Book XIV

Then thou, Eumaeus, thus didst make reply: “Unhappy stranger, thou hast deeply moved My heart in telling all that thou hast borne, And all thy wanderings. Yet are some things wrong. Thou hast not spoken of Ulysses well. Why should a man like thee invent such tales, So purposeless? Of one thing I am sure Concerning his return⁠—the gods all hate My master, since they neither caused his death In the great war of Troy, nor, when the war Was over, suffered him to die at home, And in the arms of those who loved him most; For then would all the Greeks have reared to him A monument, and mighty would have been The heritage of glory for his son; But now ingloriously the harpy brood Have torn him. I, apart among my swine, Go never to the town, unless, perchance, The sage Penelope requires me there, When someone comes with tidings from abroad. Then those who sorrow for their absent lord, And those who waste his substance, both inquire News of the king. For me, it suits me not Ever to ask for tidings, since the day When an Aetolian with a flattering tale Deceived me. He had slain a man, and came Wandering in many lands to my abode, And kindly I received him. He had seen, He said, my master with Idomeneus, Among the Cretans, putting in repair His galleys, shattered by a furious storm, And in the summer time he would be here, Or in the autumn, bringing ample wealth, And his brave comrades with him. Seek not then, O aged sufferer, whom some deity Has guided hither, to amuse my grief With fictions that may bring back pleasant thoughts, Since not for them I minister to thee And love thee, but through reverence for Jove⁠— The stranger’s friend⁠—and pity for thyself.”