Part 31

4. Finally we have the manner of doing the deed, the plan is laid before us. Pallas tells Ulysses that he must again assume his disguise, both in the hut of the swineherd and in the palace at Ithaca. She does not propose to do his work for him; on the contrary it must be his own spontaneous energy. In fact, Pallas is in him making this suggestion, yet outside of him, too, speaking the voice of the situation.

The scheme shows the structure of these four Books (XIII-XVI), organized of course by Pallas. Ulysses is to go to the swineherd who is loyal, and will give shelter. Telemachus is to be brought to the same place by Pallas, not externally, as we shall see, but through the free act of Telemachus himself. Thus the three chosen men are gathered together in their unsuspected fortress. Two things we must note in regard to these movements: they are wholly voluntary on part of the persons making them, yet they belong in the Divine Order, and thus are the work of the deity. Free-Will and Providence do not trammel each other, but harmoniously co-operate to the same end. So carefully and completely is this thought elaborated that we may consider it fundamental in the creed of the poet.

In such manner the weak, finite Ulysses is brought into communion with the immortal Goddess. Yet he, the poor frail mortal, drops for a moment even here. When Pallas speaks of Telemachus having gone to Sparta, to learn about his father, Ulysses petulantly asks: "Why did not you, who know all things, tell that to him" without the peril of such a journey? The answer of Pallas is clear; I sent him in order that he might be a man among men, and have the good fame of his action. Telemachus, too, must be a free man; that is the education of Pallas. The Goddess will help him only when he helps himself. Divinity is not to sap human volition, but to enforce it; she would unmake Telemachus, if she allowed him to stay at home and do nothing, tied to his mother's apron strings.

And here we cannot help noting an observation on Homer's poetry. It must be in the reader ere he can see it in the book. Unless he be ready for its spirit, it will not appear, certainly it will not speak. There must be a rise into the vision of Homeric poetry on the part of the reader, as there is a rise into the vision of the Goddess on the part of Ulysses. The two sides, the human and the divine, or the Terrestrial and the Olympian, must meet and commune; thus the reader, too, in perusing Homer, must become heroic and behold the Gods.

BOOK FOURTEENTH.

The Book begins with another transition in place; Ulysses passes from the sea-shore, with its haven, grot, and olive-tree up into the mountain, to the hut of Eumæus. We have quite a full description of the latter's abode; there is a lodge surrounded by a court and a wall; within this inclosure are the sties, and the droves of swine over which he is the keeper, with four assistants. Nor must we omit the fierce dogs, savage as wild beasts. Such is the new environment which Ulysses enters, and which has at its center a human being who gives character to this little world. Again we catch a clear quick glimpse of the Greek landscape in one of its phases.

The spiritual transition is, however, the main thing. Ulysses passes from Pallas, the deity of pure wisdom, to Eumæus, the humblest of mortals in his vocation. Yet this poor man too has the divine in him, and manifests it in a supreme degree, not, however, in the form of reflective wisdom, but in the form of piety, of an immediate faith in the Gods. Still this faith has its sore trial. Such is the contrast between the two men. Ulysses has brought with him the Goddess of Wisdom, whose words he has heard, and with whom he has held communion. Hardly does Eumæus know Pallas, he has not the internal gift of seeing her in her own shape. Thus both these men share in the divine, but in very different ways.

From this difference in the two men spring both the character and the matter of the Book. It is a play, a disguise; a play between Wisdom and Faith, in which the former must be in disguise to the latter, yet both have the same substance at bottom. For Faith is Faith because it cannot take the form of Intelligence, yet may have in its simple immediate form all the content of Intelligence.

Eumæus has an open single-hearted piety; he cannot play a disguise, he hates it for he has been deceived by it when assumed by lying fablers. For this reason he is not intrusted with the secret of his master's return till the last moment, he would have to dissemble, to violate his own nature, and then perhaps he would not have succeeded in his attempt. So Ulysses with a true regard for his man withholds the great secret, and has to play under cover in order to get the needful information.

Accordingly the present Book has a decided tinge of comedy. There is, on the one hand, the disguise, external and internal--in garments and in identity; on the other hand, there is the error which takes one person for another, and produces the comic situation. Thus the Book is prophetic of a great branch of Literature, and may be considered as a starting-point of Greek Comedy, yes, as one of the origins of Shakespeare. To be sure, it is not mere fun or amusement; it is the Comedy of Providence, who often is in disguise bringing his blessing. Eumæus in his piety has just that which he thinks he has not; his loyalty has brought to him just that which he most desired; his mistake is in reality no mistake, but a mere appearance which will vanish in the end.

It is true that this sport of comic disguise began in the previous Book with Pallas. But can the mortal hide himself from the deity, specially from the deity of wisdom? Hence the Goddess tears away the mask with a smile, and there follows the recognition. But at present it is the mortal who is the victim of disguise, by virtue of his limitations. Still the mortal, when he cannot see, can believe, and so transcend these same limitations. Thus it is with Eumæus, his mistake is a comic nullity.

In the hut of the swineherd, there is no domestic life, the woman is absent. This condition is specially ascribed to the present state of things in Ithaca. Eumæus, though he be a slave, could have a household, "a dwelling and ground and wife," if his old master were at home. Even now he has his own servant, bought with his own wealth. Slavery was not a hard condition in the house of Ulysses; it was domestic in the best sense probably. Indeed the slaves were often of as high birth as their masters, who in turn might be slaves in the next fluctuation of war. Eumæus himself was of kingly blood, and he retains his regal character in his servitude.

Ulysses has now reached the fortress which is to be the rallying-point of his army of three heroes, and from which he is to issue to the work of the time. But that is hereafter. In the present Book, we have his play with Eumæus, his disguise, which assumes three main attitudes. First, he is passive, chiefly asking and listening; thus he gets out of Eumæus what information he wishes; then he plays an active part in his disguise, telling his own history under the mask of fiction; finally he assumes an open disguise, that is, he tells of one of his artifices at Troy, and then states his present object in telling it. The simple Eumæus, however, does not suspect him in all these transformations. Still we may notice in the swineherd a strong feeling of oneness with the stranger, an unconscious presentiment of who he is.

I. The approach of Ulysses to the lodge of Eumæus is an experience which one may have in the mountains of Greece to-day. We can find the same general outline of a hut with its surrounding fence and court, in which domestic animals are penned, particularly during the night. Then there is that same welcome from the dogs, which issue forth in a pack with an unearthly howling, growling and barking at the approaching stranger, till somebody appear and pelt them with stones. Often must the wandering Homer have had such a greeting! The hospitable swineherd, Eumæus, the poet must have met with in his travels; the whole scene and character are drawn directly from real life. A similar reception we have had in a remote pastoral lodge, dogs included. But the modern pedestrian will hardly employ the ruse of Ulysses, that of sitting down on the ground and letting his staff drop out of his hand. He will use his weapon and grasp for a stone everywhere present on the Greek soil, though the fight be unequal. Still the sentence of Pliny (Nat. Hist. VIII. 61) deserves always to be cited in this connection: impetus eorum (canum) et soevitia mitigatur ab homine considente humi; as if dogs in the height of their rage might be touched with the plea of piety.

The character of the swineherd straightway shows itself by his conduct toward this poor hungry stranger, a vagabond in appearance. To be sure, hospitality was and is a common virtue in Greece; but Eumæus saw at once in the wretched looking man his master "wandering among people of a strange tongue, needing food." Therefore come, old man, and satisfy yourself with bread and wine. Such is the strong fellow-feeling warming the hearth of that humble lodge. Misfortune has not soured the swineherd, but he has extracted from it his greatest blessing--an universal charity. This is not a momentary emotion, but has risen to a religious principle: "All strangers and the poor are of Zeus;" such is the vital word of his creed. He is a slave and has not much to share; "our giving is small but dear to us;" very dear indeed, a mite only, but it is as good as a world. Well may we call him, with the poet, in the best sense of the title: "the divine swineherd." We should note too that the poet addresses Eumæus in the second person singular, with a tone of loving familiarity very seldom employed elsewhere in his two poems. Was there some intimate personal relation figured in this character which we still seem to feel afar off there in antiquity?

At any rate the picture of the swineherd has the most modern touch to be found in Homer. It shows the feeling of humanity developed quite to its supreme fullness; it has modern sentiment, nay, it borders at times upon modern sentimentality. It recalls the recent novel, which takes its hero from the lowest class and garnishes him with regal virtues. Strange old Homer, prophetic again! He seems to have anticipated the art-forms of all the ages, and to have laid down the lines on which the literary spirit must move forever. Otherwise, indeed, it could not be; he has in him the germs of future development; the last novel is contained in the first, which is the tale of Eumæus.

In the character of the swineherd, the central point is his loyalty, adamantine as the rock of his humble home. It is loyalty in a double sense: to his divine and to his human master, to God and to man, Zeus and Ulysses. The same trait it is, in a terrestrial and a celestial manifestation. Both sides of this loyalty are just now under the sorest trial; there is every temptation to fall away from God and man and become wholly disloyal. Many have yielded but he will not; in his solitary abode he keeps piety and patriotism aflame with the breath of his spirit. Hence he furnishes the rock on which the new order can be built; without this loyalty in the humble class, no restoration would be possible, even with the presence of Ulysses.

First we may notice that he is loyal to his human master though he believes that the latter is dead and cannot return. Still he does not pass over to the side of the Suitors, who are doing that master and his house the great wrong. Secondly, the swineherd is loyal to Zeus and the Divine Order of the World. Hear him: "The Gods love not deeds of violence; they honor justice and the rightful works of men." Such is his faith; still this faith is passing through the ordeal of fire: why should the Gods, being good, keep the good Ulysses away from his Return? The simple swineherd cannot fathom the ways of Providence, still he believes in that Providence; he is divinely loyal. His allegiance does not depend upon prosperity, not even upon insight. Zeus may rule the world as he pleases, I shall still have faith: "Though he slay me, I shall believe in him."

Now we may turn for a moment to Ulysses. He is a passive learner from the swineherd, calling forth information by subtle inquiry; much, indeed, has he learned from the humble, pious man. First, he has seen a shadow of his own doubt, and how it may be dispelled. Then he has discovered loyalty in this representative of the people, who must still possess it in their hearts, though suppressed in the present, untoward time. Also he hears again of the Suitors and their guilty deeds, viewed with a loyal eye. Finally he plays the prophet to Eumæus and foretells the return of Ulysses. This is the height of his disguise, wherein he rises to the humor of Providence, who has brought to the swineherd the realization of his strongest wish without his knowing it. His prayers have come to pass, could he but see. Herein Ulysses suggests the part of Providence in disguise, bringing the fulfillment of his own prophecy.

II. It is now the turn of Ulysses to give some account of himself in answer to the swineherd's pressing questions. He tells a famous story, a fiction of his own life, yet it has in its disguise the truth of his career. The outer setting is changed, but the main facts are the same. Still there is enough difference to prevent it from being a repetition. It is the Odyssey told over again with new incidents, and variations upon an old theme. We behold here the conscious storyteller, clothing the events of life in the garb of a marvelous adventure. Ulysses had in mind his own experience in this account, and he adapts it to the time and place.

The main points of its contact with himself we may note. First, there is the pre-Trojan period, a time of roving and marauding, which is true of that age in general, and may have some touch of Ulysses in particular. Second is the Trojan war, the epoch of heroic conflict to which all had to go, so strong was the public sentiment. Third comes the post-Trojan epoch, with the wanton attack on the Ægyptians, very much like the attack upon the Ciconians in the Ninth Book. From these attacks in both cases the grand calamity results, which causes the long wandering. The Phoenician episode, however, has no counterpart in the career of Ulysses. Fourth is the storm at sea, with the clinging to the mast, and the landing upon the coast of the Thesprotians, all of which is a transcript of the experience of Ulysses in getting to Phæacia from Calypso's isle. Fifth is the arrival at Ithaca, which shows the actual fact, with changed circumstances. Thus we may say that the true Ulysses in disguise tells the true story of his life in disguise. This gift is what makes him the poet.

Indeed we are compelled to think that Homer here suggests his own poetic procedure. What he narrates is his own experience, in the form of art. His poetry is and must be his own life, though in disguise. Goethe has said something similar: All that I have written is what I have experienced, but not quite as I experienced it. In this story we may hear in an undertone the old Greek poet telling one of his secrets of composition.

Moreover, it is a tale of providential escapes; thrice has the so-called Cretan been saved specially, in Ægypt, from the Phoenicians, from the Thesprotians. Thus the story aims to encourage Eumæus, and to answer his doubt; it affirms the return of Ulysses, and tells even the manner thereof; it is a story of Providence appealing to the swineherd's faith. On this line, too, it touches the ethical content of the Odyssey, as the latter was sung to the whole Greek world.

Looking at the external circumstances of the story we note that it takes them from the social life of the time. There is universal slavery, with its accompaniment, man-stealing; the pirate and the free-booter are still on the seas and furnish incidents of adventure, yet commerce has also begun; the perils of navigation turn the voyage into a series of miraculous escapes. It is a time of dawn in which many distinctions, now clear, have not yet been made.

We may also see the lines, though they be faint, of the movement of the world's culture in this story. Crete, on the borderland between East and West, is the home of the daring Greek adventurer who attacks Troy on the one hand and Ægypt on the other. From Crete we pass backwards to Phoenicia, as well as to the land of the Nile, and we catch a glimpse of the current of Oriental influence flowing upon Greece. Already we have seen the spiritual gift of Egypt to the Greek mind shadowed forth in the story of Menelaus in the Fourth Book. In these latter Books of the Odyssey the Phoenician intercourse with Hellas is more strongly emphasized, with glances into their art, their trade, their navigation. All this Phoenician development the Greek looks at in a wondering way as if miraculous; he is reaching out for it also. To be sure the Phoenician has a bad name, as a shrewd, even dishonest trader. Still he is the middleman between nations, and a necessity.

Thus it appears that the Greeks have lost their Aryan connection, and have become the heirs of a Semitic civilization. Homer does not seem to know his Indo-European kinship, but he does connect Hellas with Phoenicia and Egypt in many a spiritual tie. These ties take, for the most part, a mythical form, still they must have been a great fact, else they could not have influenced the mythology of the Greek race. So the present tale through the fiction of the myth-maker, hints the chief social fact of the time.

The fiction in the previous Book, which Ulysses began to tell to Pallas, also started in Crete, looked back at the Trojan war, and connected with Idomeneus, the great hero of Cretan legend in the affair of Troy. The Phoenican trader in his ship comes in there too. But that tale is cut short by the Goddess, who knows the disguise. In the present case, however, the swineherd makes no such discovery. The next Book will also have its corresponding tale.

Ulysses has thus told all about himself to the swineherd, has even hinted in one place his disguise. He speaks of Ulysses having gone to Dodona to consult the sacred oracle "whether he should return to Ithaca openly or secretly, after so long an absence." He runs along the very edge of discovering himself. But the swineherd will not believe; "the Gods all hate my master" is still his view. Already a lying Ætolian had deceived him with a similar tale, which also introduced Idomeneus and the Cretans. Ulysses has before himself a new picture of doubt, and its blindness; quite a lesson it must have been to the skeptical man.