Which Translation: The Odyssey

Francis Caulfeild

1921 · Hexameter verse

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Biography

Francis William Caulfeild (1843-1934) was born in Wiltshire and educated at Rugby School and Wadham College, Oxford. In 1898 he founded the village of Caulfeild on the North Shore of Vancouver, designing it after Clovelly, Devon, with streets following animal paths - his dictum was ‘The cow is always right’. He reportedly worked on his Odyssey translation during transatlantic voyages between England and British Columbia.

Caulfeild rendered the Odyssey in hexameter lines, attempting to mirror the form of Homer’s original. He translated the epithet ‘polytropos’ as ‘restless,’ reflecting a focus on the hero’s ceaseless energy.

The London Mercury called Caulfield’s translation ‘fluent and easy to read, but hardly satisfactory from a metrical point of view’. It is now quite obscure and has not remained in wide circulation.

Publication History

  • 1921 — George Bell, The Odyssey; translated into English, in the original metre; with a preface by the Rev. A. A. David ★
  • 1923 — George Bell, The Odyssey; translated into English, in the original metre; with a preface by the Rev. A. A. David (Bohn's Popular Library)

The proem

1.1–11
Sing me the restless man, O Muse, who roamed the world over;
When, by his wondrous guile, he had sacked Troy’s sacred fortress.
Cities of various men he saw: their thoughts he discerned.
Many a time, in the deep, his heart was melted for trouble,
Striving to win his life, and eke return for his comrades:
Yet, though he strove full sore, he could not save his companions,
For, as was meet and just, through deeds of folly they perished:
Fools! who devoured the oxen of Him who rides in the heavens,
Helios, who, in his course, missed out their day of returning.
Yet, how they fared and died, be gracious, O Goddess, to tell us.

Penelope's weaving trick

2.96–111
‘Gallant gentlemen all, since godlike Odysseus has perished,
Cease from urging your suit, at least until I shall finish
This pall which you now see, lest all my work should be wasted.
Funeral robe it is for the aged hero Laertes,
Ready against the time when Death the Reaper shall seize him.
For it may be, perchance, some Grecian woman would blame me
If he should want for a shroud, who once had many possessions.’
So did she speak: and so our manly heart was persuaded.
Then, till the day was done, she would busily keep to her weaving,
But, each night, she unravelled the fruit of her labour by torchlight.
So, for three years, she befooled us, and never her trick was suspected:
But, when the fourth year came, and hour on hour was passing,
Then we were told it at last by a maid who knew of the secret:
And, in the act of unpicking the glorious web, we surprised her.
Thus, at the last she finished the web, with no choice in the matter.

Calypso's double standard

5.118–131
“Hard are ye Gods in your dealings and jealous beyond all others,
Ye who grudge that a Goddess should share her couch with a mortal,
Though, in good faith and honour, she take to her bed the beloved one.
Thus, when the blushing Morn was smitten with love for Orion,
All that time, ye Gods who dwell at your ease were indignant,
Till, from her golden throne, chaste Artemis rose in her anger,
And, in Ortygia’s isle, with her unseen arrows she slew him.
So, when Demeter of flowing locks to her passion had yielded,
And, on the thrice-ploughed earth, was united in love with Jasion,
Zeus soon heard the report and with flashes of lightning destroyed him.
And just so do ye grudge, O Gods, that a man should be with me.
Whom I had rescued myself as he clung to the keel of his vessel,

Weeping on Calypso's shore

5.151–159
Sitting, as was his wont, on the beach: and never the tears were
Dried from his eyes: and his life was wasting away in lamenting
That he could never return: for no longer the Nymph gave him pleasure:
But, you must know, each night he slept as it were by compulsion,
All in the hollow cave, unwilling beside her willing:
And, the day long, he would sit, amongst the rocks and the beaches,
Weeping and gazing out on the barren fields of the ocean.

Nausicaa finds Odysseus

6.127–141
And, as he spoke, came forth from the bushes the godlike Odysseus,
And, from a tree hard by, tore off a flourishing branchlet,
Leafy and green, to hide what might in a man be unseemly;
And he went forth in his strength, as a lion bred in the mountains
Goes through the wind and rain, while his eyes like fire are blazing,
Following trails of sheep or of oxen or may be of roebucks:
For, if his hunger compels him to capture a sheep, he will venture
Into a strong-walled house: and so in like manner Odysseus,
Naked although he was, would have forced himself into the circle
E’en of these fair-haired maids: for grim necessity drove him.
But he appeared to them a terrible being, besmeared with
Brine: and they scattered in fear to the jutting points of the beaches.
Yet there was one that remained, Alcinous’ daughter: for Pallas,
Courage, had put in her heart: and never her knees did tremble.

War-widow simile

8.521–532
Such was the song of the bard: but the heart of Odysseus was melted
At the remembered tale: and tears stole down from his eyelids.
And, as a woman might weep, who sees her dear lord and husband
Fall, in the people’s sight, before the wall of the city,
Striving, from town and children, to ward the pitiless hour:
And, as he gasps in death, she throws herself on him, and shrilly
Wailing she clings round his body: but those who are standing behind her
Beat her on back and shoulders with spears, and drag her to bondage,
That she may live henceforth a life of toil and lamenting,
While, with most pitiful sorrow, her once fair cheeks will be wasted:
So, from under his eyebrows, a tear was shed by Odysseus.

Cyclops eats the men

9.287–299
“‘But, in a pitiless mood, he never gave me an answer,
Only he sprang to his feet, and made a grab at my comrades,
And, seizing one in each hand, as it might be a couple of puppies,
Dashed them upon the ground, and their brains bespattered the pavement,
Next thing, limb after limb, he tore them to pieces and ate them:
And, as he ate, he seemed like a lion bred in the mountains:
Blood and entrails and flesh and marrow bones, all was devoured:
We could but lift our hands to Zeus in prayer unavailing,
Seeing this horrible sight: and our utter helplessness crushed us.
But, when the Round-eye at last had gorged his monstrous belly,
Eating the flesh of men, and drinking milk by the gallon,
All in the midst of the sheep, he stretched himself out in the cavern.

The Nobody trick

9.364–371
“‘Round-eye, you ask my renowned name: and I will not conceal it:
Then you will give me the boon that is due to a guest, as you promised.
‘Noman,’ is my name: and ‘Noman’ is what they call me,
Both my father and mother, and all my other companions.’
“Thus did I speak: and at once, in implacable temper, he answered:
‘Noman, I’ll eat you last, of all the men of your party,
After I’ve finished the others: and that is the present I’ll give you.’

Circe recognizes Odysseus

10.325–336
“‘Who among men are you? and what is your city? and parents?
How can it be that you drank these drugs, and they did not bewitch you?
For not a man in the world could ever resist their compulsion
If he should once allow them to pass the teeth that protect him.
Are you Odysseus, the man of resource? for the Slayer of Argus,
He of the golden wand, has warned me oft to expect you
On the way back from Troy, in a good ship speedy and tar-stained.
But come, sheathe your sword, and, mounting my bed together,
Now let us seal our friendship and show our trust in each other.’

Anticlea's shade

11.204–215
“So did she speak: but I, with conflicting thoughts was distracted,
Longing to clasp in my arms the soul of my mother departed:
Thrice, then, I started forward, my heart being eager to grasp it,
And thrice, out of my hands, as it might be a dream or a shadow,
Lightly it fluttered away: and the pang at my heart grew sharper:
And, in unbidden words, I called her by name and addressed her:
“‘Why do you slip from my arms, dear Mother, who long to embrace you,
That, in each other’s arms, we two enfolded, and weeping,
E’en in the house of Hades, may find some sad consolation?
Or is it merely an image that haughty Persephone sends me,
Vain and unreal, that so, she may make my groaning more bitter?’

Achilles in the underworld

11.488–501
‘Speak not unfitting words about death, renownéd Odysseus.
So I could be once more on the wholesome earth, I would rather
Serve as a slave to a man who had neither fortune nor comforts
Than be the king of all the dead in the region of shadows.
But, can you give me word, of my son who went with the army,
Whether he proved to be, as he promised, a leader of heroes.
Say too what you have heard of the noble Peleus my father:
Is he yet treated with honour in all the Myrmidon cities,
Or do they set him at nought in Phthia and all over Hellas,
For that, by age, the strength of his hands and his feet has been crippled?
I am no champion now, to fight in the sunshine of heaven,
Such as I was when erst, on Troy’s wide pastures, I slaughtered
Many of Ilion’s bravest to succour the hard-pressed Achæans.

The Sirens' song

12.184–192
“‘Hither, much praised Odysseus, great glory of all the Achaeans,
Stay your ship, and approach, and listen awhile to our singing.
For, never yet, has a man rowed past in his well-tarred galley
But he has stayed to hear our sweet and melodious voices:
Then, having drunk of delight, and tasted of knowledge, he leaves us.
For, be assured, we know full well how the Greeks and the Trojans
Fought on the plains of Troy, and toiled by the will of Divine ones:
And we know all things that happen on Earth, the food-giving Mother.’

Hyperion's cattle

12.341–352
Many the ways by which we wretched mortals may perish,
But, of all deaths in the world, the worst is death by starvation.
But come, let us drive off the best of Helios’ oxen,
And give a right good feast to the Gods immortal of heaven.
And, if we ever come back to our homeland of Ithaca, why then
We will set up a shrine, and deck it superbly with statues
Many and costly to Him, the Sun God who rides in the heavens.
But, if in wrath for the loss of these long-horned oxen he has here,
He should destroy our ship, and the rest of the Gods should approve him,
Why, I had rather die quickly, at sea, a-gulping salt water,
Than starve slowly to death on an uninhabited island.’

Argos recognizes Odysseus

17.324–328
Then did he enter the building so pleasant and fair to inhabit,
And he made straight for the hall, to join the swaggering suitors.
But, upon Argus, fell forthwith the hour of darkness,
When, in the twentieth year, he had seen his master Odysseus.

Sleepless Odysseus

20.25–34
And, as a man may stand in front of a blazing fire,
Busily cooking a paunch well stuffed with blood and with suet,
And, as he turns it over, he wonders how soon ’twill be ready,
So he, one against many, tried one scheme after another,
How to lay forcible hands on the shameless and insolent suitors.
But, in the form of a woman, Athene descended from heaven,
Stood, and looked down on his face, and in audible words she addressed him:
“Why are you wakeful again, O man most wretched of all men?

Stringing the bow

21.404–412
Thus then the suitors were talking: but as for resourceful Odysseus,
When he had handled the bow, and examined each separate detail,
Just as a man who is skilled in singing and playing the lyre
Easily stretches a string, on a peg which has needed renewal,
Fastening neatly the ends of a length, well twisted, of sheep-gut,
So, without trouble or haste, was the great bow strung by Odysseus.
Then, with his right-hand fingers, he gently plucked at the bowstring:
And it gave forth a sweet soft note like the song of a swallow.

Odysseus reveals himself

22.1–8
Then he stripped off his beggarly rags, the resourceful Odysseus,
And, on the broad raised platform, he leaped with his bow and the quiver
Bursting with arrows: and these he poured out in order before him
Down on the ground: and thus he spoke to the crowd of the suitors:
“There you behold this task, impossible seeming, accomplished.
Now, at a different mark, will I aim, a strange and a new one,
And I shall see if Apollo will grant me the glory to hit it.”

The disloyal maids

22.465–474
So did he speak, and he stretched the mooring rope of a galley
Tightly between a solid post and the roof of the kitchen,
Fixing it high, that none, with her feet, might reach to the pavement.
And, as perchance you have seen the long-winged pigeons or fieldfares
Strike their heads on a rail which is fixed half hid in a thicket
As they are going to roost (but a hateful roosting awaits them),
So were their heads in a row, and around each neck was a slip knot,
That they might, one and all, most wretchedly die: and they struggled,
Just for a little while, with their feet: it was but a little.

The olive-tree bed

23.181–190
So did she speak to test what her lord might know: but Odysseus,
Answered in anger and spoke to his wife too cautiously minded:
“Lady, it grieves me much to hear the word you have spoken.
Who, I must ask you, has moved that bed? ’Twere a difficult matter
E’en for a skilful man: though of course an Immortal from heaven
Could put it where he liked, and with ease, if so he desired.
But not a mortal man could move that bed with a crowbar,
Though in the prime of life: because there’s a wondrous contrivance
Hid in that well-wrought bed, which myself and no other invented.

Shipwrecked sailor simile

23.233–241
And as land is delightful and welcome to look on
Unto the struggling swimmers whose ship has been smashed by Poseidon,
Driven before the blast and swept by the great green billows:
And but a few have escaped to the shore from the rage of the waters,
Swimming for life: and their limbs with salt sea brine are encrusted,
And, from the jaws of death, they climb to the land with rejoicing:
So ’twas a gladsome sight when Penelopé looked on her husband.
But, with her fair arms clasped on his neck, still closely she held him: