Ulysses in Hell

 

Inferno Canto XXVI retold

*

I stood on the rocky ledge with Virgil my guide beside me. This circle was not so dark as the others. The charred and barren land was lit by countless moving man-sized flames. Restlessly and pointlessly they roamed. 'Behold the evil counsellors,' said Virgil. 'Their bad advice, while they lived, trapped and corrupted others. Now they are paid back in kind, hemmed in and circumscribed by a sheath of flame.'

'That one over there,' said I, 'has a double point, as if two spirits were lashed together inside.'

'Yes,' replied the Poet. 'Behold Ulysses and Diomede, partners in crime and bound one to the other on this burning marl as punishment. They stole the Luck of Troy and between them devised that most infernal of machines, the Wooden Horse. They strong-armed Sinon to lie to the Trojans and declare that the Greeks had left for good and that the gods required them to bring the Horse inside the city. That alone causes them untold suffering now, for as I wrote in The Aeneid it was that very night that Aeneas escaped to make his way at length to the shores of Italy. Through his seed, Rome was founded and Greece itself soon conquered by his descendants. So the machinations of Ulysses and Diomede were rendered useless in the end. They know this now and it pains them grievously.'

'Good,' I responded. 'They deserve it. Their deeds were evil and Ulysses, I feel, has been vastly overrated by the poets. He was a man of craft and low cunning, quite the reverse of a noble spirit. Still, I admit, he is a fascinating character and I would love to hear from him how his end came about for Homer and the others leave his final destiny wrapped in mystery. Look now how the twin-headed flame draws closer still. Let us not waste this chance.'

'Very well,' said Virgil. 'But let me do the talking, for you are of Trojan stock and he will note that in your voice and walk straight past.' Then he spoke a word of command in a strange tongue and the flame sped obediently towards us. We jumped off the ledge and stood before it. Dimly we discerned the physical outlines of the men inside, though we - or I at least - could not make out their faces. Then Ulysses spoke. He reeled off his tale in just one go, like he was speaking to order, with barely a pause for breath and no room given for questions.

'When I returned to Ithaca,' he began, 'it surprised me greatly how dissatisfied I felt and how bored and listless I became. Do not misunderstand me. I loved my wife and son, but being with them night and day did not give me the deep sense of meaning and fulfilment I expected. Quite the reverse. I sat by the shore and the truth came crashing down on me. Ten years of war and a decade more of voyaging had changed me utterly. There was no way, I realised, that I could go on living like this - tamed, domesticated, respectable. So I gathered my old companions about me and unfurled my sail once more. It was hard work persuading them to come. They were old and satiated and more attached to their land and homes than I was. But I was cruel and merciless, mesmerising and compelling them with my silver tongue. Do you know that it was for this, more than anything else, that I was damned? This breaking up of families and needless uprooting of settled lives. I promised them the greatest journey of all time. I told them that their names would be written in letters of gold by future generations. I gave them bravado and empty boasts - told 'em all the lies under the sun - just so I could bring some purpose and direction back to the shrivelled husk of my life.

'At the Pillars of Hercules I ordered them to switch course to the South. I let their protests bounce off me. They had expected us to turn back East but there was no way that was happening and very soon, let me tell you, the magnificence and grandeur of what we were doing began to dawn on them. A hushed silence fell upon us; a silence of mingled awe and wonder. They were glad they had come now. They knew, as I knew, that we were in uncharted waters and that we were on the verge of becoming living legends. "Who knows," I asked them, "what fresh lands we might discover and name after ourselves? Maybe we will come to the very edge of the world and glimpse what lies beyond."

'Europe was far behind us to the North now, with the coast of Africa invisible and remote a long way off to the West. The constellations in the night sky were completely different to anything we had seen before. Five nights came and went beneath their gaze and on the sixth morn we beheld a colossally tall island - a giant mountain in truth - in the middle of the sea away to the South. In terms of size and magnificence it was absolutely unparalleled and none of us had seen anything like it in all our voyagings.

'I did not know then what that mountain was, but I do now. The devil who dragged me here told me straight after my death. It is the holy mountain of Purgatory, and we were the first living men to have ever approached it. I must tell you that I am still immensely proud of that fact.

'At daybreak on the last day of my life I said to my helmsman, "We will make landfall on this isle 'ere nightfall." But alas, a gigantic tempest - a black and swirling storm cloud - rose up from behind the mountain and straight away we were engulfed by an all-encompassing torrent of wind and rain. The ship was smashed like matchwood and all our lives extinguished. My eleven colleagues were guided by good angels straight to that sacred mount. I alone was escorted by a sadistic, mocking demon here to Hell.

'I had left Ithaca to find pattern and meaning - something to live for, something to fight and die for - but there is no meaning at all to be found in this place. No purpose, no direction, no triumph, no joy. If I had my time again I would do things differently. My quests were so misguided. I was chasing after the wrong things, or rather the right things but in the wrong ways. Now it is too late. But even now I will not back down. Though I am beyond hope, I will never give up - never stop fighting, never stop seeking - even in my current state, imprisoned with my sorry colleague and tied up in a sheet of flame. I will not go gently into that good night, will not become a bland, semi-retired gentleman. No! I would have to give up the name of Ulysses if I did, and that, let me assure you, will never happen.'

At that, the flame began to drift away. Virgil and I bowed our heads and stood together in silence.

'He was indeed a noble spirit,' I remarked at length. 'More princely than I was prepared to admit. Like you, my master, he did not live to see the true God, but he sought for Him all his life in the only ways he knew - through war and adventure and endless, restless questing. There is much to commend him for here but, as he says, the time for redemption has passed and deep in his heart, though he rails against it, he knows that hope has gone.'

Virgil took hold of my hand and we scrambled back up on top of the ledge. 'There is always hope,' he replied once we had caught our breath. 'You must not think that it was a one-off event when the Logos broke the gates to these infernal regions and released the spirits in bondage. No. All His deeds take place in eternity and the Harrowing of Hell is going on even now. The light of Christ shines unto the darkest places and our friend yonder might not be so far from those life-giving rays as either of you fear. Let us pray for him, you and I, as we set out again on our way. That is the best and most potent thing we can do.'

'Ulysses, I salute you,' I shouted into the void, but I had lost sight of him on that glittering field and my voice faded like a valediction in the dead and clammy air.

'Bring him back, O Lord,' I prayed as we climbed down the stair towards the next level. Somewhere a horn blew, a sound like nothing I had heard down here in Hell. I looked at Virgil and he looked at me. 'Our Father ...' he began quietly, and I joined him in his prayer as we continued on our journey.

*

This seems a good place to reprint Louis MacNeice's wonderful poem, Thalassa, which (I think) was the last poem he wrote, in 1963 not long before he set out on his own great and final voyage. Here is is -

Run out the boat, my broken comrades;

Let the old seaweed crack, the surge

Burgeon oblivious of the last

Embarkation of feckless men,

Let every adverse force converge -

Here we must needs embark again.

Run up the sail, my heartsick comrades;

Let each horizon tilt and lurch -

You know the worst; your wills are fickle,

Your values blurred, your hearts impure

And your past life a ruined church -

But let your poison be your cure.

Put out to sea, ignoble comrades,

Whose record shall be noble yet;

Butting through scarps of moving marble

The narwhal dares us to be free;

By a high star our course is set,

Our end is Life. Put out to sea.