Synopsis
Un traducteur très apprécié de Virgile et Dante plie ses efforts au travail magistral d'Homère, offrant une nouvelle traduction de vers à la fois précise et vigoureuse
Extrait
Book I
To the Muse.
*
The anger of Poseidon.
*
In Poseidon's absence,
a gathering of the gods in Zeus' halls on Olympus.
Athena's plea for help for the stranded Odysseus;
Zeus' consent.
*
Athena in the guise of Méntës visits Ithaca.
Her advice to Telémachus:
he is to confront the Ithacan elders
with the problem of the suitors
and to leave Ithaca to search
for news of his father.
*
Penelope's appearance among the suitors.
Her silencing of Phémius the singer.
Telémachus and the suitors:
their sharp exchange.
*
Nightfall:
Telémachus and his old nurse, Eurycle*¯¯a.
Muse, tell me of the man of many wiles,*
the man who wandered many paths of exile*
after he sacked Troy's sacred citadel.*
He saw the cities-mapped the minds-of many;*
and on the sea, his spirit suffered every*
adversity-to keep his life intact;*
to bring his comrades back. In that last task,*
his will was firm and fast, and yet he failed:*
he could not save his comrades. Fools, they foiled*
themselves: they ate the oxen of the Sun,*
the herd of Hélios Hypérion;*
the lord of light requited their transgression-*
he took away the day of their return.*
Muse, tell us of these matters. Daughter of Zeus,*
my starting point is any point you choose.*
All other Greeks who had been spared the steep*
descent to death had reached their homes-released*
from war and waves. One man alone was left,*
still longing for his home, his wife, his rest.*
For the commanding nymph, the brightest goddess,*
Calypso, held him in her hollow grottoes:*
she wanted him as husband. Even when*
the wheel of years drew near his destined time-*
the time the gods designed for his return*
to Ithaca-he still could not depend*
upon fair fortune or unfailing friends.*
While other gods took pity on him, one-*
Poseidon-still pursued: he preyed upon*
divine Odysseus until the end,*
until the exile found his own dear land.*
But now Poseidon was away-his hosts,*
the Ethiopians, the most remote*
of men (they live in two divided parts-*
half, where the sun-god sets; half, where he starts).*
Poseidon, visiting the east, received*
the roasted thighs of bulls and sheep. The feast*
delighted him. And there he sat. But all*
his fellow gods were gathered in the halls*
of Zeus upon Olympus; there the father*
of men and gods spoke first. His mind upon*
the versatile Aegísthus-whom the son*
of Agamemnon, famed Oréstes, killed-*
he shared this musing with the deathless ones:*
"Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say*
that we devise their misery. But they*
themselves-in their depravity-design*
grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.*
So did Aegísthus act when he transgressed*
the boundaries that fate and reason set.*
He took the lawful wife of Agamemnon;*
and when the son of Átreus had come back,*
Aegísthus murdered him-although he knew*
how steep was that descent. For we'd sent Hermes,*
our swiftest, our most keen-eyed emissary,*
to warn against that murder and adultery:*
'Oréstes will avenge his father when,*
his manhood come, he claims his rightful land.'*
Hermes had warned him as one warns a friend.*
And yet Aegísthus' will could not be swayed.*
Now, in one stroke, all that he owes is paid."*
Athena, gray-eyed goddess, answered Zeus:*
"Our father, Cronos' son, you, lord of lords,*
Aegísthus died the death that he deserved.*
May death like his strike all who ape his sins.*
But brave Odysseus' fate does break my heart:*
long since, in misery he suffers, far*
from friends, upon an island in the deep-*
a site just at the navel of the sea.*
And there, upon that island rich in trees,*
a goddess has her home: the fair-haired daughter*
of Atlas the malevolent (who knows*
the depths of every sea, for he controls*
the giant column holding earth and sky*
apart). Calypso, Atlas' daughter, keeps*
the sad Odysseus there-although he weeps.*
Her words are fond and fragrant, sweet and soft-*
so she would honey him to cast far off*
his Ithaca; but he would rather die*
than live the life of one denied the sight*
of smoke that rises from his homeland's hearths.*
Are you, Olympus' lord, not moved by this?*
Was not Odysseus your favorite*
when, on the spacious plain of Troy, beside*
the Argive ships, he sacrificed to you?*
What turned your fondness into malice, Zeus?"*
Zeus, shepherd of the clouds, replied: "My daughter,*
how can the barrier of your teeth permit*
such speech to cross your lips? Can I forget*
godlike Odysseus, most astute of men,*
whose offerings were so unstinting when*
he sacrificed to the undying gods,*
the masters of vast heaven? Rest assured.*
Only Poseidon, lord whose chariot runs*
beneath the earth, is furious-it was*
Odysseus who deprived the grandest Cyclops,*
the godlike Polyphémus, of his eye.*
(Thöósa-nymph whose father, Phórcys, keeps*
a close watch on the never-resting deep-*
gave birth to that huge Cyclops after she*
had lain in her deep sea-cave with Poseidon.)*
And ever since his son was gouged, the god*
who makes earth tremble, though he does not kill*
Odysseus, will not let him end his exile.*
But now we all must think of his return-*
of how to bring him home again. Poseidon*
will set aside his anger; certainly*
he cannot have his way, for he is only*
one god against us all, and we are many." NNN*
Athena, gray-eyed goddess, answered him:*
"Our father, Cronos' son, you, lord of lords,*
if now the blessed gods indeed would end*
the wanderings of Odysseus, let us send*
the keen-eyed Hermes to Calypso's isle,*
Ogy´gia. Let him there at once declare*
to her, the goddess with the lovely hair,*
our undeniable decree: Steadfast*
Odysseus is to find his homeward path.*
But I shall make my way to Ithaca*
at once, to give his son the strength to summon*
the long-haired Ithacans; when they assemble*
he can denounce-and scatter-all the suitors:*
they are forever slaughtering his sheep,*
his shambling oxen with their curving horns.*
Then off to sandy Pylos and to Sparta*
I'll send him to seek tidings of his father's*
return; he may yet hear some hopeful word-*
and men will then commend him for his search."*
That said, Athena fastened on fine sandals:*
these-golden, everlasting-carried her*
with swift winds over seas and endless lands.*
The goddess took her bronze-tipped battle lance,*
heavy and huge and solid; with this shaft,*
she-daughter of so great a force-can smash*
the ranks of warriors who've earned her wrath.*
One leap-and from Olympus' peaks she reached*
the land of Ithaca. She stood before*
Odysseus' door, the threshold of his court.*
She gripped the bronze-tipped shaft, and taking on*
the likeness of a stranger, she became*
lord Méntës, chieftain of the Táphians.*
She found the braggart suitors at the gate.*
Delighting in their dicing, they reclined*
on hides of oxen they themselves had skinned-*
with pages and attendants serving them,*
some mixing wine and water in wide bowls,*
while others washed the tables down with sponges*
and readied them for food, and others still*
stacked meat in heaps on platters-high and full.*
The very first to notice Méntës' presence*
was young Telémachus. He-sad, morose-*
sat with the suitors. In his reverie,*
he saw his sturdy father-would that he,*
returning suddenly, might banish these*
intruders from his palace and restore*
the rights and rule that had been his before.*
Such was the sadness of Telémachus,*
alone among the suitors, till he saw*
Athena; he rushed toward the outer door,*
ashamed that none had gone to greet the stranger.*
He drew near, clasped her right hand, even as*
his left relieved her of the heavy lance.*
And when he spoke, his words were like winged shafts:*
"My greetings, stranger. Welcome to our feast.*
Eat first-and then do tell us what you seek."*
He led the way; Athena followed him.*
Once they were in the high-roofed hall, he placed*
her lance against a column at whose base*
a polished rack, with slots for spears, was set;*
within that rack there stood still other shafts,*
the many spears that brave Odysseus left.*
He led the stranger to a tall chair, wrought*
with care; across its frame he spread rich cloth.*
There he invited her to sit and rest*
her feet upon a stool; and he himself*
sat nearby, on another well-carved chair,*
set far off from the suitors, lest his guest,*
in all that brouhaha, might look askance*
at feasting with such overbearing men-*
and, too, because he wanted so to gather*
what news he could about his distant father.*
That they might wash their hands, a servant poured*
fresh water from a lovely golden jug*
into a silver basin; at their side*
she placed a polished table. The old housewife*
was generous: she drew on lavish stores;*
to each of them she offered much and more.*
The carver offered meats of every sort,*
and for their wine he set out golden cups;*
and these-again, again-a page filled up.*
But then the suitors swaggered in; they sat,*
in order, on low seats and high-backed chairs.*
The pages poured fresh water for their hands,*
and servants brought them baskets heaped with bread.*
The suitors' hands reached out. The feast was theirs.*
When they had had their fill of food and drink,*
the feasters felt the need for chant and dance-*
at banquets, these are pleasing ornaments.*
A steward now consigned a handsome harp*
into the hands of Phémius, who was forced,*
from time to time, to entertain those lords.*
He struck the strings, and music graced his words.*
Then, as Telémachus turned toward his guest,*
lest he be overheard, he held his head*
close to the gray-eyed goddess-and he said:*
"Dear guest, will you be vexed at what I say?*
This harping and this chant delight these men,*
for all these goods come easily to them:*
they feed-but never need to recompense.*
They feast at the expense of one whose white*
bones, surely, either rot beneath the rain,*
unburied and abandoned on the land,*
or else are preyed upon by churning waves.*
Yet, were Odysseus to return, were they*
to see him here again, they would not pray*
for gold or richer clothes-just faster feet.*
But he has died by now, died wretchedly;*
and nothing can console us now, not even*
if some man on this earth should say my father*
will yet return. The day of his homecoming*
is lost: it is a day we'll never see.*
But tell me one thing-tell me honestly:*
Who are you? Of what father were you born?*
Where is your city, where your family?*
On what ship did you sail? Why did that crew*
bring you to Ithaca? And who were they?*
For surely you did not come here on foot!*
And also tell me truthfully-is this*
the first time you have come to Ithaca,*
or have you been my father's guest before?*
For many other foreigners have come*
to visit us-like you, my father knew*
the ways of many men and many lands."*
Athena, gray-eyed goddess, answered him:*
"My words to you are true: I'm Méntës, son*
of wise Anchíalus; the Táphians,*
tenacious oarsmen, are the men I rule.*
Now I have landed here with ship and crew;*
we cross the winedark sea toward Témesë-*
all this in search of copper. What we stow*
is gleaming iron, which we're set to barter.*
Outside the city, moored in Rhe*¯¯thron's harbor,*
close to the fields, beneath Mount Néion's forest,*
my ship is waiting. Years ago, your father*
and mine were guests and friends. (Just ask the brave*
Laértës-though they say he shuns the city;*
it seems that now he much prefers to grieve*
far off, alone, except for one old servant.*
She, when his body aches from the hard climb*
he makes, from slope to slope, to tend his vines,*
still carries food and drink right to his side.)*
NNN*
"Now I have come-for I had heard indeed*
that he, your father, had returned. Surely*
it is the gods who now obstruct his journey.*
For bright Odysseus has not died upon*
this earth: he is alive somewhere, delayed*
upon an island set among vast waves,*
held by harsh savages, against his will.*
I am no augur or interpreter*
of flights of birds, but now I shall foretell-*
even as the immortals prompt my soul-*
events my mind can see: Your father will*
not be kept back from his dear land much longer,*
though they may bind him fast in iron chains;*
he is a man of many wiles, who can*
contrive the way to reach his home again.*
But you-do tell me now with honesty:*
Are you, so tall, indeed Odysseus' son?*
Your head and handsome eyes resemble his*
extraordinarily; we two had met*
quite often in the days before he left*
for Troy, where others, too-the Argives' best-*
sailed in their hollow ships. But since then I*
have not seen him, and he has not seen me."*
Telémachus' reply was keen and wise:*
"Dear friend, I cannot be more frank than this.*
My mother says I am his son, but none*
can know for sure the seed from which he's sprung.*
In any case, would I had been the son*
of one so blessed that he grew old among*
his own belongings. I, instead, am born-*
or so they say-of one who surely was*
the most forsaken man, the most forlorn.*
Now you have had and heard my full response."*
Athena, gray-eyed goddess, answered him:*
"Despite misfortune now, your family*
can count on future fame: Penelope*
is mother of a son who is most worthy.*
But tell me truthfully: What sort of feast*
is this? A banquet? Or a wedding party?*
This surely is no meal where each has brought*
his share. Why did this crowd seek out your house?*
These guzzlers seem to me no better than*
a pack of swaggerers-too rude, too coarse.*
Seeing their shameful doings, any man*
of sense would feel both anger and contempt."*
Telemachus' response was wise, precise:*
"Dear guest, to all you ask, I now reply.*
I tell you that as long as he, my father,*
was in his native land, this house was rich*
and great. But then the gods willed otherwise-*
they made my father vanish: they devised*
oblivion for him-much deeper than*
oblivion known by an...
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
