer of every man alive, and from there you will never come home safe. So drink your wine quietly and don't pick fights with men younger than you."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "Antinous, it isn't right, and it isn't fair, to mistreat any guest of Telemachus who comes to this house. Do you really imagine that if this stranger strings Odysseus's great bow, trusting to his hands and his strength, he'll take me home and make me his wife? He himself, I'm sure, hopes nothing of the kind. So none of you should sit here at dinner brooding over that — it wouldn't be fitting at all."
Eurymachus, son of Polybus, spoke up to her: "Daughter of Icarius, thoughtful Penelope, we don't imagine he'll take you home — that wouldn't be fitting either — but we're ashamed of what men and women might say, some lesser man among the Achaeans saying, 'Far weaker men are courting the wife of a great man, and can't even string his polished bow, while some wandering beggar came along and strung it easily and shot the arrow clean through the iron.' That's what people would say, and it would shame us."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "Eurymachus, there's no way men who eat up and dishonor the house of the finest of men can keep a good name in the district. Why treat this as a matter of shame? This stranger is tall and well built, and he claims to be the son of a noble father. Come, give him the polished bow and let's see. I'll declare this now, and it will be carried out: if he strings it, and Apollo grants him the glory, I'll dress him in a cloak and a tunic, fine clothes, and give him a sharp javelin to guard him against dogs and men, and a two-edged sword, and sandals for his feet, and send him wherever his heart and spirit tell him to go."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her in turn: "Mother, over the bow no man of the Achaeans has more right than I do, to give it or refuse it, to whoever I please — not one of those who rule rocky Ithaca, nor any of those toward Elis, land of grazing horses. None of them will force me against my will, even if I choose to give this stranger the bow outright to carry off. Go back into the house now and see to your own work, the loom and the spindle, and tell your maids to get on with their tasks. The bow will be men's business, mine most of all — I am master of this house."
She went back to her room amazed, taking her son's firm words to heart. She climbed to the upper chamber with her maids and wept there for Odysseus, her dear husband, until grey-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep over her eyes.
Meanwhile the loyal swineherd took up the curved bow and carried it forward. The suitors all began jeering at him in the hall, and one of the arrogant young men would call out, "Where are you taking that curved bow, you miserable swineherd, you wanderer? Soon the swift dogs you've raised will eat you alive out among your own pigs, far from other men — if Apollo and the rest of the gods are kind to us."
So they jeered, and he set the bow down again right where he stood, frightened, since so many were shouting at him in the hall. But Telemachus called out a threat from the other side: "Old man, bring the bow on — you won't please everyone by obeying them all. Careful, or I'll chase you back to the fields with stones, young as I am, though I'm the stronger man. If only I were as much stronger in hand and strength than all these suitors crowding the house, I'd soon send more than one of them home sick to their stomachs, for the trouble they're plotting against us."
So he spoke, and all the suitors burst out laughing at him, and their hard anger toward Telemachus eased. The swineherd carried the bow on through the hall and set it in the hands of wise Odysseus. Then he called old Eurycleia aside and said to her, "Telemachus orders you, thoughtful Eurycleia, to bolt the doors of the hall, the close-fitted doors. If anyone hears groaning or a crash from the men inside our walls, tell them not to come rushing out, but to stay quietly at their work."
So he said, and his word went unquestioned. She bolted the doors of the well-built hall. And Philoetius slipped out of the house in silence and barred the gate of the strong-walled courtyard. A ship's cable of papyrus fiber lay under the portico of a curved vessel, and with this he lashed the gate shut, then went back in himself and sat down on the stool he had risen from, watching Odysseus.
By now Odysseus was turning the bow over in his hands, testing it this way and that, checking that worms had not eaten the horn while its master was away. And men would glance at their neighbor and say, "Look at him, a real connoisseur and pilferer of bows — either he has one like it lying at home himself, or he means to make one, the way he keeps turning it over in his hands, that vagabond, well versed in mischief."
And another of the arrogant young men would say, "May he have just as much luck at anything else as he'll ever have stringing that bow!"
So the suitors talked. But cunning Odysseus, once he had lifted the great bow and studied it all over — the way a man skilled with the lyre and with song easily stretches a new string around a peg, tying the twisted gut-cord at both ends — just so, without any strain, Odysseus strung the great bow. Then he took it in his right hand and tested the string, and it sang out sweetly under his touch, with a note like a swallow's cry. Grief hit the suitors hard, and the color drained from every face. Then Zeus thundered loud, sending a sign, and long-suffering Odysseus felt joy at this, that the son of crooked-minded Cronus had sent him an omen.
He picked up a swift arrow that lay bare on the table beside him — the rest lay hidden in the hollow quiver, the ones the Achaeans were soon to test. He set it against the bridge of the bow, drew the string and notched feathers back together, still sitting there on his stool, and let the arrow fly straight ahead. He did not miss a single axe-head from the first, and the bronze-heavy arrow passed clean through and out the far side. Then he said to Telemachus: "Telemachus, this guest sitting in your hall hasn't disgraced you. I didn't miss my mark, and it cost me no long struggle to string the bow. My strength is still sound — not as the suitors mocked and scorned me for. But now it's time to make the Achaeans their supper, while daylight lasts, and afterward there's room for other pleasures too, song and the lyre — the crowning grace of a feast."
He said this and nodded with his brows, and Telemachus, dear son of godlike Odysseus, buckled on his sharp sword and gripped his spear in hand, and stood close beside his father's chair, armored in gleaming bronze.