Athene visits Telemachus

Chapter 1

The hero of the tale which I beg the Muse to help me tell is that re­sourceful man who roamed the wide world after he had sacked the holy citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many peoples and he learnt their ways. He suffered many hardships on the high seas in his struggles to preserve his life and bring his comrades home. But he failed to save those comrades, in spite of all his efforts. It was their own sin that brought them to their doom, for in their folly they devoured the oxen of Hyperion* the Sun, and the god saw to it that they should never return. This is the tale I pray the divine Muse to unfold to us. Begin it, goddess, at whatever point you will.


All the survivors of the war had reached their homes by now and so put the perils of battle and the sea behind them. Odysseus alone was prevented from returning to the home and wife he longed for by that powerful goddess, the Nymph Calypso, who wished him to marry her, and kept him in her vaulted cave. Not even when the rolling seasons brought in the year which the gods had chosen for his homecoming to Ithaca was he clear of his troubles and safe among his friends. Yet all the gods were sorry for him, except Poseidon, who pursued the heroic Odysseus with relentless malice till the day when he reached his own country.
Poseidon, however, was now gone on a visit to the distant Ethiopians, the farthest outposts of mankind, half of whom live where the Sun goes down, and half where he rises. He had gone to accept a sacrifice of bulls and rams, and there he sat and en­joyed the pleasures of the feast. Meanwhile the rest of the gods had assembled in the palace of Olympian Zeus, and the Father of men and gods opened a discussion among them. He had been thinking of that nobleman, Aegisthus, whom Agamemnon’s son Orestes killed, to his own great renown; and it was with Aegisthus in his mind that Zeus now addressed the immortals:
“What a lamentable thing it is that men should blame the gods and regard us as the source of their troubles, when it is their own wickedness that brings them sufferings worse than any which Destiny allots them. Consider Aegisthus, who flouted Destiny by stealing Agamemnon’s wife and murdering her husband when he came home, though he knew the ruin this would entail, since we ourselves had sent Hermes, the keen-eyed Giant-slayer, to warn him neither to kill the man nor to make love to his wife. For Orestes, as Hermes pointed out, was bound to avenge Agamemnon as soon as he grew up and thought with longing of his home. Yet with all his friendly counsel Hermes failed to dissuade him. And now Aegisthus has paid the final price for all his sins.”
The goddess of the flashing eyes, Athene, took him up at once:
“Father of ours, Son of Cronos, King of Kings; the end of Aegisthus is just what he deserved. May all who act as he did share his fate! It is for Odysseus that my heart is wrung – the wise but unlucky Odysseus, who has been parted so long from all his friends and is pining on a lonely island far away in the middle of the seas. The island is well-wooded and a goddess lives there, the child of the malevolent Atlas, who knows the sea in all its depths and with his own shoulders supports the great columns that hold earth and sky apart. It is this wizard’s daughter who is keeping the unhappy man from home in spite of all his tears. Day after day she does her best to banish Ithaca from his memory with false and flattering words; and Odysseus, who would give any­thing for the mere sight of the smoke rising up from his own land, can only yearn for death. Yet your Olympian heart is quite unmoved. Tell me, did the sacrifices he made you by the Ar­gives’ ships on the plains of Troy find no favour in your sight? Why so much bitterness against him, O’ Zeus?”
“Nonsense, my child!” replied the Gatherer of the Clouds. “How could I ever forget the admirable Odysseus? He is not only the wisest man alive but has been the most generous in his offerings to the immortals who live in heaven. It is Poseidon, Girdler of Earth, who is so implacable towards him on account of the great Polyphemus, the Cyclops whom Odysseus blinded. For Polyphemus is not only chief of his tribe but the son of the Nymph Thoosa, daughter of Phorcys, Warden of the Salt Sea Waves; and it was Poseidon who gave her this child when he slept with her in her cavern hollowed by the sea. That is why, ever since Polyphemus was blinded, Poseidon the Earth-shaker has kept Odysseus in exile, though he stops short of killing him. But come now, let all of us here put our heads together and find a way to get him home. I am sure Poseidon will relent. For he cannot possibly hold out alone against the united will of the immortal gods.”
Bright-eyed Athene answered him: “Father of ours, Son of Cronos, King of Kings; if it is really the pleasure of the blessed gods that the wise Odysseus shall return to Ithaca, let us send our messenger, Hermes the Giant-killer, to the isle of Ogygia, to tell the fair Calypso at once of our decision that her long-suffering guest must now set out for home. Meanwhile I myself will go to Ithaca to instil a little more spirit into Odysseus’ son and to embolden him to call his long-haired compatriots to an assembly and speak his mind to that mob of suitors who spend their time in the wholesale slaughter of his sheep and fatted cattle. After which I shall send him off to Sparta and to sandy Pylos to seek news of his father’s return. It is possible that he may hear of him; and the effort will redound to his credit.”
When Athene had finished she bound under her feet her lovely sandals of untarnishable gold, which carried her with the speed of the wind over the water or the unending land, and she seized her heavy spear with its point of sharpened bronze, the huge long spear with which she breaks the noble warriors’ ranks, when she, the Daughter of the almighty Father, is roused to anger. Thus she flashed down from the heights of Olympus. On reaching Ithaca she took her stand on the threshold of the court in front of Odysseus’ house; and to look like a visitor she assumed the appearance of a Taphian chieftain named Mentes, bronze spear in hand.
She found the insolent Suitors sitting in front of the door on the hides of oxen they themselves had slaughtered, and playing draughts, while their squires and pages were busy round them, the squires blending wine and water in the mixing-bowls, and the pages carving meat in lavish portions or washing the tables with sponges before they set them ready again.
No-one noticed her at first but Telemachus, who was sitting disconsolate among the Suitors, dreaming of how his noble father might come back from out of the blue, drive all these gallants pell-mell from the house, and so regain his royal honours and reign over his own once more. Full of these visions, which were natural in such company, he caught sight of Athene and set off at once for the porch, thinking it a shame that a stranger should be kept standing at the gates. He went straight up to his visitor, shook hands, relieved him of his bronze spear and gave him cordial greetings.
“Welcome, sir, to our hospitality!” he said. “You can tell us what has brought you when you have had some food.”
With this he led the way and Pallas Athene followed. Once inside the lofty hall, he took her spear and put it away by one of the great pillars in a wooden rack with a number of other spears belonging to the stalwart Odysseus. He then conducted her to a carved chair, over which he spread a rug, and seated her there with a stool for her feet. For himself he drew up an inlaid easy-­chair, well away from the crowd of suitors, for fear that his guest might take offence at the uproar, and finding himself in such ill-mannered company turn with distaste from his meal. Moreover, he wished to question him about his absent father.
Presently a maid came with water in a handsome golden jug and poured it out over a silver basin so that they could rinse their hands. She then drew a polished table to their side, and the staid housekeeper brought some bread and set it by them with a choice of dainties, helping them liberally to all she could offer. Meanwhile a carver dished up for them on platters slices of various meats he had picked from his board, and put gold cups beside them, which a steward filled up with wine as he passed them on his frequent rounds.
The Suitors came swaggering in and took their seats in rows on the settles and chairs. Their squires poured water on their hands and the maids put piles of bread in baskets beside them, while the pages filled the mixing-bowls to the brim with drink. They helped themselves to the good things spread before them; and when all had satisfied their hunger and thirst, the Suitors turned their thoughts to other pleasures, to the music and dancing without which no banquet is complete. A herald brought a beautiful lyre and handed it to Phemius, the minstrel whom they had pressed into their service. He had just struck the first notes for some delightful song, when Telemachus leant across to the bright-eyed Athene, and whispered to her so that the others could not hear:
“I hope, sir, that I shall not embarrass you by my candour. How easy it is for that gang over there to think of nothing but music and songs! They are living scot-free on another man – a man whose white bones are rotting in the rain upon some distant land or rolling in the salt sea waves. One glimpse of him in Ithaca, and they’d give all they have for a faster pair of legs! But as it is, he has come to some dreadful end. No-one on earth can bring us a spark of comfort by telling us that he’ll come back. The day for that is gone for ever.
“However, do tell me who you are and where you come from. What is your native town? Who are your people? And since you certainly cannot have come on foot, what kind of vessel brought you here? How did the crew come to land you in Ithaca, and who did they claim to be? Then there’s another thing I’d like to know. Is this your first visit to Ithaca, or have my people received you before – as is very likely, for my father used to entertain in our house just as much as he visited abroad?”
“I will tell you everything,” answered the bright-eyed goddess Athene. “My father was the wise prince, Anchialus. My own name is Mentes, and I am chieftain of the sea-faring Taphians. As for my arrival in Ithaca, I came with my own ship and crew across the wine-dark sea. We are bound for the foreign port of Temese with a cargo of gleaming iron, which we mean to trade for copper. My ship is not berthed near the city, but over there by the open country, in Reithron Cove, under the woods of Neion. As for our families, the ties between them go a long way back, as the old lord Laertes would tell you if you went and asked him. For I gather that he no longer comes to town, but lives a hard and lonely life on his farm with an old woman-­servant, who puts his food and drink before him when he has tired himself out by dragging his legs up and down his vineyard on the hill.
“The reason for my presence here is this. I actually heard that he was home – I mean your father. And though it seems that the gods are putting every difficulty in his way, I still maintain that the good Odysseus is not dead, but alive somewhere on earth. I think he must be on some distant island out in the sea, in the hands of enemies, savages no doubt, who keep him there by force. Now I am no seer or soothsayer, but I will venture on a prophecy to you – one that I feel is inspired and will come true. Your father will not be exiled much longer from the land he loves so well, not even if he’s kept in irons. Trust Odysseus to get free: he always finds a way.
“But tell me, are you really Odysseus’ son? How you have grown! You certainly have his head and his fine eyes. The likeness is startling to one who met him as often as I did, though that was before he embarked for Troy and the Argive captains all set out in their great ships. From that day to this, Odysseus and I have never set eyes on each other.”
Telemachus answered discreetly. “My friend,” he said, “I shall be candid too. My mother certainly says I am Odysseus’ son; but for myself I cannot tell. It’s a wise child that knows its own father. Ah, if only I were the son of some lucky man overtaken by old age in the midst of his belongings! As it is, and since you ask me, the man whose son they say I am is the most unfortunate, that ever lived.”
“And yet,” said the goddess of the flashing eyes, “with you as you are, and with Penelope for your mother, I cannot think that your house is doomed to an inglorious future. But here is another matter I should like you to explain. What is the meaning of this banquet? Who are all these people? And what is your concern in the affair? No signs of a subscription supper here! Perhaps it is a dinner-party or a wedding-feast? At any rate the banqueters appear to be making free of your house in a most improper way. Any decent man would be disgusted at the sight of such unseemly behaviour.”
“My friend,” Telemachus soberly replied, “you may well ask what is going on. There was a time when this house was by way of being prosperous and respectable. That was when Odysseus, whom you mentioned just now, was still among us. But since then, the gods have had other and more sinister designs; and they have served him as they never served a man before: they have made him vanish. His death itself, if he had fallen among his men at Troy or died in friendly arms when all his fighting was done, would have caused me less distress. For in that case the whole Achaean nation would have joined in building him a mound, and he would have left a great name for his son to in­herit. But there was to be no famous end for him; the Storm-Fiends have spirited him away. He has ceased to exist for us, and to me has left nothing but sorrow and tears. Nor is it only on his account that I am so anxious and unhappy, for the gods have gone on piling troubles on my head. Of all the island-chieftains in Dulichium, in Same, in wooded Zacynthus, or in rocky Ithaca, there is not one that isn’t courting my mother and wast­ing my property. As for her, she neither refuses, though she hates the idea of remarrying, nor can she bring herself to take the final step. Meanwhile they are eating me out of house and home. And I shouldn’t be surprised if they finished me myself.”
Pallas Athene gave vent to her indignation. “For shame!” she cried. “It is certainly high time your lost father came to grips with this impudent gang. If only he could show himself at this moment at the palace gates, with his helmet, his shield and his two spears, just as he was when I first saw him, drinking and rollicking in our house, that time he came up from Ephyre after a visit to Ilus son of Mermerus. He had sailed there in search of a deadly poison to smear on the bronze tips of his arrows, and Ilus, a god-fearing man, refused to supply him; but my father, who loved him dearly, gave him what he wanted. Yes, if only Odys­seus, as he then was, could get among these Suitors, there’d be a quick death and a sorry wedding for them all. But such matters, of course, lie on the knees of the gods. They must decide whether or no he’s to come back and settle accounts in his palace. Mean­while I do urge you to find some way of ridding the house of these Suitors. Listen carefully to what I suggest. To-morrow morning call the Achaean lords to Assembly and make an an­nouncement to them all, asking the gods to witness what you say. Tell the Suitors to be off, each to his own place. As for your mother, if she is set on marrying, let her go back to her father’s house. He is a man of consequence, and the family will provide a marriage feast, and see that she has a generous dowry, as is only right for a daughter they value. For yourself, here is my advice. It is sound, and I hope you will take it. Choose your best ship, man her with twenty oars, and set out to discover why your father has been gone so long. Someone may be able to tell you about him, or you may pick up one of those rumours from heaven that so often spread the truth. Go to Pylos first and cross­-examine the excellent Nestor; then on to Sparta to see red-haired Menelaus, since he was the last of the Achaeans to get home from the war. If you hear that your father is alive and on his way back, you might reconcile yourself to a year more of this wastage. But if you learn that he is dead and gone, return to your own country, build him a mound with all the proper funeral rites, and give your mother away to a new husband. This settled and done with, you must cudgel your own brains for some way of destroying this mob in your house, either by cunning or in open fight. You are no longer a child: you must put childish thoughts away. Have you not heard what a name Prince Orestes made for himself in the world when he killed the traitor Aegisthus for murdering his noble father? You, my friend – and what a tall and splendid fellow you have grown!­ – must be as brave as Orestes. Then future generations will sing your praises.
“But my crew must be tired of waiting for me, and I’ll be off now to my good ship. I leave the matter in your hands. Think over what I have said.”
“Sir,” said the wise Telemachus, “you have spoken to me out of the kindness of your heart like a father talking to his son; and I shall never forget your words. I know you are anxious to be on your way, but I beg you to stay a little longer, so that you can bathe and refresh yourself. Then you can go to your ship in a happy frame of mind, taking with you as a keep-sake from my­self something precious and beautiful, the sort of present that one gives to a guest who has become a friend.”
“No,” said the bright-eyed goddess. “I am eager to be on my way; please do not detain me now. As for the gift you kindly suggest, let me take it home with me on my way back. Make it the best you can find, and you won’t lose by the exchange.”
The goddess spoke and the next moment she was gone, van­ishing like a bird through a hole in the roof. But she left Tele­machus full of spirit and daring, and concerned for his father even more than he had been before. He felt the change and was overcome with awe, for he realized that a god had been with him.
The young prince now rejoined the Suitors. He found them listening in silence to a song which their admirable bard was singing to them, about the Achaeans’ return from Troy and the disasters that Pallas Athene made them suffer. In her room up­stairs, Penelope, wise daughter of Icarius, caught the words of his stirring ballad and came down from her quarters by the steep staircase, not alone, but with two waiting-women in attendance. Face to face with her suitors the great lady drew a fold of her bright head-dress over her cheeks and took her stand by a pillar of the massive roof, with one of her faithful maids on either side. Then, bursting into tears, she broke in on the worthy minstrel.
“Phemius,” she said, “with your knowledge of the ballads that poets have made about the deeds of men or gods you could en­chant us with many other tales than this. Choose one of those now for your audience here, and let them drink their wine in peace. But give us no more of your present song. It is too sad: it never fails to wring my heart. For in that catastrophe no-one was dealt a heavier blow than I, who pass my days in mourning for the best of husbands, the man whose name rings through the land from Hellas to the heart of Argos.”
But Telemachus would not let Penelope have her way. “Mother,” he said, “why grudge our loyal bard the right to enter­tain us as the spirit moves him? Surely it is not the poets that are responsible for what happens, but Zeus himself, who deals with each of us toilers on earth as he sees fit? We cannot blame Phemius if he chooses to sing of the Danaans’ tragic fate, for it is always the latest song that an audience applauds the most. You must be brave and nerve yourself to listen, for Odysseus is not the only one who has never returned from Troy. Troy was the end of many another man. So go to your quarters now and attend to your own work, the loom and the spindle, and tell the servants to get on with theirs. Talking must be the men’s con­cern, and mine in particular; for I am master in this house.”
Penelope was taken aback; and she retired to her own apart­ments, for she was impressed by the good sense that her son had shown. Attended by her maids, she went upstairs to her bed­room, and there she wept for Odysseus, her beloved husband, till bright-eyed Athene closed her eyes in grateful sleep.
Meanwhile in the shadowy hall the Suitors burst into uproar, and each man voiced the hope that he might share her bed.
But the wise Telemachus called them to order. “Gentlemen,” he cried “from you who court my mother, this is sheer insol­ence. For the moment, let us dine and enjoy ourselves – quietly, I insist, for it is a lovely thing to listen to a minstrel such as we have here, with a voice like a god. But in the morning I propose that we all take our places in Assembly, so that I can give you formal notice to quit my palace. Yes, you can feast yourselves elsewhere, and eat your own provisions in each other’s homes. But if you think it a sounder scheme to destroy one man’s estate and go scot-free yourselves, then eat your fill, while I pray to the immortal gods for a day of reckoning, when I can go scot-free though I destroy you in this house of mine.”
It amazed them all that Telemachus should have the audacity to adopt this tone, and they could only bite their lips. But at last Antinous, Eupeithes’ son, spoke up in answer: “It seems that the gods are already helping you, Telemachus, by teaching you this bald and haughty way of speaking. Being your father’s son, you are heir to this island realm. Heaven grant that you may never be its king!”
But Telemachus was not at a loss. “Antinous,” he answered, “it may disappoint you to learn that I should gladly accept that office from the hands of Zeus. Perhaps you argue that nothing worse could happen to a man? I, on the contrary, maintain that it is no bad thing to be a king – to see one’s house enriched and one’s authority enhanced. However, the Achaeans are not short of princes; young and old they swarm in sea-girt Ithaca. And since the great Odysseus is dead, one of them must surely suc­ceed him. But I intend at least to be master of my own house and the servants whom my royal father won for me in war.”
This time it was Eurymachus son of Polybus who answered him: “Telemachus, the gods must of course decide who is to be our king in sea-girt Ithaca. But by all means keep your own be­longings and rule your own house. God forbid that anyone should come and lay violent hands on your property, as long as Ithaca has people in it.
“But, my dear Telemachus, do tell us something about that guest of yours. Where did the man come from? What account does he give of his country? Who might his people be? And what is his native place? Does he bring news of your father’s coming, or is he here on business of his own? He jumped up and was gone so suddenly that he gave one no time to get to know him, as I should gladly have done, for to judge by his looks he was a man of gentle birth.”
“Eurymachus,” the wise young prince replied, “it is certain that my father will never come back. So I no longer believe any rumours, whatever their source, nor have I any use for the skill of such diviners as my mother may call in for consultation. As for my guest, he is an old friend of my father’s from Taphos. He introduced himself as Mentes, the son of a wise man Anchialus, and chieftain of the sea-faring Taphians.” In this way Tele­machus described the visitor whom in his heart he knew for an immortal goddess.
From then till dusk they gave themselves up to the pleasures of dancing and the delights of song. Night fell and found them making merry still; but at last they went off to bed, each to his own house. Telemachus, with much to turn over in his mind, retired to his own bedroom, a lofty chamber in the fine court­yard with a clear view on every side. He was escorted by Eurycleia, who carried a blazing torch. This Eurycleia, daughter of Ops and grand-daughter of Peisenor, was a servant of sterling character whom Laertes had procured at his own cost long ago, when she was still a girl, for the price of twenty oxen. He had treated her in his home with all the deference that is paid to a loyal wife, though for fear of his lady’s displeasure he had re­spected her bed. It was she who now served as torch-bearer to his grandson; and she who of all the household women loved him most, for she had nursed him as a child.
Telemachus threw open the door of his comfortable room, sat down on the bed and took off his soft tunic, which he put in the wise old woman’s hands. After folding and smoothing it out, she hung it on a peg by the wooden bedstead, and withdrew from the bedroom, pulling the door to by the silver handle and shooting the bolt home by means of its leather thong. And there, all the night long, under his woollen blanket, Telemachus lay planning in his mind the journey that Athene had pre­scribed.

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