The Odyssey: Book 17

Better that beggars cadge their meals
in town than in the fields.

At that Telemachus strode down through the farm
in quick, firm strides, brooding death for the suitors.

That's the bed
of a brave man of war they'd like to crawl inside,
those spineless, craven cowards!

But about the things you've asked me, so intently,
I'll skew and sidestep nothing, not deceive you, ever.

Oh no, he's learned his lazy ways too well,
he's got no itch to stick to good hard work,
he'd rather go scrounging round the countryside,
begging for crusts to stuff his greedy gut!

Let me tell you—so help me it's the truth—
if he sets foot in King Odysseus' royal palace,
salvos of footstools flung at his head by all the lords
will crack his ribs as he runs the line of fire through the house!

Odysseus glanced to the side
and flicked away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus,
diverting his friend in a hasty, offhand way:
"Strange, Eumaeus, look, a dog like this..."

But I can't say for sure
if he had the running speed to match his looks
or he was only the sort that gentry spoil at table,
show-dogs masters pamper for their points.

Just in the doorway, just at the ashwood threshold,
there he settled down...
leaning against the cypress post a master joiner
planed smooth and hung with a plumb line years ago.

Now take these to the stranger, tell him too
to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all.
Bashfulness, for a man in need, is no great friend.

Isn't it quite enough, these swarming crowds
consuming your master's bounty—
must you invite this rascal in the bargain?

I'd even urge you on. No scruples now,
never fear your gifts will upset my mother
or any servant in King Odysseus' royal house.

But no such qualm could enter that head of yours,
bent on feeding your own face, not feeding strangers!

I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired;
rolling in wealth, I'd often give to a vagabond like myself,
whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door.

"Pity, pity,"
the wry Odysseus countered, drawing away.
"No sense in your head to match your handsome looks..."

You'd grudge your servant a pinch of salt from your own larder,
you who lounge at the next man's board but lack the heart
to tear a crust of bread and hand it on to me,
though there's god's plenty here.

Boiling over
Antinous gave him a scathing look and let fly,
"Now you won't get out of the hall unscarred, I swear,
not after such a filthy string of insults!"

So they warned, but Antinous paid no heed.

Our friends can sit at the gates or down the halls
and play their games, debauched to their hearts' content.

What's in the vagrant's mind?
Fear of someone? Embarrassed by something else,
here in the house? Is the fellow bashful?
A bashful man will make a sorry beggar.