Hay pruebas de que inadecuadas, incluso pueriles medidas, pueden servir para rescatarnos del peligro.

Para protegerse del canto de las sirenas, Ulises tapó sus oídos con cera y se hizo encadenar al mástil de su nave. Naturalmente todos y cada uno de los navegantes podrían haber hecho lo mismo, excepto aquellos a los que las sirenas habían atraído desde distancias muy lejanas; sin embargo, era sabido en todo el mundo que tales medidas eran completamente ineficaces. El canto de las sirenas lo traspasaba todo, y la pasión de los seducidos habría hecho saltar prisiones más fuertes que mástiles y cadenas. Pero Ulises no pensó en eso, aunque probablemente había oído hablar de ello. Confió por completo en aquel puñado de cera y en el manojo de cadenas, e inocente, orgulloso de su pequeña estratagema, salió a navegar en busca de las sirenas.

Sin embargo, las sirenas poseen un arma mucho más terrible que el canto: su silencio. Y aunque es improbable que algo semejante haya sucedido, sigue siendo posible que alguien, alguna vez, pueda haber escapado de su canto, pero seguro que nunca de su silencio. Ningún sentimiento ni poder terrenal puede equipararse a la vanidad de haberlas vencido mediante las propias fuerzas.

De hecho, cuando Ulises se aproximó a ellas, las poderosas cantantes no cantaron, tal vez porque creyeron que a aquel enemigo sólo podía herirlo el silencio, tal vez porque el espectáculo de felicidad en el rostro de Ulises, quien sólo pensaba en ceras y cadenas, les hizo olvidar su canto.

Pero Ulises, si se puede expresar así, no oyó su silencio. Pensó que ellas cantaban y que era él el que no podía escucharlas. Fugazmente, vio primero las curvas de sus cuellos, la respiración profunda, los ojos llenos de lágrimas, los labios entreabiertos, pero creía que todo era parte de la melodía que fluía sorda en torno de él. Pronto, sin embargo, todo esto comenzó a desaparecer gradualmente de su vista al tiempo que él fijaba su mirada en el horizonte; las sirenas se desvanecieron literalmente , y él no supo más de ellas justo en el preciso momento en el que ellas estaban más cerca de él.

Y ellas, más hermosas que nunca, estiraban sus cuellos y se contoneaban. Desplegaban sus húmedas cabelleras al viento, abrían sus garras acariciando la roca. Ya no deseaban seducir, tan sólo querían atrapar tanto como pudieran el fulgor de los grandes ojos de Ulises.

Si las sirenas hubieran tenido conciencia, habrían desaparecido aquel día. Pero ellas permanecieron como habían estado; lo único que había sucedido es que Ulises había escapado de ellas.

La tradición añade un comentario a la historia. Se dice que Ulises era tan astuto, tan ladino, que incluso los dioses del destino eran incapaces de penetrar en su fuero interno. Por más que esto sea inconcebible para la mente humana, tal vez Ulises supo del silencio de las sirenas y tan sólo representó tamaña farsa para ellas y para los dioses, en cierta manera a modo de escudo.

Proof that inadequate, even childish measures, may serve to rescue one from peril.

To protect himself from the Sirens Ulysses stopped his ears with wax and had himself bound to the mast of his ship. Naturally any and every traveller before him could have done the same, except those whom the Sirens allured even from a great distance; but it was known to all the world that such things were of no help whatever. The song of the Sirens could pierce through everything, and the longing of those they seduced would have broken far stronger bonds than chains and masts. But Ulysses did not think of that, although he had probably heard of it. He trusted absolutely to his handful of wax and his fathom of chain, and in innocent elation over his little stratagem sailed out to meet the Sirens.

Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing has never happened, still it is conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never. Against the feeling of having triumphed over them by one's own strength, and the consequent exaltation that bears down everything before it, no earthly powers could have remained intact.

And when Ulysses approached them the potent songstresses actually did not sing, whether because they thought that this enemy could be vanquished only by their silence, or because of the look of bliss on the face of Ulysses, who was thinking of nothing but his wax and his chains, made them forget their singing.

But Ulysses, if one may so express it, did not hear their silence; he thought they were singing and that he alone did not hear them. For a fleeting moment he saw their throats rising and falling, their breasts lifting, their eyes filled with tears, their lips half-parted, but believed that these were accompaniments to the airs which died unheard around him. Soon, however, all this faded from his sight as he fixed his gaze on the distance, the Sirens literally vanished before his resolution, and at the very moment when they were nearest to him he knew of them no longer.

But they--lovelier than ever--stretched their necks and turned, let their cold hair flutter free in the wind, and forgetting everything clung with their claws to the rocks. They no longer had any desire to allure; all that they wanted was to hold as long as they could the radiance that fell from Ulysses' great eyes.

If the Sirens had possessed consciousness they would have been annihilated at that moment. But they remained as they had been; all that had happened was that Ulysses had escaped them.

A codicil to the foregoing has also been handed down. Ulysses, it is said, was so full of guile, was such a fox, that not even the goddess of fate could pierce his armour. Perhaps he had really noticed, although here the human understanding is beyond its depths, that the Sirens were silent, and opposed the afore-mentioned pretence to them and the gods merely as a sort of shield.