“Either I will find a way or make one,”
and a broken helmet was once found in Battle Abbey, engraved with this crest:—
“L’espoir est ma force.”
The Master Mariner might have owned them both. The first quality which we marvel at in our analysis of Ulysses’ character is the extraordinary resource which he displays throughout all his wanderings. His qualities of passive endurance, his enormous courage, his mental agility—the very cream of cunning, are all component parts of his unfailing readiness to take sudden advantage of his opportunity. For him all tides were at flood to lead on to fortune.
Charybdis sucks down his stout ship into the womb of the sea, he makes a raft of the restored keel.
He estimates the brain power of the stupid Cyclops at its exact value, and escapes the vengeance of his companions by a pun. And there is a well-defined touch of fatalism in Ulysses also. When the irreparable blunder has been committed by his sailors, and Apollo’s sacred beeves are smoking on the spit, he knows that he and all his men must pay heavily for their disregard of Circe’s warning. It is inevitable. Nothing can turn aside the coming anger of the Sun-God. So Ulysses, being hungry, though innocent of the initial sacrilege, makes his unhallowed meal with the rest. He must endure the pain, so plucks the pelf also. To enlarge upon his courage and endurance were unnecessary. The Odyssey is one long pæan of them both. His sagacity is manifest so vividly in all his actions that even Zeus, father of Heaven, says to Athene, “No, daughter, I could never forget Ulysses, the wisest worldling of them all.” But what of Ulysses as a Sybarite? The hero “Mulierose,” to borrow from the Cloister and the Hearth, the lover of ladies, “propt on beds of amaranth and moly,” while white enchanted arms hold him a willing captive? I have heard it remarked that here the Ionian father of poets has gone astray. People have said to me that Ulysses loved his wife too well to dwell contented on the spicy downs of Lotos Land, that he was too taut and hardy a man. But Homer did not err in his study of temperament.
How can one judge the man of 3000 years ago by the standards of to-day? In the ages when hosts joined in battle for the fair body of Helen men looked on women with other eyes than ours. Heaven and hell were very material places, pleasure was a very material, tangible, understandable thing and a lovely woman a gift from the Gods.
Ulysses strove for Ithaca through storm and wrack, and when Fortune sent him to Calypso, or beached his ship on Circe’s fairy isle, he was content to rest a little while. He yielded, like others of the wise. Socrates studied under Aspasia, and Aspasia ruled the world under the name of Pericles.
It is in trying to fit the temperament of an ancient to a modern that the majority of people must always fail to understand a great piece of contemporary literature. One may sift the instances of modern temperament and comment on them, but one should not try to mould the residue into a like form. The Bible story paints King David, for example, as a truculent, bloodthirsty, canting monster—a complete portrait. The immorality and stupidity lies in trying to reconcile his Old Testament enormities with the revelations of the New.
So with Ulysses, Circe, Calypso, Nausicaa, and even in later years the legendary Erippe, all fall truly, artistically and naturally into the mosaic of the hero’s life.