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STORIES FROM THE ODYSSEY

Retold by

H. L. HAVELL B.A.

Late Reader in English in the University of Halle
Formerly Scholar of University College Oxford

Author of _Stories from Herodotus_, _Stories from Greek Tragedy_,
_Stories from the Æneid_, _Stories from the Iliad_, etc.

[Illustration: Reading from Homer]

            "O well for him whose will is strong!
            He suffers, but he will not suffer long;
            He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong:
            For him nor moves the loud world's random mock
            Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound
            Who seems a promontory of rock,
            That compass'd round with turbulent sound
            In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
            Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd."
                                            TENNYSON

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

TELEMACHUS, PENELOPE, AND THE SUITORS

THE ASSEMBLY; THE VOYAGE OF TELEMACHUS

THE VISIT TO NESTOR AT PYLOS

TELEMACHUS AT SPARTA

ODYSSEUS AND CALYPSO

ODYSSEUS AMONG THE PHÆACIANS

THE WANDERINGS OF ODYSSEUS

THE VISIT TO HADES

THE SIRENS; SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS; THRINACIA

ODYSSEUS LANDS IN ITHACA

ODYSSEUS AND EUMÆUS

THE RETURN OF TELEMACHUS

THE MEETING OF TELEMACHUS AND ODYSSEUS

THE HOME-COMING OF ODYSSEUS

THE BEGGAR IRUS

PENELOPE AND THE WOOERS

ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE

THE END DRAWS NEAR; SIGNS AND WONDERS

THE BOW OF ODYSSEUS

THE SLAYING OF THE WOOERS

ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE

CONCLUSION

PRONOUNCING LIST OF NAMES

ILLUSTRATIONS

READING FROM HOMER (L. Alma Tadema)

PENELOPE (The Vatican, Rome)

TELEMACHUS DEPARTING FROM NESTOR (Henry Howard)

ODYSSEUS AND NAUSICAÄ (Charles Gleyre)

ODYSSEUS AND POLYPHEMUS (J. M. W. Turner)

CIRCE (Sir E. Burne-Jones)

THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS (L. F. Schützenberger)

ODYSSEUS AND EURYCLEIA (Christian G. Heyne)

INTRODUCTION

The impersonal character of the Homeric poems has left us entirely in
the dark as to the birthplace, the history, and the date, of their
author. So complete is the darkness which surrounds the name of Homer
that his very existence has been disputed, and his works have been
declared to be an ingenious compilation, drawn from the productions of
a multitude of singers. It is not my intention here to enter into the
endless and barren controversy which has raged round this question. It
will be more to the purpose to try and form some general idea of the
characteristics of the Greek Epic; and to do this it is necessary to
give a brief review of the political and social conditions in which it
was produced.

The world as known to Homer is a mere fragment of territory, including
a good part of the mainland of Greece, with the islands and coast
districts of the Ægæan. Outside of these limits his knowledge of
geography is narrow indeed. He has heard of Sicily, which he speaks of
under the name of Thrinacia; and he speaks once of Libya, or the north
coast of Africa, as a district famous for its breed of sheep. There is
one vague reference to the vast Scythian or Tartar race (called by
Homer Thracians), who live on the milk of mares; and he mentions a
copper-coloured people, the "Red-faces," who dwell far remote in the
east and west. The Nile is mentioned, under the name of Ægyptus; and
the Egyptians are celebrated by the poet as a people skilled in
medicine, a statement which is repeated by Herodotus. The Phoenicians
appear several times in the _Odyssey_, and we hear once or twice of
the Sidonians, as skilled workers in metal. As soon as we pass these
boundaries, we enter at once into the region of fairyland.

II

In speaking of the religion of the Homeric Greeks we have to draw a
distinction between the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_. In the _Iliad_ the
gods play a much livelier and more human part than in the latter poem,
and it is highly remarkable that the only comic scenes in the first
and greatest of epics are those in which the gods are the chief
actors--as when the lame Hephæstus takes upon him the office of
cupbearer at the Olympian banquet, or when Artemis gets her ears boxed
by the angry Hera. It would almost seem as if there were a vein of
deliberate satire running through these descriptions, so daring is the
treatment of the divine personages.

In the _Odyssey_, on the other hand, religion has become more
spiritual. Olympus is no longer the mountain of that name, but a vague
term, like our "heaven," denoting a place remote from all earthly
cares and passions, a far-off abode in the stainless ether, where the
gods dwell in everlasting peace, and from which they occasionally
descend, to give an eye to the righteous and unrighteous deeds of men.

In his conception of the state of the soul after death Homer is very
interesting. His _Hades_, or place of departed spirits, is a dim,
shadowy region beyond the setting of the sun, where, after life's
trials are over, the souls of men keep up a faint and feeble being. It
is highly significant that the word which in Homer means "self" has
also the meaning of "body"--showing how intimately the sense of
personal identity was associated with the condition of bodily
existence. The disembodied spirit is compared to a shadow, a dream, or
a waft of smoke. "Alas!" cries Achilles, after a visit from the ghost
of Patroclus, "I perceive that even in the halls of Hades there is a
spirit and a phantom, but understanding none at all"; for the mental
condition of these cold, uncomfortable ghosts is as feeble as their
bodily form is shadowy and unsubstantial. They hover about with a
fitful motion, uttering thin, gibbering cries, like the voice of a
bat, and before they can obtain strength to converse with a visitor
from the other world, they have to be fortified by a draught of fresh
blood. The subject is summed up by Achilles, when Odysseus felicitates
him on the honour which he enjoys, even in Hades: "Tell me not of
comfort in death," he says: "I had rather be the thrall of the poorest
wight that ever tilled a thankless soil for bread, than rule as king
over all the shades of the departed."

Homeric society is essentially aristocratic. At its head stands the
king, who may be a great potentate, like Agamemnon, ruling over a wide
extent of territory, or a petty prince, like Odysseus, who exercises a
sort of patriarchal authority within the limits of a small island. The
person of the king is sacred, and his office is hereditary. He bears
the title of _Diogenes_, "Jove-born," and is under the especial
protection of the supreme ruler of Olympus. He is leader in war, chief
judge, president of the council of elders, and representative of the
state at the public sacrifices. The symbol of his office is the
sceptre, which in some cases is handed down as an heirloom from father
to son.

Next to the king stand the elders, a title which has no reference to
age, but merely denotes those of noble birth and breeding. The elders
form a senate, or deliberative body, before which all questions of
public importance are laid by the king. Their decisions are afterwards
communicated to the general assembly of the people, who signify their
approval or dissent by tumultuous cries, but have no power of altering
or reversing the measures proposed by the nobles. Thus we have already
the three main elements of political life: king, lords, and
commons--though the position of the last is at present almost entirely
passive.

IV

The morality of the Homeric age is such as we may expect to find among
a people which has only partially emerged from barbarism. Crimes of
violence are very common, and a familiar figure in the society of this
period is that of the fugitive, who "has slain a man," and is flying
from the vengeance of his family. Patroclus, when a mere boy, kills
his youthful playmate in a quarrel over a game of knucklebones--an
incident which may be seen illustrated in one of the statues in the
British Museum. One of the typical scenes of Hellenic life depicted on
the shield of Achilles is a trial for homicide; and such cases were of
so frequent occurrence that they afford materials for a simile in the
last book of the _Iliad_.

Where life is held so cheap, opinion is not likely to be very strict
in matters of property. And we find accordingly a general acquiescence
in "the good old rule, the ancient plan, that they may take who have
the power, and they may keep who can." Cattle-lifting is as common as
it formerly was on the Scottish border. The bold buccaneer is a
character as familiar as in the good old days when Drake and Raleigh
singed the Spanish king's beard, with this important difference, that
the buccaneer of ancient Greece plundered Greek and barbarian with
fine impartiality. A common question addressed to persons newly
arrived from the sea is, "Are you a merchant, a traveller, or a
pirate?" And this curious query implies no reproach, and calls for no
resentment. Still more startling are the terms in which Autolycus, the
maternal grandfather of Odysseus, is spoken of. This worthy, we are
informed, "surpassed all mankind in thieving and lying"; and the
information is given in a manner which shows that the poet intended it
as a grave compliment. In another passage the same hero is celebrated
as an accomplished burglar. So low was the standard of Homeric ethics
in this respect; and even in the historical age of Greece, want of
honesty and want of truthfulness were too often conspicuous failings
in some of her most famous men.

Even more shocking to the moral sense is the wild ferocity which
sometimes breaks out in the language and conduct of both men and
women. The horrible practice of mutilating the dead after a battle is
viewed with indifference, and even with complacency, by the bravest
warriors. Even Patroclus, the most amiable of the heroes in the
_Iliad_, proposes to inflict this dastardly outrage on the body of the
fallen Sarpedon. Achilles drags the body of Hector behind his chariot
from the battlefield, and keeps it in his tent for many days, that he
may repeat this hideous form of vengeance in honour of his slaughtered
friend. When the dying Hector begs him to restore his body to the
Trojans for burial he replies with savage taunts, and wishes that he
could find it in his heart to carve the flesh of Hector and eat it
raw! And Hecuba, the venerable Queen of Troy, expresses herself in
similar terms when Priam is preparing to set forth on his mission to
the tent of Achilles.

Turning now to the more attractive side of the picture, we shall find
much to admire in the character of Homer's heroes. In the first place
we have to note their intense vitality and keen sense of pleasure,
natural to a young and vigorous people. The outlook on life is
generally bright and cheerful, and there is hardly any trace of that
corroding pessimism which meets us in later literature. Cases of
suicide, so common in the tragedians, are almost unknown.

In one respect, and that too a point of the very highest importance,
the Greeks of this age were far in advance of those who came after
them, and not behind the most polished nations of modern Europe. We
refer to the beauty, the tenderness, and the purity of their domestic
relations. The whole story of the _Odyssey_ is founded on the faithful
wedded love of Odysseus and Penelope, and the contrasted example of
Agamemnon and his demon wife is repeatedly held up to scorn and
abhorrence. The world's poetry affords no nobler scene than the
parting of Hector and Andromache in the _Iliad_, nor has the ideal of
perfect marriage ever found grander expression than in the words
addressed by Odysseus to Nausicaä: "There is nothing mightier and
nobler than when man and wife are of one mind and heart in a house, a
grief to their foes, and to their friends a great joy, but their own
hearts know it best."[1]

[Footnote 1: Butcher and Lang's translation.]

Hospitality in a primitive state of society, where inns are unknown,
is not so much a virtue as a necessity. Even in these early times the
Greeks, within the limits of their little world, were great
travellers, and their swift chariots, and galleys propelled by sail
and oar, enabled them to make considerable journeys with speed and
safety. Arrived at their destination for the night they were sure of a
warm welcome at the first house at which they presented themselves;
and he who played the host on one occasion expected and found a like
return when, perhaps years afterwards, he was brought by business or
pleasure to the home of his former guest. Nor were these privileges
confined to the wealthy and noble, who were able, when the time came,
to make payment in kind, but the poorest and most helpless outcast,
the beggar, the fugitive, and the exile, found countenance and
protection, when he made his plea in the name of Zeus, the god of
hospitality.

V

This frankness and simplicity of manners runs through the whole life
of the Homeric Greek, and is reflected in every page of the two great
epics which are the lasting monuments of that bright and happy age. As
civilisation advances, and life becomes more complicated and
artificial, human activity tends more and more to split up into an
infinite number of minute occupations, and the whole time and energy
of each individual are not more than sufficient to make him master in
some little corner of art, science, or industry. A vast system of
commerce brings the products of the whole world to our doors; and it
is almost appalling to think of the millions of toiling hands and busy
brains which must pass all their days in unceasing toil, in order that
the humblest citizen may find his daily wants supplied. To give only
one example: how vast and tremendous is the machinery which must be
set at work before a single letter or post-card can reach its
destination! This multiplication of needs, and endless subdivision of
labour, too often results in stunting and crippling the development of
the individual, so that it becomes harder, as time advances, to find a
complete man, with all his faculties matured by equable and harmonious
growth.

Very different were the conditions of life in the Homeric age. Then
the wealthy man's house was a little world in itself, capable of
supplying all the simple wants of its inhabitants. The women spun wool
and flax, the produce of the estate, and wove them into cloth and
linen, to be dyed and wrought into garments by the same skilful hands.
On the sunny slopes of the hills within sight of the doors the grapes
were ripening against the happy time of vintage, when merry troops of
children would bring them home with dance and song to be trodden in
the winepress. Nearer at hand was the well-kept orchard, bowing under
its burden of apples, pears, and figs; and groves of grey olive-trees
promised abundance of oil. In the valleys waved rich harvests of wheat
and barley, which were reaped, threshed, ground, and made into bread,
by the master's thralls. Herds of oxen, and flocks of sheep and goats,
roved on the broad upland pastures, and in the forest multitudes of
swine were fattening on the beech-mast and acorns.

And the owner of all these blessings was no luxurious drone, living in
idleness on the labour of other men's hands. He was, in the fullest
sense of the word, the father of his household. His was the vigilant
eye which watched and directed every member in the little army of
workers, and his the generous hand which dealt out bountiful reward
for faithful service. If need were he could take his share in the
hardest field labour, and plough a straight furrow, or mow a heavy
crop of grass from dawn till sunset without breaking his fast. Nothing
was too great or too little to engage his attention, as the necessity
arose. He was a warrior, whose single prowess might go far in deciding
the issue of a hard-fought battle--an orator, discoursing with weighty
eloquence on grave questions of state--a judge, whose decisions helped
to build up the as yet unwritten code of law. Descending from these
high altitudes, he could take up his bow and spear, and go forth to
hunt the boar and the stag, or wield the woodman's axe, or the
carpenter's saw and chisel. He could kill, dress, and serve his own
dinner; and when the strenuous day was over, he could tune the harp,
discourse sweet music, and sing of the deeds of heroes and gods.

Such was the versatility, and such the many-sided energy, of the Greek
as he appears in the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_. And as these two poems
contain the elements of all subsequent thought and progress in the
Greek nation, so in the typical character of Odysseus are concentrated
all the qualities which distinguish the individual Greek--his
insatiable curiosity, which left no field of thought unexplored--his
spirit of daring enterprise, which carried the banner of civilisation
to the borders of India and the Straits of Gibraltar--and his subtlety
and craft, which in a later age made him a byword to the grave
moralists of Rome.

In the _Iliad_ Odysseus is constantly exhibited as a contrast to the
youthful Achilles. Wherever prudence, experience, and policy, are
required, Odysseus comes to the front. In Achilles, with his furious
passions and ill-regulated impulses, there is always something of the
barbarian; while Odysseus in all his actions obeys the voice of
reason. It will readily be seen that such a character, essentially
intellectual, always moving within due measure, never breaking out
into eccentricity or excess, would appeal less to the popular
imagination than the fiery nature of Pelides, "strenuous, passionate,
implacable, and fierce." And on this ground we may partly explain the
unamiable light in which Odysseus appears in later Greek literature.
Already in Pindar we find him singled out for disapproval. In
Sophocles he has sunk still lower; and in Euripides his degradation is
completed.

VI

Space does not allow us to give a detailed criticism of the _Odyssey_
as a poem, and determine its relation to the _Iliad_. We must content
ourselves with quoting the words of the most eloquent of ancient
critics, which sum up the subject with admirable brevity and insight:
"Homer in his _Odyssey_ may be compared to the setting sun: he is
still as great as ever, but he has lost his fervent heat. The strain
is now pitched in a lower key than in the 'Tale of Troy divine': we
begin to miss that high and equable sublimity which never flags or
sinks, that continuous current of moving incidents, those rapid
transitions, that force of eloquence, that opulence of imagery which
is ever true to nature. Like the sea when it retires upon itself and
leaves its shores waste and bare, henceforth the tide of sublimity
begins to ebb, and draws us away into the dim region of myth and
legend."[1]

[Footnote 1: Longinus: "On the Sublime." Translated by H.L. Havell,
B.A. p. 20. Macmillan & Co.]

STORIES FROM THE ODYSSEY

Telemachus, Penelope, and the Suitors

In a high, level spot, commanding a view of the sea, stands the house
of Odysseus, the mightiest prince in Ithaca. It is a spacious
building, two storeys high, constructed entirely of wood, and
surrounded on all sides by a strong wooden fence. Within the
enclosure, and in front of the house, is a wide courtyard, containing
the stables, and other offices of the household.

A proud maiden was Penelope, when Odysseus wedded her in her youthful
bloom, and made her the mistress of his fair dwelling and his rich
domain. One happy year they lived together, and a son was born to
them, whom they named Telemachus. Then war arose between Greece and
Asia, and Odysseus was summoned to join the train of chieftains who
followed Agamemnon to win back Helen, his brother's wife. Ten years
the war lasted; then Troy was taken, and those who had survived the
struggle returned to their homes. Among these was Odysseus, who set
sail with joyful heart, hoping, before many days were passed, to take
up anew the thread of domestic happiness which had been so rudely
broken. But since that hour he has vanished from sight, and for ten
long years from the fall of Troy the house has been mourning its
absent lord.

During the last three years a new trouble has been present, to fill
the cup of Penelope's sorrow to the brim. A host of suitors, drawn
from the most powerful families in Ithaca and the neighbouring
islands, have beset the house of Odysseus, desiring to wed his wife
and possess her wealth. All her friends urge her to make choice of a
husband from that clamorous band; for no one now believes that there
is any hope left of Odysseus' return. Only Penelope still clings to
the belief that he is yet living, and will one day come home. So for
three years she has put them off by a cunning trick. She began to
weave a shroud for her father-in-law, Laertes, promising that, as soon
as the garment was finished, she would wed one of the suitors. Then
all day long she wove that choice web; and every night she undid the
work of the day, unravelling the threads which she had woven. So for
three years she beguiled the suitors, but at last she was betrayed by
her handmaids, and the fraud was discovered. The princes upbraided her
loudly for her deceit, and became more importunate than ever. The
substance of Odysseus was wasting away; for day after day the wooers
came thronging to the house, a hundred strong, and feasted at the
expense of its absent master, and drank up his wine.

No hope seems left to the heartbroken, faithful wife. Even her son has
grown impatient at the waste of his goods, and urges her to make the
hard choice, and the hateful hour is at hand which will part her for
ever from the scene of her brief wedded joy.

[Illustration: Penelope]

II

It was the hour of noon, and the sun was beating hot on the rocky
hills of Ithaca, when a solitary wayfarer was seen approaching the
outer gateway which led into the courtyard of Odysseus' house. He was
a man of middle age, dressed like a chieftain, and carrying a long
spear in his hand. Passing through the covered gateway he halted
abruptly, and gazed in astonishment at the strange sight which met his
eyes. All was noise and bustle in the courtyard, where a busy troop of
servants were preparing the materials for a great feast. Some were
carrying smoking joints of roast meat, others were filling huge bowls
with wine and water, and others were washing the tables and setting
them out to dry. In the portico before the house sat a great company
of young nobles, comely of aspect, and daintily attired, taking their
ease on couches of raw ox-hide, and playing at draughts to while away
the time until the banquet should be ready. Loud was their talk, and
boisterous their laughter, as of men who have no respect for
themselves or for others. "Surely this was the house of Odysseus,"
murmured the stranger to himself, "but now it seems like a den of
thieves. But who is that tall and goodly lad, who sits apart, with
gloomy brow, and seems ill-pleased with the doings of that riotous
crew? Surely I should know that face, the very face of my old friend
as I knew him long years ago."

As he spoke, the youth who had attracted his notice glanced in his
direction, and seeing a stranger standing unheeded at the entrance, he
rose from his seat and came with hasty step and heightened colour
towards him. "Forgive me, friend," he said, with hand outstretched in
welcome, "that I marked thee not before. My thoughts were far away.
But come into the house, and sit down to meat, and when thou hast
eaten we will inquire the reason of thy coming."

So saying, and taking the stranger's spear, he led him into the great
hall of the house, and sat down with him in a corner, remote from the
noise of the revel. And a handmaid bare water in a golden ewer, and
poured it over their hands into a basin of silver; and when they had
washed, a table was set before them, heaped with delicate fare. Then
host and guest took their meal together, and comforted their hearts
with wine.

Before they had finished, the whole company came trooping in from the
courtyard, and filled the room with uproar, calling aloud for food and
drink. Not a chair was left empty, and the servants hurried to and
fro, supplying the wants of these unwelcome visitors. Vast quantities
of flesh were consumed, and many a stout jar of wine was drained to
the dregs, to supply the wants of that greedy multitude.

When at last their hunger was appeased, and every goblet stood empty,
Phemius, the minstrel, stood up in their midst, and after striking a
few chords on his harp, began to sing a famous lay. Then the youth who
had been entertaining the stranger drew closer his chair, and thus
addressed him, speaking low in his ear: "Thou seest what fair company
we keep, how wanton they are, and how gay. Yet there was once a man
who would have driven them, like beaten hounds, from this hall, even
he whose substance they are devouring. But his bones lie whitening at
the bottom of the sea, and we who are left must tamely suffer this
wrong. But now thou hast eaten, and I may question thee without
reproach. Say, therefore, who art thou, and where is thy home? Comest
thou for the first time to Ithaca, or art thou an old friend of this
house, bound to us by ties of ancient hospitality?"

"My name is Mentes," answered the stranger, "and I am a prince of the
Taphians, a bold race of sailors. I am a friend of this house, well
known to its master, Odysseus, and his father, Laertes. Be of good
cheer, for he whom thou mournest is not dead, nor shall his coming be
much longer delayed. But tell me now of a truth, art not thou the son
of that man? I knew him well, and thou hast the very face and eyes of
Odysseus."

"My mother calls me his son," replied the youth, who was indeed
Telemachus himself, "and I am bound to believe her. Would that it were
otherwise! I have little cause to bless my birth."

"Yet shalt thou surely be blest," said Mentes; "thou art not unmarked
of the eye of Heaven. But answer me once more, what means this lawless
riot in the house? And what cause has brought all these men hither?"

"This also thou shalt know," replied Telemachus. "These are the
princes who have come to woo my mother; and while she keeps them
waiting for her answer they eat up my father's goods. Ere long,
methinks, they will make an end of me also."

"Fit wooers indeed for the wife of such a man!" said Mentes with a
bitter smile. "Would that he were standing among them now as I saw him
once in my father's house, armed with helmet and shield and spear! He
would soon wed them to another bride. But whether it be God's will
that he return or not, 'tis for thee to devise means to drive these
men from thy house. Take heed, therefore, to my words, and do as I bid
thee. To-morrow thou shalt summon the suitors to the place of
assembly, and charge them that they depart to their homes. And do thou
thyself fit out a ship, with twenty rowers, and get thee to Pylos,
where the aged Nestor dwells, and inquire of him concerning thy
father. From Pylos proceed to Sparta, the kingdom of Menelaus; he was
the last of the Greeks to reach home, after the fall of Troy; and
perchance thou mayest learn something from him. And if thou hearest
sure tidings of thy father's death, then get thee home, and raise a
tomb to his memory, and keep his funeral feast. Then let thy mother
wed whom she will; and if these men still beset thee, thou must devise
means to slay them, either by guile or openly. Thou art now a man, and
must play a man's part. Hast thou not heard of the fame which Orestes
won, when he slew the murderer of his sire? Be thou valiant, even as
he; tall thou art, and fair, and shouldst be a stout man of thy hands.
But 'tis time for me to be going; my ship awaits me in the harbour,
and my comrades will be tired of waiting for me."

"Stay yet awhile," answered Telemachus, "until thou hast refreshed
thyself with the bath; and I will give thee a costly gift to bear with
thee as a memorial of thy visit." But even as he spoke Mentes rose
from his seat and, gliding like a shadow through the sunlit doorway,
disappeared. Telemachus followed, in wonder and displeasure; but no
trace of the strange visitor was to be seen. Looking upward he saw a
great sea-eagle winging his way towards the shore; and a voice seemed
to whisper in his ear: "No mortal was thy guest, but the great goddess
Athene, daughter of Zeus, and ever thy father's true comrade and
faithful ally."

With a strange elation of spirits Telemachus returned to the hall, and
sat down among the suitors. Hitherto he had shown a certain weakness
and indecision of character, natural in a young lad, who had grown up
without the strong guiding hand of a father, and who, since the first
dawn of his manhood, had been surrounded by a host of subtle foes. But
the words of Athene have gone home, and he resolves that from this
hour he will take his proper place in the house as his mother's
guardian and the heir of a great prince.

There was an unwonted stillness among that lawless troop, and they sat
silent and attentive in the great, dimly lighted chamber. For the
minstrel was singing a sweet and solemn strain, which told of the
home-coming of the Greeks from Troy, and of all the disasters which
befell them on the way. Suddenly the singer paused in the midst of his
lay, for his fine ear had caught the sound of a sobbing sigh. Looking
round, he saw a tall and stately lady standing in the doorway which
led to the women's apartments at the back of the house. She was
closely veiled, but he instantly recognised the form of Penelope, his
beloved mistress.

"Phemius," said Penelope, in a tone of gentle reproach, "hast thou no
other lay to sing, but must needs recite this tale of woe, which fills
my soul with tears, by calling up the image of him for whom I sorrow
night and day?"

Phemius stood abashed, and ventured no reply; but Telemachus answered
for him. "Mother," he said, "blame not the sweet minstrel for his
song. The bard is not the author of the woes of which he sings, but
Zeus assigns to each his portion of good and ill; and thou must submit
to his ordinance, like many another lady who has lost her lord. Thou
hast thy province in the house, and I mine; thine is to govern thy
handmaids, and mine to take the lead where the men are gathered
together. And I say that the minstrel has chosen well."

There was a new note of command in the voice of Telemachus as he
uttered these words. Penelope heard it, and wondered what change had
come over her son; but a hundred bold eyes were gazing insolently at
her, and without another word she turned away, and ascended the steep
stairs which led to her bower. There she reclined on a couch, and her
tears flowed freely; for the song of Phemius had reopened the fountain
of her grief. Presently the sound of sobbing died away, and she drew
her breath gently in a sweet and placid sleep.

The sudden appearance of Penelope had excited the suitors, and they
began to brawl noisily among themselves. Presently Telemachus raised
his voice, commanding silence for the minstrel. "And I have something
else to say unto you," he added. "To-morrow at dawn I bid you come to
the place of assembly, that we may make an end of these wild doings in
my house. I will bear it no longer, but will publish your evil deeds
to the ears of gods and men."

Among the suitors there was a certain Antinous, a tall and stout
fellow, of commanding presence, who was looked up to by the others as
a sort of leader, being the boldest and most brutal in the band. And
now he answered for the rest "Heaven speed thy boasting, young
braggart!" he cried in rude and jeering tones. "It will be a happy day
for the men of Ithaca when they have thee for their king."

"I claim not the kingdom," answered Telemachus firmly, "but I am
resolved to be master in my own house."

By the side of Antinous sat Eurymachus, who was next to him in power
and rank. This was a smooth and subtle villain, not less dangerous
than Antinous, but glib and plausible of speech. And he too made
answer after his kind: "Telemachus, thou sayest well, and none can
dispute thy right. But with thy good leave I would ask thee concerning
the stranger. He seemed a goodly man; but why did he start up and
leave us so suddenly? Did he bring any tidings of thy father?"

"There can be no tidings of him," answered Telemachus sadly, "except
that we shall never see him again. And as to this stranger, it was
Mentes, a friend of my father's, and prince of the Taphians."

Night was now coming on, the suitors departed to their homes, and
Telemachus, who meditated an early start next day, retired early to
his chamber. The room where he slept stood in the courtyard, apart
from the house, and was reached by a stairway. He was attended by an
aged dame, Eurycleia, who had nursed him in his infancy. And all night
long he lay sleepless, pondering on the perils and the adventures
which awaited him.

The Assembly; The Voyage of Telemachus

At the first peep of dawn Telemachus was afoot, and summoning the
heralds he ordered them to make proclamation of an assembly to be held
in a public place in the town of Ithaca. Then he went down to the
place of assembly, with two favourite hounds following close at his
heels; and when he arrived he found the princes and elders of the
people already gathered together. All eyes were turned to the gallant
lad, as he sat down on his father's seat among the noblest of the sons
of Ithaca. Never had he worn so princely an air, or seemed so worthy
of his mighty sire.

Then the old chieftain Ægyptus began the debate; he was bent double
with age, and one of his sons, Antiphus, had followed Odysseus to
Troy, while another, Eurynomus, was among the suitors of Penelope. It
was of Antiphus that he thought, as he stood up and made harangue
among the elders:

"Who has summoned us hither, and what is his need? Never have we met
together in council since the day when Odysseus set sail from Ithaca.
Hath any tidings come of the return of those who followed him to Troy,
or is it some other business of public moment which has called us
hither? But whoever sent out this summons, I doubt not he is a worthy
man, and may Zeus accomplish his purpose, whatever it be."

Such chance sayings were regarded as a sign of Heaven's will, and
Telemachus rejoiced in spirit at the old man's blessing. And forthwith
he stood up in the midst, and, taking the sceptre from the herald's
hand, rushed at once into the subject of which his mind was full.

"Behold me here, old man," he said, addressing Ægyptus. "It is I who
have called you together, and surely not without a cause. Is it not
enough that I have lost my brave father, whose gentleness and
loving-kindness ye all knew, when he was your king? But must I sit
still, day after day, and see the fattest of my flocks and herds
slaughtered, and the red wine poured out wastefully, by these men who
have come to woo my mother? Take shame to yourselves, and restrain
them; fear the reproach of men, and the wrath of Heaven, and suffer me
not thus to be evilly entreated, unless ye harbour revengeful thoughts
against my father, for some wrong which he has done you."

He had spoken thus far, when tears choked his voice, and flinging the
sceptre on the ground he returned to his seat. There was a general
feeling of compassion among his hearers, and not one of the suitors
ventured to answer him, save only Antinous, who began in his wonted
style of brutal insolence, upbraiding Telemachus in violent terms, and
throwing all the blame on Penelope, who, he said, had beguiled them
for three years by holding out promises which she never meant to
fulfil. Then he told the story of Penelope's web, and concluded his
speech with these words:

"As long as thy mother continues in this mind, so long will we stay
here and consume thy living. If thou wouldst be quit of us, send her
to her father's house and bid her marry the man of her choice."

Telemachus replied: "How can I drive away the mother who bare me and
nourished me? And where shall I find means to pay back her dower? But
most of all I dread my mother's curse. No, never shall that word be
spoken by me. Therefore, if ye know aught of fair and honest dealing,
depart from my house, and live on your own goods; but if it seems good
to you to eat up another man's living, then will I appeal to the
justice of heaven, and pray for vengeance on your heads."

"Behold, his prayer is answered," cried Halitherses, a venerable
elder, with snow-white beard, who was skilled in augury; and looking
up they saw two eagles winging their way at full speed towards the
place of assembly. Now the two great birds hovered over the meeting;
and just at this moment they wheeled round and attacked each other
fiercely with beak and claw. After fighting for some time they shot
away to the right and were soon lost to view. Then Halitherses spake
again, interpreting the omen: "Hearken, men of Ithaca, to my words,
and to you, the suitors of Penelope, especially do I speak. Woe is
coming upon you; I see it rising and swelling as a wave. Not long
shall Odysseus be absent, but even now he is near at hand hatching
mischief for those who sit here. And many another shall suffer,
besides these who have done the wrong. Therefore, I say, let us stop
their evil deeds, or let them cease themselves. The hour is near at
hand which I foretold, when Odysseus embarked for Troy: I said that
after many sufferings, having lost all his comrades, unknown to all in
the twentieth year he should come home. And now all these things are
coming to pass."

Then up rose Eurymachus, in an angry and scornful mood. "Old man,"
said he, "go home and prophesy to thine own children, lest some harm
befall thee here. Thinkest thou that every fowl of the air is a
messenger from heaven? Odysseus has perished, and would that thou
hadst perished with him! Art thou not ashamed to take sides with this
malapert boy, feeding his passion and folly with thy crazy prophecies?
Doubtless thou lookest to him for favour and reward, but thou wilt
find that his friendship will cost thee dear. Telemachus has heard our
answer to his complaint; let him keep his eloquence for his froward
mother, and bring her to a better mind, for neither his speeches nor
thy prophecies will turn us from our purpose."

The principal object of the meeting was now attained: the villainy of
the suitors had been publicly exposed, and they were left without
excuse or hope of mercy when the day of reckoning should arrive.
Accordingly Telemachus, dismissing the subject of his wrongs, now
spoke of his intended voyage to Pylos and Sparta, and begged for the
loan of a ship to carry him and his comrades to the mainland.

No response was made to his request; but one man still attempted to
rouse public opinion against the suitors. This was Mentor, an old
friend of Odysseus, who had been left in charge of his household on
his departure from Ithaca. "Is there not one among you," he cried
indignantly, "who will speak a word for Telemachus, or testify against
the wickedness of these men? No more let kings be gentle and merciful
towards their people, as was Odysseus when he ruled over you, loving
and tender-hearted as a father. Let righteousness give place to
oppression, if these are its rewards. There you sit, like cowed and
beaten men, and suffer a handful of worthless men to lord it over you
all."

After this last appeal, which was as fruitless as the others, the
meeting broke up, and the suitors returned to their revels in the
house of Odysseus.

II

Full of anxious thought, Telemachus went down to the shore, wondering
how he should find means to accomplish his voyage. Stooping down, he
bathed his hands in the sea, and after this act of purification he
lifted up his hands and prayed to Athene: "O thou who camest yesterday
to our house, and badest me go on this quest, give ear and help me in
this strait."

He had hardly finished his prayer when he heard a footstep, and
looking round saw Mentor, who had come to his aid at the meeting,
approaching from the town. "Be not cast down," said Mentor, "remember
whose son thou art, and all shall be well with thee. As to this
voyage, that shall be my care. I will find thee a ship, and will go
with thee to Pylos. Meanwhile go thou home and make ready all things
for victualling the ship, corn and wine and barley-meal, and bestow
them heedfully in vessels and in bags of leather. Ships there are in
plenty, new and old, in seagirt Ithaca; I will choose the best of them
all, and man her with a crew who will serve thee freely and with all
goodwill."

Away went Telemachus, much comforted in spirit, though his heart
fluttered when he thought of the great adventure which lay before him.
When he entered the courtyard of his house he found the suitors
flaying goats and singeing swine for the midday feast. Antinous hailed
his coming with a rude laugh, and running up to him seized his hand
and said mockingly: "Well met, Sir Eloquence! Thy face, I see, is full
of care, as of one who is bent on high designs. But lay thy graver
burdens aside for awhile, and eat and drink with us. Thou shalt want
neither ship nor men to carry thee to holy Pylos."

Telemachus snatched his hand away, and answered sternly: "My thoughts
are not of feasting and merry-making, nor would I eat and drink with
you if they were. I am no longer a child, to be flouted and robbed
without a word. I tell you I shall find it in my heart to do you a
mischief, before many days are passed. But now I am going, as I said,
on this journey. I must go as a passenger, since ye will not lend me a
ship."

Many a scornful face was turned upon him, and many a taunt aimed at
him, as he uttered these bold words. "We are all undone!" cried one in
pretended alarm, "Telemachus is gone to gather an army in Pylos or in
Sparta, and he will come back with his mighty men and take all our
lives." "Or perhaps he is going to bring poison from Ephyra," said
another, "and he will cast it in the bowl, and we shall be all dead
corpses.[1]" And a third cried: "Take care of thyself, Telemachus, or
we shall have double labour because of thee, in dividing thy goods
among us."

[Footnote 1: 2 Kings xix. 35.]

But the taunts of fools and knaves have no sting for honest ears.
Without another word Telemachus left that gibing mob, and went
straight to the strong-room where his father's treasure was stored.
There lay heaps of gold and silver, and chests full of fine raiment,
and great jars of fragrant olive-oil. Along the wall was a long row of
portly casks, filled with the choicest wine; there they had stood
untouched for twenty years, awaiting the master's return. All this
wealth was given in charge to Eurycleia, the nurse of Telemachus, a
wise and careful dame, who watched the chamber day and night. Her
Telemachus now summoned, and said: "Fill me twelve jars of wine--not
the best, which thou art keeping for my father, but the next best to
that. And take twenty measures of barley-meal, and store it in sacks
of leather, and keep all these things together till I send for them.
Keep close counsel, and above all let not my mother know. I am going
to Sparta and to sandy Pylos to inquire of my father's return; and I
shall start in the evening when my mother is gone to rest."

"Who put such a thought into thy heart?" cried Eurycleia in wailing
tones. "Why wilt thou take this dreadful journey, thou, an only child,
so loved, and so dear? Odysseus is lost for ever, and if thou go we
shall lose thee too, for the suitors will plot thy ruin while thou art
far away."

"Fear nothing for me," answered Telemachus, "Heaven's eye is upon me,
and the hand of Zeus is spread over me. Swear to me now that thou wilt
not tell my mother until twelve days have past." Eurycleia swore as he
bade her, and at once set about making the preparations for his
journey.

The suitors were in high spirits at the result of the meeting, and
they ate heavily and drank deeply to celebrate their triumph. Hence it
happened that they retired to rest earlier than usual, being drowsy
from their intemperate revel; and when Telemachus returned to the
banquet-hall he found all the guests departed, and the servants
removing the remains of the feast. Soon afterwards Mentor appeared,
and announced that the ship lay ready at her moorings outside the
harbour. The stores were carried down to the sea, and stowed under the
rowers' benches. "All hands on board!" cried Mentor, and took his
place in the stern, Telemachus sitting by his side. The crew sat ready
at their oars, the ship was cast loose from the moorings, and a few
vigorous strokes impelled her into deep water. Then a strong breeze
sprang up from the west, the big sail was set, and the good ship
bounded joyfully over the waves, with the white wake roaring behind.
The oars were shipped, the sheets made fast, and all the company
pledged each other in brimming cups, drinking to their prosperous
voyage.

The Visit to Nestor at Pylos

So all night long the ship clave her way; and at sunrise they reached
the flat, sandy coast of Pylos. There they found a great multitude
assembled, keeping the feast of Poseidon with sacrifices of oxen. The
solemn rite was nearly ended when they brought their vessel to land.

"Courage, now," said Mentor to Telemachus, seeing the young lad
somewhat abashed by the presence of so large a company. "Remember whom
thou seekest, and lay thy modest scruples aside. Thou seest that
venerable man, still tall and erect, though he numbers more than a
hundred years. That is Nestor, son of Neleus, wisest of the Greeks, a
king and the friend and counsellor of kings. Go straight to him, and
tell him thy errand."

Seeing Telemachus, who was a homebred youth, still hanging back, in
dread of that august presence, Mentor renewed his friendly
remonstrances, "What, still tongue-tied?" he said, taking him by the
arm, and leading him forward. "Heaven mend thy wits, poor lad! Knowest
thou not that thou art a child of great hopes, and a favourite of
heaven?"

When they came to the place where Nestor was seated with his sons,
they found them busy preparing the feast which followed the sacrifice.
As soon as those of Nestor's company saw the strangers they came
forward in a body to greet them, and made them sit down in places of
honour, where soft fleeces were heaped up on the level sand. A youth,
about the same age as Telemachus, placed a goblet of gold in Mentor's
hand, and gave him that portion of the flesh which was set apart as an
offering to the gods. "Welcome, friend," he said, after pledging him
from the cup. "Put up thy prayer with us to the lord Poseidon, for it
is to his feast that ye have come. And when thou hast prayed, give the
cup to thy young companion, who has been bred, methinks, as I have, to
deeds of piety."

Mentor first asked a blessing on their hosts, and then prayed for a
prosperous issue to their own adventure. After him Telemachus uttered
his prayer in similar words, and then they all sat down to meat. When
they had finished, Nestor looked earnestly at them, and asked them who
they were, and what was the purpose of their journey. "Are ye
merchants," he said, "or bold buccaneers, who roam the seas, a peril
to others, and ever in peril themselves?"

Telemachus, cheered by good fare, and encouraged by the kind manner of
Nestor, answered confidently, and explained the nature of his errand.
"Concerning all the other Greeks," he added, "we know at least the
manner of their death; but even this poor comfort is denied to the
wife and son of Odysseus. Therefore, if thou hast aught to tell, I
beseech thee by thy friendship with my father, let me know all, and
soften not the tale, out of kindness or pity to me."

"Ah! my friend," answered Nestor. "What woeful memories thou hast
awakened by thy words!--perils by land and perils by water, long years
of siege and battle, sleepless nights and toilsome days. Ill-fated
land of Troy! the grave of Grecian chivalry! There lies heroic Ajax,
there lies Achilles, and Patroclus, sage in counsel, and there lies
Antilochus, my own dear son, fleet of foot and strong of hand. And art
thou indeed the son of Odysseus, whom none could match in craft and
strategy? But why do I ask? When thou speakest, I seem to hear the
very tones of his voice. He was my friend, one with me in mind and
heart, and during all the time of the siege we took counsel together
for the weal of Greece. But when the war was over disasters came thick
and fast upon the host. And first, division arose between the two sons
of Atreus; Agamemnon wished to abide in Troy until sacrifice had been
offered to appease the anger of Athene, but Menelaus advised immediate
departure. The party of Menelaus, of whom I was one, launched their
ships and sailed to Tenedos; there Odysseus, who had set sail with us,
put back to the mainland of Asia, wishing to do a favour to Agamemnon.
But I, and Diomede with me, set forth at once, and, crossing the sea
from Lesbos, came to Euboea; thence, after sacrifice to Poseidon, I
steered due south, and parting from Diomede at Argos continued my
voyage, and landed safe in Pylos. Thus it happened that I was not
witness of the good or evil fortunes of the other Greeks on their
voyage home, and know only by rumour how they fared. Of Agamemnon's
fate thou hast surely heard thyself, how he was murdered on his own
hearth by the treachery of Ægisthus, and how the murder was avenged by
Orestes. Happy the father who has such a son! And such, methinks, art
thou."

"Ay," answered Telemachus, when Nestor had finished his long story, "I
have heard of that glorious deed; and would to heaven that by the
might of my hands I might so take vengeance on the evil men who have
come to woo my mother, and who fill my house with injury and outrage."

"Ah! thou hast reminded me," said Nestor. "I heard of the shameful
wrong which thou hast suffered. But do not despair! Who knows but that
Odysseus will yet return, and make them drink the cup which they have
filled? It may well come to pass, if Athene continues to thy house the
favour which she showed thy father, plain for all eyes to see, in the
land of Troy."

"Nay, 'tis too much to hope," answered Telemachus with a sigh, "the
thing is too hard--even a god could hardly bring it to pass."

"Now out on thy faint heart!" cried Mentor, who hitherto had sat
silent. "Better for him that his homecoming should be long delayed
than that he should have died, like Agamemnon, fresh from his victory.
Heaven will guide him yet to his own door, though now he be at the
uttermost parts of the earth."

Telemachus shook his head as he answered: "No more of that, I pray
thee; it can never be." Then, addressing Nestor, he said: "I would
fain ask thee more concerning the manner of Agamemnon's death. Where
was Menelaus when that foul deed was done? And how did Ægisthus
contrive to slay a man mightier far than himself?"

"Thou askest well," replied Nestor. "Menelaus was far away, or we
should have another tale to tell. And had the return of Menelaus not
been delayed, vengeance would have been forestalled by many years.
Yea, the dogs would have eaten the flesh of that vile churl, and not a
tear would have been shed for him. But this is how it fell out: while
we were toiling and warring at Troy, Ægisthus sat close to the ear of
Clytæmnestra, Agamemnon's wife, and poured sweet poison into her mind.
For a long while she refused to hearken to his base proposals, for she
was of a good understanding, and moreover there was ever at her side a
minstrel, into whose care Agamemnon had given her when he went to
Troy. But Ægisthus seized upon the minstrel, and left him on a desert
island to be devoured by carrion birds. Then Clytæmnestra yielded to
his suit, and he brought her to his own house.

"But as to thy question concerning Menelaus, he left Troy in my
company, as I told thee, and we sailed together as far as Sunium.
There Menelaus lost his steersman, who was visited by Apollo with
sudden death, as he sat by the helm; so he remained there to bury his
comrade. But his misfortunes were not yet over; for when he reached
the steep headland at Malea a violent storm arose, and parted his
fleet. Some of his ships ran into Crete for shelter, while he himself
was carried away to Egypt, where he remained many days, and gathered
store of wealth.

"Now thou understandest why Ægisthus was able to work his will on
Agamemnon, and why he escaped vengeance so long. For seven years he
sat on the throne of golden Mycenæ, and grievously oppressed the
people. But in the eighth year came Orestes, and cut him off in the
fulness of his sin; and on that very day Menelaus came to him, loaded
with the treasures of Egypt.

"Far and long had he wandered; but so do not thou, my child. Leave not
thy house unguarded, while so many foes are gathered against thee,
lest when thou return thou find thyself stripped of all. But to
Menelaus I would have thee go; him thou must by all means consult; for
who knows what he may have learnt on that wondrous voyage? Vast is the
space of water over which he has travelled, not to be measured in one
year by a bird in her speediest flight. If thou wilt, thou canst go to
Sparta in thy ship, or if thou choose to go by land, my chariots and
my horses are thine for this service, and my sons shall guide you on
the way."

II

Amid such talk as this, with many a brave story "of moving accidents
by flood and field," and many a pithy saw from the white-haired
Nestor, who had lived so long and seen so much, the hours glided
swiftly by, and the red sun was stooping to the horizon when Mentor
rose from his seat and said: "We must be going; the hour of rest is at
hand, and to-morrow we have far to go."

"Tarry yet a little," said Nestor, "and eat a morsel and drink a cup
with us. And after that, if ye are fain to sleep, ye shall have fit
lodging in my house. Heaven forbid that I should suffer such guests as
you to sleep on the cold deck, covered with dew, as if I were some
needy wretch, with never a blanket to spare for a friend. May the gods
preserve me from such a reproach!"

"Thou sayest well," answered Mentor, "and Telemachus shall be thy
guest to-night. But for me, I pray thee have me excused. My place is
on the ship, that I may give an eye to the crew, for I am the only man
of experience among them. And to-morrow I must go to Elis, to recover
a debt of long standing due to me there. I leave Telemachus to thy
care, that thou mayest cherish him and speed him on his way."

As he said these words, while all eyes were fixed upon him, the
speaker vanished from sight, and in his stead a great sea-eagle rose
into the air, and sped westwards towards the setting sun. Long they
sat speechless and amazed, and Nestor was the first to break the
silence. "Great things are in store for thee, my son," said he to
Telemachus, "since thou keepest such company thus early in life. This
was none other than Jove's mighty daughter, Athene, who honoured thy
father so highly among the Greeks. Be gracious to us, our queen, and
let thy blessing rest on me and on my house! and I will offer to thee
a yearling heifer, that hath never felt the yoke. To thee will I
sacrifice her, when I have made gilt her horns with gold."

Then Nestor led the way to his house, and Telemachus sat down with him
and his sons in the hall. And they filled a bowl with wine eleven
years old, exceeding choice, which was reserved for honoured guests.
And after they had finished the bowl, and offered prayer to Athene,
they parted for the night. For Telemachus a bed was prepared in the
portico, and close by him slept Pisistratus, the youngest of Nestor's
sons.

When Telemachus rose next morning he found his host already afoot,
giving orders to his sons to prepare the sacrifice to Athene. One was
sent to fetch the heifer, another to summon the goldsmith, and a third
to bring up the crew of Telemachus' ship, while the rest busied
themselves in raising the altar and making all ready for the
sacrifice.

Presently the heifer was driven lowing into the courtyard, and the
goldsmith followed with the instruments of his art. Nestor gave him
gold, and the smith beat it into thin leaf with his hammer, and laid
it skilfully over the horns of the heifer. A handmaid brought pure
water, and barley-meal in a basket, while one of Nestor's sons stood
ready with an axe, and another held a bowl to catch the blood. Then
Nestor dipped his hands in the water, took barley-meal from the basket
and sprinkled it on the head of the beast, and cutting a tuft of hair
from the forehead cast it into the fire. The prayer was spoken, and
all due rites being ended he who held the axe smote the heifer on the
head, just behind the horns. The women raised the sacrificial cry as
the heifer dropped to the ground; and next they whose office it was
lifted up the victim's head, and Pisistratus cut the throat. When the
last quiver of life was over they flayed the carcass, cut strips of
flesh from the thighs, and enveloping them in fat, burnt them on the
altar. The gods had now their share of the feast; the rest was cut
into slices, and broiled over the live embers.

While the meal was preparing, Telemachus enjoyed the refreshment of a
bath; and Polycaste, the youngest of Nestor's daughters, waited on
him; for such was the patriarchal simplicity of those days. When he
had bathed, and finished his morning meal, the chariot was brought
out, and a strong pair of horses led under the yoke. And the
house-dame came with a basket, loaded with wine and delicate viands,
and placed it behind the seat. Telemachus took his place by the side
of Pisistratus, who was to drive the horses; the last farewells were
spoken, Pisistratus cracked his whip, and away they went under the
echoing gateway, and on through the streets of Pylos.

[Illustration: Telemachus departing from Nestor]

That night they slept at the house of a friend, and early next day
they continued their journey. The way grew steep and difficult, great
masses of mountains rose near at hand, and at length they entered a
wide valley, covered with waving fields of corn. By sunset they
reached the end of their journey, and drew up before the stately
portals of King Menelaus.

Telemachus at Sparta

Menelaus was keeping the double marriage feast of his son and
daughter, and his house was thronged with wedding guests. All sat
silent and attentive, listening to the strains of a harper, and
watching the gambols of a pair of tumblers, who were whirling in giddy
reels round the hall. Presently voices were heard at the entrance, and
one of the squires of Menelaus came and informed his master that two
strangers of noble mien were standing without, craving hospitality.
"Shall I bring them in," asked the squire, "or send them on to another
house?"

"Hast thou lost thy wits?" answered Menelaus in some heat, being
touched in his most sensitive point. "Shall we, who owe so much to the
kindness of strangers, in the long years of our wanderings, send any
man from our doors? Unyoke the horses, and bid our new guests enter."

Four or five servants hastened to do his bidding. The horses, covered
with sweat from their hard journey, were unyoked and led into the
stable, and Telemachus, with his companion, was ushered with all
courtesy into the great hall of Menelaus. The palace was one of the
wealthiest and most splendid in Greece; and Telemachus, accustomed to
a much humbler style of dwelling, stood amazed at the glories which
met his eyes. After bathing and changing their raiment they returned
to the hall, and were assigned places close to the chair of Menelaus.

The prince greeted them kindly, and said: "Welcome to our halls, young
sirs. Ye are, as I see, of no mean descent, for Zeus has set his stamp
on your faces,[1] and none can mistake the signs of kingly birth. When
ye have eaten, we will inquire of you further."

[Footnote 1: In Homer, all kings and their families are supposed to be
descended from Zeus.]

A plentiful and delicate meal was promptly set before the young
travellers, and they ate and drank with keen appetite. When they had
finished, Telemachus said to Pisistratus, speaking low, that he might
not be overheard: "Dear son of Nestor, is not this a brave place! Hast
thou ever seen such lavish ornament of silver, and gold, and ivory?
Surely such is the dwelling of Olympian Zeus; more magnificent it can
hardly be."

The quick ear of Menelaus caught his last words, and he answered,
smiling: "Nay, my friend, no mortal may vie with the everlasting
glories of Zeus. But whether any man can equal me in riches, I know
not. For indeed I wandered far and long to gather all this treasure,
to Cyprus, and Phoenicia, and Egypt, to Æthiopia, and Sidon, and the
Afric shore, a land unmatched in its countless multitudes of sheep.
There the ewes bring forth young three times a year, and the poorest
shepherd has abundance of cheese, and flesh, and milk. From all these
lands I gathered many a costly freight, and now I dwell in the midst
of plenty. Nevertheless my heart is sad, when I think of all that I
have lost. Had I returned home straight from Troy, I should have come
back a poor man, for my house had gone to waste in my absence; but I
should not have had to mourn for the death of my brother, struck down,
as doubtless ye have heard, by a murderer's hand. And then the thought
lies heavy upon me of all those who fell in my cause at Troy, and
especially of one who was dear to me above all, Odysseus, ever the
foremost in every toil and adventure. His image haunts me by day and
by night, marring my slumbers, and making my food taste bitter in my
mouth. He was a man of many woes, and sorrowful is the lot of his wife
Penelope and Telemachus his son."

At this mention of his father Telemachus could not control his tears,
but covered his face with his mantle, and wept without restraint.
Menelaus saw his emotion, and began to suspect who he was; but for the
present he said nothing.

A slight stir was now heard at the back of the hall, and a low murmur
went round among the guests, who whispered to each other: "The Queen!
The Queen!" And in she came softly, with slow and stately step, Helen,
the daughter of Tyndareus, and wife of Menelaus, fairest among all the
high-born dames of Greece. Her wondrous beauty was now ripened into
matronly perfection, but now and then a shadow seemed to pass over her
face, like the ghost of an old sin, long repented and forgiven. A
handmaid set a chair for her, throwing over it a soft rug, and brought
a footstool for her feet, while another bare a silver basket, with
rims of gold, and placed it ready, filled with purple yarn. When Helen
was seated, she gazed long and earnestly at Telemachus, and then,
turning to her husband, she said; "Menelaus, shall I utter the thought
which is in my heart? Nay, speak I must. Ne'er saw I such a likeness,
either in man or woman, as is the likeness of this fair youth to
Odysseus. Surely this is Telemachus, whom he left an infant in Ithaca
when the host was summoned to Troy to fight in a worthless woman's
cause."

"I have marked it too," answered Menelaus. "Such were his very hands
and feet, and the carriage of his head, and the glance of his eye.
Moreover, when I made mention of Odysseus he covered his face, and
wept full sore."

Telemachus was still too much distressed to speak, and Pisistratus had
to answer for him: "Thou sayest truly, my lord; it is Telemachus
himself. Nestor sent me with him to inquire of thee, and crave counsel
of thy wisdom. He is left like an orphan in his home, with none to aid
him, and take his father's place."

Then Menelaus drew near to Telemachus, and taking his hand kindly
said: "Welcome again, and thrice welcome to these halls, thou son of
my trustiest friend and helper! It was the dream of my life to bring
Odysseus and all his household from Ithaca, and give him a home and a
city in this land, that we might grow old together in friendship and
loving-kindness, never to be parted until death. But envious heaven
has blighted my hopes and hindered his return."

At these sad words every eye was moist, and all sat silent, absorbed
in sorrowful memories. Pisistratus was the first to speak, and his
words roused the rest from their melancholy mood. "Son of Atreus," he
said, "my father has often spoken of thy wisdom, and perchance it has
taught thee that sorrow is an ill guest at a banquet. The dead,
indeed, claim their due, and he would be hard-hearted who would grudge
them the poor tribute of a tear. But we cannot mourn for ever, even
for such a one as my brother Antilochus, whom I never saw, but thou
knewest him well, stout in battle, and swift in the pursuit."

"'Tis well said," replied Menelaus. "Thou art wise beyond thy years,
and a true son of Nestor. Happy is he, beyond the common lot of men,
and smooth and fair runs the thread of his Destiny. He dwells in a
green old age in his father's house, and sees his sons growing up
around him, true heirs of his valour and prudence. Now let us banish
care, and get to our supper, for the day is far spent, and we have
matter for talk which will last us all the morrow."

When they had finished eating, and the cups were about to be
replenished, Helen rose from her seat, and, whispering a few words to
the cupbearer, left the hall. In a few minutes she returned, carrying
in her hand a small phial, whose contents she poured into the great
mixing-bowl from which the cups were filled. "Now, drink," she said,
"and fear not that black care will pay us a second visit to-night. I
have poured into the wine a drug of wondrous potency and virtue, which
was given me in Egypt by Polydamna, the wife of Thon. Many such drugs
the soil of Egypt bears, some baneful and some good. And the Egyptians
are skilled in such craft beyond all mankind. He who drinks of this
drug will be armed for that day against all the assaults of sorrow,
and will not shed one tear, though his father and mother were to die,
no, not though he saw his brother or his son slain before his eyes. So
mighty is the virtue of this drug." And when they had drunk of the
magic potion Helen began again: "'Tis now the witching hour, when all
hearts are opened, and the burden of life presses lightest on men's
shoulders. Come, let me tell you a story, one among many, of the deeds
and the hardihood of Odysseus. It was in the days of the siege, and
the Trojans were kept close prisoners in their city by the leaguer of
the Greeks. Then he disguised himself as a beggar, clothed himself in
filthy rags, and marred his goodly person with cruel stripes. In such
fashion he entered the foemen's walls, as if he were a slave flying
from a hard master.[1] And I alone in all the city knew who he was. So
I brought him to my house, and began to question him; but he made as
if he understood not. But when I entertained him as an honoured guest,
and swore a solemn oath not to betray him, he trusted me, and declared
all the purpose of the Greeks. At dead of night he stole out into the
town, and, having slain many of the Trojans with the edge of the
sword, he went back to the camp, and brought much information to his
friends.

[Footnote 1: Compare the stratagem of Zopyrus, in "Stories from Greek
History."]

"When morning came, the voice of wailing rose high in the streets of
Troy; but my heart rejoiced, for I was filled with longing for my
home, and my eyes were opened to the folly which I had wrought by the
beguilement of Aphrodite, when I left my fatherland and broke faith
with my lord."

"Tis a good story, and thou hast told it well, fair wife," said
Menelaus. "Now hear my tale. It was the time when I and the other
champions were shut up in the wooden horse; and Odysseus was with us.
Then thou camest thither, led, I suppose, by some god, hostile to
Greece, who wished to work our ruin; and Deiphobus followed thee.
Three times thou didst pace around our hollow ambush, feeling it with
thy hands, and calling aloud to the princes of Greece by name; and thy
voice was like the voice of all their wives. There we sat, I, and
Diomede, and the rest, and heard thee calling. Now I and Diomede were
minded to answer thee, or to go forth and confer with thee; but
Odysseus suffered it not, and when one of our number was about to lift
up his voice he pressed his hands on that foolish mouth, and
restrained him by force until thou hadst left the place. And so he
saved all our lives."

"Yes," said Telemachus, "he had a heart of iron. But what has it
availed him? It could not save him from ruin. Howbeit, no more of
this; 'tis time to go to rest and forget our cares in sleep."

II

Early next morning Telemachus found his host sitting by his bedside;
and as soon as he was dressed Menelaus led him to a quiet place, and
inquired the reason of his coming. He listened with attention while
Telemachus explained the purpose of his visit; but when he heard of
the suitors, and their riot and waste, he was filled with indignation.

"What!" he cried, "would these dastards fill the seat and wed the wife
of that mighty man? Their lot shall be the lot of a pair of fawns,
left by the mother hind in a lion's lair. The hind goes forth to
pasture, and in her absence the lion returns, and devours them where
they lie. Even so shall Odysseus return, and bring swift destruction
on the whole crew.

"But thou hast asked me what I know of the fortunes of Odysseus, since
he departed from Troy; and verily I will tell thee all that I have
heard, without turning aside in my tale. I must go back to the time
when I lay wind-bound with my ships in a little island off the mouth
of the Nile. The island is called Pharos, and it is distant a day's
voyage from the river's mouth. I had lain there twenty days, and still
not a breath of air ruffled the glassy surface of the sea. All our
stores were consumed, and we had nothing to eat but the fish which my
men caught with rudely fashioned hooks and lines. One day I left my
men busy with their angling, and wandered away along the shore, full
of sad thoughts, and wondering how all this would end. Suddenly I
heard a light footstep on the pebbles, and there stepped forth from
behind a tall rock a young maiden in white, flowing robes. Full of
dread I saw her coming towards me; for I knew that she was no mortal
woman. But her look was gracious, and her voice was sweet; so I took
courage as she said: 'Who art thou, stranger, and why lingerest thou
with thy company in this desert place? I am Eidothea, daughter of
Proteus, the ancient one of the sea; and I am ready to help thee, if
thou wilt tell me thy need.'

"Then I told her how I had been kept an unwilling captive on the
island, and begged her to let me know what power I had offended, that
he might be appeased by sacrifice, and suffer the wind to blow. 'There
is one who can tell thee all that thou desirest to know,' answered
she. 'Yea, Proteus, my father, will show thee how to win thy path
across the watery waste. No secrets are hidden from him, neither on
earth nor in the sea; and he can tell thee all that hath befallen in
thy house in the long years of thine absence. Now hearken, and I will
tell thee how thou mayest wring from him all his secrets. Every day at
noon he comes forth from the sea, and lays him down to sleep in a
rocky cave; and about him are couched his herd of seals. I will bring
thee to the place in the early morning, and set thee in ambush to
await his coming. Choose three of the stoutest of thy men to aid thee
in the adventure, and as soon as thou seest him asleep rush upon him
and hold him fast. He will struggle hard, and take a hundred different
shapes; but loose him not until he return to his own form, and then
will he reveal to thee all that he has to tell.'

"So saying, the goddess disappeared beneath the waves. Next morning I
went with three picked men to the appointed place, and soon Eidothea
arrived, bearing four hides of seals, freshly flayed. Then she
hollowed out four pits in the sand for us to lie in, and clothed us in
the skins, and couched us together. Now that bed had like to have been
our last, for we were stifled by the dreadful stench of the seabred
seals. But the goddess saw our distress, and found a remedy; for she
brought ambrosia and set it beneath our nostrils, and that heavenly
perfume overpowered the noisome stench.

"So all the morning we lay and wafted patiently, and at noon the seals
came up out of the sea and lay down in order on the sand. Last of all
came Proteus, and counted his herd, reckoning us among their number,
with no suspicion of guile. We waited until he was fast asleep, and
then we rushed from our ambush and seized him hand and foot. Long and
hard was the struggle, and many the shapes which he took. First he
became a bearded lion, then a snake, then a leopard, then a huge boar;
after these he turned into running water and a tall, leafy tree. But
we only held him the more firmly, and at last he grew weary and spake
to me in his own shape: 'What wouldst thou have, son of Atreus, and
who has taught thee to outwit me and take me captive by craft?'

"'Thou knowest my need,' I answered; 'why dost thou waste thy words?
Tell me rather how I may find release from my present strait'

"'Hear, then,' said he: 'thou hast forgotten thy duty to Zeus and the
other gods. Not a victim bled, not a prayer was offered, when thou
didst embark on this voyage. Go back to Egypt, to the holy waters of
Nile, and there pay thy vows, and offer a great sacrifice to their
offended deity; thus, and thus only, canst thou win thy return to
thine own country and thy stately home.'

"When I heard this my heart was broken within me, to think of that
long and perilous path across the misty deep. Nevertheless I consented
to take that journey, for I saw no other way of escape. And after I
had promised to obey him, I began to inquire further of the fate of
Nestor and the rest, whom I left behind me on my way home.

"''Tis a grievous story that thou requirest of me,' said Proteus, 'and
thou shalt have little joy in the hearing. Many have been taken and
many left. Two only perished in returning, and one is still living, a
prisoner of the sea. Ajax has paid his debt to Athene, whose shrine he
polluted; and this was the manner of his death: when his vessel was
shattered by that great tempest, he himself escaped to a rock, for
Poseidon came to his aid. But even the peril which he had just escaped
could not subdue his haughtiness and his pride, and he uttered an
impious vaunt, boasting that in despite of heaven he had escaped a
watery grave. Then Poseidon was wroth, and smote the rock with his
trident, and that half of the rock on which Ajax was sitting fell into
the sea, bearing him with it. So he died, when he had drunk the brine.

"'Now harden thy heart, and learn how thy brother Agamemnon fell.
After a long and stormy voyage he at length brought his shattered
vessels safe into harbour, and set foot on his native soil at Argos.
With tears of joy and thankfulness he fell on his knees and kissed the
sod, trusting that now his sorrows were passed. Now there was a
watchman whom Ægisthus had posted on a high place commanding the sea
to look out for Agamemnon's return. A whole year he watched, for he
had been promised a great reward. And when he saw the king's face he
went with all speed to tell his master. Forthwith Ægisthus prepared an
ambush of twenty armed men; these he kept in hiding at the back of the
hall, while he ordered his servants to prepare a great banquet. Then
he went to meet Agamemnon with horses and with chariots, and brought
him to his house, and made good cheer. And when he had feasted him he
smote and slew him, as a man slaughters an ox in his stall.'

"At that tale of horror I fell upon the sand, weeping bitterly, for I
had no desire to live any longer or look on the light of the sun. Long
I lay mourning, as one who had lost all hope, but at last Proteus
checked the torrent of my passion, and bade me take thought of my own
homecoming. 'This is no time,' he said, 'to melt away in womanish
grief. Haste thee to take vengeance, if so be that Orestes hath not
forestalled thee, and slain his father's murderer.'

"Somewhat comforted by these words, I took courage to ask who was the
man of whom he had spoken as a prisoner of the sea. 'It is the son of
Laertes,' answered Proteus, 'Odysseus, whose home is in Ithaca. I
myself saw him on an island, in the house of the nymph Calypso; and
sore he wept because he could not leave the goddess, who holds him in
thrall, and will not suffer him to return to his country.'

"Lastly, he told me concerning my own fate. 'Thou, Menelaus,' he said,
'art exempt from the common lot of men, because thou art the husband
of Helen, and she is a daughter of Zeus. Therefore it is not appointed
for thee to die, but when thine hour is come the gods shall convey
thee to the Elysian fields, where dwell the elect spirits in
everlasting blessedness. There falls not snow nor rain, there blows no
rude blast, but the fresh cool breath of the west comes softly from
Ocean to refresh them that dwell in that happy clime.'"

Thus happily ended the story of the Spartan prince's wanderings. And
when he had finished, he pressed Telemachus to prolong his visit; but
that prudent youth declined the invitation, pleading the necessity of
a speedy return to Ithaca, that he might keep an eye on the doings of
the suitors. Menelaus was compelled to allow the justice of his plea,
and accordingly all things were made ready for a speedy departure.

We must now return to Ithaca, and see what reception was preparing for
Telemachus when he came back from his adventurous journey. Two or
three days after he left Ithaca the suitors were gathered before the
doors of Odysseus, playing at quoits, or hurling their javelins at a
mark. Presently a young noble came up to the group, and addressing
Antinous, who was watching the sport, asked him if he had heard aught
of Telemachus. "I would fain know how long he is like to be absent
from Ithaca," he said; "for he has borrowed my ship, and I have need
of her. Know ye when he is to return from Pylos?"

Antinous heard him with amazement; for neither he nor any other of the
suitors knew that Telemachus had sailed from Ithaca, supposing him to
be absent on his farm. So he questioned the youth closely as to the
time and manner of that voyage, how the crew was composed, and whether
the vessel was lent willingly, or taken by force. "Of my own free will
I lent her," answered the lad, "why should I not help him in his need?
As to the crew, they were all picked men, and well born; and the
captain was Mentor, or some god in his likeness; for I saw Mentor
yesterday in the town, and not a ship has touched at Ithaca since they
sailed."

When he who had lent the ship was departed the suitors left their
sports, and drawing close together began to converse in low tones.
They were full of anger against Telemachus because of this journey,
which gave the lie to their malicious prophecies, and was not without
prospect of danger to themselves. Accordingly Antinous found ready
hearers when he stood up and spoke as follows:--"This forward boy must
be put down, or he will mar our wooing. It is a great deed which he
has done, and he will not stop here, unless we find means to cut short
his adventures. Now hear what I advise: let us man a ship and moor her
in the narrow sea between Ithaca and Samos, and lie in wait for him
there. This cruise of his is like to cost him dear."

The plan was highly approved, and the whole body rose and entered the
house together, resolved to act at once on the advice of Antinous.
Before long news of their wicked designs came to the ears of Penelope,
who was still ignorant of her son's departure; for Eurycleia had kept
her counsel well. The evil tidings were brought by Medon, a servant in
the house of Odysseus, who had overheard the suitors plotting
together, while he stood concealed behind a buttress of the courtyard
fence. Without delay he went in search of Penelope, whom he found
sitting with her handmaids in her chamber. As soon as he appeared on
the threshold Penelope looked at him reproachfully, and said: "What
message bringest thou from thy fair masters? Is it their pleasure that
my maidens should leave their tasks and spread the board for them? Out
on your feasting and your wooing! May this be the last morsel that ye
ever taste! Ungrateful men, have ye forgotten all the good deeds that
were wrought here by the hands of Odysseus, and all the kindness that
ye received from him? Yes, all is forgotten; ye have no thought in
your hearts but to grow fat at his cost, and devour his living."

"Alas! lady," answered Medon, "would that this were the worst! But I
am the bearer of heavier news than this. Telemachus has sailed to
Pylos, to inquire concerning his father, and the suitors have plotted
to slay him on his way home." Having delivered his message, Medon left
the chamber, and the door was shut.

Long Penelope sat without a word, struck dumb by this cruel blow.
Then, as if seized by a sudden thought, she rose from her seat, and
took two paces towards the door. But her strength failing her she
tottered backward, and sank down upon the ground, leaning against the
wall. Her handmaids gathered round her, and would have lifted her up,
but she waved them off and at last gave utterance to her feelings in
wailing and broken tones:

"Woeful beyond the lot of all women on earth is my portion! First, I
lost my lion-hearted lord, rich in every excellent gift, a hero among
heroes; and now the powers of the air[1] have carried off my child, my
well-beloved, without one word of farewell. Hearts of stone, why did
ye not tell me of his going? Had I known his purpose I would have
prevailed on him to stay, or he must have left me dead in these halls.
Go, one of you, and call Dolius, the keeper of my garden and orchard,
and send him to tell all to Laertes, if haply he may devise some way
to turn the hearts of the people, and save his race from being utterly
cut off."

[Footnote 1: Demons, to whom sudden disappearance was attributed.]

"Sweet lady," answered Eurycleia, who was sitting among the women, "I
will tell thee all the truth, and then thou shalt slay me, if it be
thy will. I was privy to this journey, and Telemachus made me swear a
solemn oath not to reveal it to thee until twelve days were passed, or
thou hadst heard of it from others. For he feared that thou wouldst
waste thy fair cheeks with weeping. But be not cast down; I am sure
that the gods hate not so utterly the house of Odysseus, nor purpose
to destroy it altogether. Vex not the old man Laertes in his sorrow,
but go wash thyself, put on clean raiment, and go up and pray to
Athene in thy upper chamber to guard and keep thy son from harm."

Then Penelope was comforted, and dried her tears, and went up with her
handmaids to the upper chamber. There she made her offering before the
shrine of Athene, and lifted up her voice in prayer: "Daughter of
Zeus, stern warrior maiden, if ever my lord Odysseus offered
acceptable sacrifice to thee, remember now his service, save my son,
and let not the wooers work evil against him." When her prayer was
ended the women joined their voices with hers, and called again and
again on the awful name of Athene. After that they left her, and she
sank down on a couch, exhausted by her emotions, and full of anxious
thought. At length she ceased her weary tossing, and fell into a quiet
and refreshing sleep.

Athene had heard her prayer, and being full of pity for the sorely
tried lady she resolved to find means to soothe her troubled spirit.
So she made a phantom, like in form and in feature to Iphthime, a
sister of Penelope, who lived with her husband in distant Pheræ. And
the phantom came to the house of Penelope, and entering her chamber by
the keyhole, stood by her bedside and spake to her thus: "Sorrow not
at all, nor vex thy soul for the sake of Telemachus. The gods love thy
son, and will bring him safe home."

Then wise Penelope made answer, slumbering right sweetly at the gates
of dreams: "Dear sister, what has brought thee hither from thy far
distant home? Thou biddest me take comfort, but my heart is torn with
fear and grief for my brave lord, and yet more for Telemachus, who is
encompassed with perils by sea and by land." "Fear nothing," answered
the dim phantom. "He has a mighty helper by his side, even Pallas
Athene, who sent me hither to strengthen and console thee." With that
the ghostly visitor vanished as it came, and left Penelope much
cheered by the clear vision which had brought her words of healing at
the blackest hour of the night.

Meanwhile Antinous had taken steps to carry out his villainous design.
At nightfall he went down to the sea with twenty picked men, boarded
the vessel which had been prepared for their use, and sailed out to a
little island which lies in the middle of the strait between Samos and
Ithaca. There they anchored in a sheltered bay, and waited for the
coming of Telemachus.

Odysseus and Calypso

We have waited long for the appearance of Odysseus, and at last he is
about to enter the scene, which he will never leave again until the
final act of the great drama is played out. Hitherto he has been
pursued by the malice of Poseidon, who wrecked his fleet, drowned all
his men, and kept him confined for seven years in Calypso's island, in
vengeance for the blinding of his son Polyphemus.

But now the prayers of Athene have prevailed, and Hermes, the
messenger of the gods, is on his way from Olympus, bearing a
peremptory summons to Calypso to let Odysseus depart. Shod with his
golden, winged sandals, which bear him, swift as the wind, over moist
and dry, and holding in his hand his magic wand, Hermes skimmed like a
seagull over the blue waters of the Ægæan, until he came to that far
distant isle. Arrived there, he went straight to the great cavern
where Calypso dwelt; and he found her there, walking about her room,
weaving with a golden shuttle, and singing sweetly at her work. A
great fire was blazing on the hearth, sending forth a sweet odour of
cedar and sandal-wood. Round about the cavern grew a little wood of
blossoming trees, "alder and poplar tall, and cypress sweet of smell";
and there owls and hawks and cormorants built their nests. Over the
threshold was trained a wide-branching vine, with many a purple
cluster and wealth of rustling leaves. Four springs of clear water
welled up before the cave, and wandered down to the meadows where the
violet and parsley grew. It was a choice and cool retreat, meet
dwelling for a lovely nymph.

Calypso greeted her visitor kindly, bade him be seated, and set nectar
and ambrosia before him. And when he had refreshed himself, he told
his message. "I bear the commands of Zeus," he said, "and to do his
high will have I travelled this long and weary way. It is said that
thou keepest with thee a man of many woes, who has suffered more than
any of those who fought at Troy. Him thou art commanded to send away
from thee with all speed; for it is not destined for him to end his
days here, but the hour has come when he must go back to his home and
country, Zeus has spoken, and thou must obey."

This was bitter news to Calypso, for she loved Odysseus, and would
have made him immortal, that he might abide with her for ever. She
wrung her hands, and said in a mournful voice: "Now I know of a truth
that the gods are a jealous race, and will not suffer one of their
kind to wed with a mortal mate. Therefore Orion fell by the unseen
arrows of Artemis, when fair Aurora chose him for her lord; and
therefore Zeus slew Iasion with his lightning, because he was loved of
Demeter. Is not Odysseus mine? Did I not save him and cherish him when
he was flung naked and helpless on these shores? But since no other
deity may evade or frustrate the will of Zeus, let him go, and I will
show him how he may reach his own country without scathe."

When he had heard Calypso's answer, Hermes took leave of her, and
returned to Olympus, and the nymph went down to the part of the shore
where she knew Odysseus was accustomed to sit. There he would remain
all day, gazing tearfully over the barren waste of waters, and wearing
out his soul with ceaseless lamentation. For he had long grown weary
of his soft slavery in Calypso's cave, and yearned with exceeding
great desire for the familiar hills of Ithaca, so rugged, but so dear.
And there Calypso found him now, sitting on a rock with dejected mien.
She sat down at his side, and said: "A truce to thy complaints, thou
man of woes! Thou hast thy wish; I will let thee go with all
good-will, and I will show thee how to build a broad raft, which
shall bear thee across the misty deep. I will victual her with corn
and wine, and clothe thee in new garments, and send a breeze behind
thee to waft thee safe. Thus am I commanded by the gods, whose
dwelling is in the wide heaven, and their will I do. Up now and fell
me yon tall trees for timber to make the raft."

Odysseus was by nature a very shrewd and cautious man, and he feared
that Calypso was contriving some mischief against him, in revenge for
his coldness. He looked at her doubtfully, and answered: "I fear thee,
nymph, and I mistrust thy purpose. How shall a man cross this dreadful
gulf, where no ship is ever seen, on a raft? And though that were
possible, I will never leave thee against thy will. Swear to me now
that thou intendest me no harm."

Calypso smiled at his suspicions, and patted him on the shoulder as
she answered: "Thou art a sad rogue, and very deep of wit, as anyone
may see by these words of thine. Now hear me swear: Witness, thou
earth, and the wide heaven above us, and the dark waterfall of Styx,
the greatest and most awful thing by which a god may swear, that I
intend no ill, but only good, to this man."

Having sworn that oath Calypso rose, and bidding Odysseus follow led
the way to her cave. There she set meat before him, such as mortal men
eat, and wine to drink; but she herself was served by her handmaids
with immortal food, and nectar, the wine of the gods. When they had
supped, Calypso looked at Odysseus and said: "And wilt thou indeed
leave me, thou strange man? Am I not tall and fair, and worthy to be
called a daughter of heaven? And is thy Penelope so rare a dame, that
thou preferrest her to me! Ah! if thou knewest all the toils which
await thee before thou reachest thy home, and all the perils prepared
for thee there, thou wouldst renounce thy purpose, and dwell for ever
with me. Nevertheless go, if go thou must, and my blessing go with
thee."

Her words were kind, but some anger lurked in her tone, which Odysseus
hastened to appease. "Fair goddess," he answered, "be not wroth with
me. I know that thou art more lovely far than my wife Penelope; for
thou art divine, and she is but a mortal woman. Nevertheless I long
day and night to see her face, and to sit beneath the shadow of my own
rooftree. And if I be stricken again by the hand of Heaven on the
purple sea, I will bear it, for I have a very patient heart. Long have
I toiled, and much have I suffered, amid waves and wars. If more
remains, I will endure that also."

II

At early dawn, when the eastern wave was just silvered by the dim
light, Calypso roused Odysseus, and equipped him for the task of the
day. First she gave him a weighty two-edged axe, well balanced on its
haft of olive-wood, and an adze, freshly ground; then she showed him
where the tall trees grew, and bade him fall to work with the axe.
Twenty great trees fell beneath his sturdy strokes, and he trimmed the
trunks with the axe, and stripped off the bark. Meanwhile Calypso had
brought him an augur, and he bored the timbers, and fitted them
together, and fastened them with bolts and cross-pieces. So the raft
grew under his hands, broad as the floor of a stout merchantship. And
he fenced her with bulwarks, piling up blocks of wood to steady them.
Last of all he made mast and sail and rigging; and when all was ready
he thrust the frail vessel with rollers and levers down to the sea.

Four times the sun had risen and set before his labour was ended; and
on the fifth day Calypso brought him provisions for the voyage, a
great goatskin bottle full of water, and a smaller one of wine, and a
sack of corn, with other choice viands as a relish to his bread.

A joyful man was Odysseus when he spread his sail, and took his place
at the helm, and waved a last farewell to his gentle friend. A fair
breeze wafted him swiftly from the shore, and ere long that lovely
island, at once his home and his prison for seven long years, became a
mere shadow in the distance. All night he sat sleepless, tiller in
hand, watching the pilot stars, the Pleiades, and Boötes, and the
Bear, named also the Wain, which turns on one spot, and watches Orion,
and never dips into the ocean stream. For the goddess Calypso had
bidden him keep that star on the left hand as he sailed the seas. Thus
he voyaged for seventeen days, and on the eighteenth he saw afar off,
dimly outlined, a range of hills, rising, like the back of a shield,
above the horizon's verge.

Now Poseidon, his great enemy, had been absent for many days on a far
journey, and thus had taken no part in the council at Olympus when
Zeus had issued his order for the release of Odysseus. Just at this
time he was on his way back to Olympus, and caught sight of the bold
voyager steering towards the nearest land. "Ha! art thou there?" said
the implacable god, shaking his head; "and have the other powers
plotted against me in my absence, to frustrate my just anger? Thy
wanderings are well-nigh over, poor wretch! But thou shalt taste once
more of my vengeance, before thou reachest yonder shore."

So saying the lord of ocean took his trident and stirred up the deep;
and the clouds came trooping at his call, covering the sky with a
black curtain. Soon a great tempest broke loose, blowing in violent
and fitful blasts from all the four quarters of heaven. Then pale fear
got hold of Odysseus, as he saw the great curling billows heaving
round his frail craft. "Woe is me!" he cried, "when shall my troubles
have an end? Surely the goddess spoke truth, when she foretold me that
I should perish amid the waves, and never see my home again. Here I
lie helpless, given over to destruction, the sport of all the winds of
heaven. Happy, thrice happy, were my comrades who fell fighting
bravely and found honourable burial in the soil of Troy! Would that I
had died on that great day when the battle raged fiercest over the
body of Pelides; then should I have found death with honour, but now I
am doomed to a miserable and dishonoured end."

The words were hardly uttered when a huge toppling wave struck the
raft with tremendous force, carrying away mast and sail, and hurling
Odysseus into the sea. Deep down he sank, and the waters darkened over
his head, for he was encumbered by the weight of his clothes. At last
he rose to the surface, gasping, and spitting out the brine, and
though sore spent, he swam towards the raft, and hauled himself on
board. There he sat clinging to the dismasted and rudderless vessel,
which was tossed to and fro from wave to wave, as the winds of autumn
sport with the light thistledown and drive it hither and thither.

But help was at hand. There was a certain ocean nymph, named Ino,
daughter of Cadmus, who had once been a mortal woman, but now was
numbered among the immortal powers. She saw and pitied Odysseus, and
boarding the raft addressed him in this wise: "Poor man, why is
Poseidon so wroth with thee that he maltreats thee thus? Yet shall he
not destroy thee, for all his malice. Only do as I bid thee, and thou
shalt get safely to land: take this veil, and when thou hast stripped
off thy garments, bind it across thy breast. Then leave the raft to
its fate, and swim manfully to land; and when thou art safe fling the
veil back into the sea, and go thy way."

So saying the goddess sank beneath the waves, leaving Odysseus with
her veil in his hand. But that cautious veteran did not at once act on
her advice, for he feared that some treachery was intended against
him. He resolved therefore to remain on the raft as long as her
timbers held together, and only to have recourse to the veil in the
last extremity.

He had just taken this prudent resolution, when another wave, more
huge than the last, thundered down on the raft, scattering her
timbers, as the wind scatters a heap of chaff. Odysseus clung fast to
one beam and, mounting it, sat astride as on a horse, until he had
stripped off his clothes. Then he bound the veil round him, flung
himself head foremost into the billows, and swam lustily towards land.

The storm was now subsiding, and a steady breeze succeeded, blowing
from the north, which helped that much-tried hero in his struggle for
life. Yet for two days and two nights he battled with the waves, and
when day broke on the third day he found himself close under a
frowning wall of cliffs, at whose foot the sea was breaking with a
noise like thunder. Odysseus ceased swimming, and trod the water,
looking anxiously round for an opening in the cliffs where he might
land. While he hesitated, a great foaming wave came rushing landward,
threatening to sweep him against that rugged shore; but Odysseus saw
his danger in time, and succeeded in gaining a rocky mass which stood
above the surface just before him, and clutching it with hands and
knees, contrived to keep his hold until the huge billow was past. In
another moment he was caught by the recoil of the wave, and flung back
into the boiling surf, with fingers torn and bleeding. With desperate
exertions he fought his way out into the comparatively calm water,
outside the line of breakers, and swam parallel to the shore, until he
saw with delight a sheltered inlet, whence a river flowed into the
sea. Murmuring a prayer to the god of the river he steered for land,
and a few strokes brought him to a smooth sandy beach, where he lay
for a long time without sense or motion. All his flesh was swollen by
his long immersion in the water, the skin was stripped from his hands,
and when his breath came back to him he felt as weak as a child. Then
a deadly nausea came over him, and the water which he had swallowed
gushed up through his mouth and nostrils. Somewhat relieved by this,
he rose to his feet, and tottering to the river's brink loosed the
veil from his waist, and dropped it into the flowing water. For he
remembered the request of Ino, to whom he owed his life.

He had indeed escaped the sea; but his position seemed almost
hopeless. There he lay, naked, and more dead than alive, without food
or shelter, in a strange land, without a sign of human habitation in
view. Crawling painfully to a bed of rushes he lay down and considered
what was best for him to do. He could not remain where he was, for it
was an exposed place, with no protection from the dew, and open to the
chill breeze from the river, which blows at early dawn. A few hours of
such a vigil would certainly kill him in his exhausted state. If, on
the other hand, he sought the shelter of the woods, he feared that he
would fall a prey to some prowling beast.

At last he determined to face the less certain peril, and made his way
into a thicket not far from the river side. Searching for a place
where he might lie he soon came upon two dense bushes of olive, whose
leaves and branches were so closely interwoven that they formed a sort
of natural arbour, impenetrable by sun, or rain, or wind. "In good
time!" murmured Odysseus, as he crept beneath that green roof, and
scooped out a deep bed for himself in the fallen leaves. There he lay
down, and piled the leaves high over him. And as a careful housewife
in some remote farmhouse, where there are no neighbours near, covers
up a burning brand among the ashes, so that it may last all night, and
preserve the seed of fire; so lay Odysseus, nursing the spark of life,
in his deep bed of leaves. And soon he forgot all his troubles in a
deep and dreamless sleep.

Odysseus among the Phæacians

The land on which Odysseus had thus been cast like a piece of broken
wreckage was called Phæacia, and derived its name from the Phæacians,
a race of famous mariners, who had settled there some fifty years
before, having been driven from their former seat by the Cyclopes, a
savage tribe, who dwelt on their borders. The Phæacians were an
unwarlike people, and being in no condition to resist the fierce
assaults of these lawless neighbours, they abandoned their homes and
built a new city on a little peninsula, connected with the mainland by
a narrow isthmus. Defended by strong walls they were now safe against
all attacks, and they soon grew rich and prosperous in the exercise of
a thriving trade.

At this time the king of the Phæacians was Alcinous, who had a fair
daughter, named Nausicaä. On the night when Odysseus lay couched in
his bed of leaves Nausicaä was sleeping in her bower, and with her
were two handmaids, whose beds were set on either side of the door.
And in a dream she seemed to hear one of her girlish friends, the
daughter of a neighbouring house, speaking to her thus: "Nausicaä, why
art thou grown so careless as to suffer all the raiment in thy
father's house to remain unwashen, when thy bridal day is so near?
Wouldst thou be wedded in soiled attire, and have all thy friends clad
unseemly, to put thee to shame? These are a woman's cares, by which
she wins a good report among men, and gladdens her mother's heart.
Arise, therefore, at break of day, and beg thy father to let harness
the mules to the wain, that thou mayest take the linen to the place of
washing, far away by the river's side. I will go with thee, and help
thee in the work."

So dreamed Nausicaä, and so spake the vision. But the voice which
seemed the voice of her friend came from no mortal lips; it was Athene
herself who had visited the maiden's bower, in her care for Odysseus,
that he might get safe conduct to the city of the Phæacians. And when
she had done her errand the goddess went back to Olympus, where is the
steadfast, everlasting seat of the blessed gods, not shaken of any
wind, nor wet with rain, nor chilled by snow, but steeped for ever in
cloudless, sunny air. There the gods abide for ever and take their
delight.

Nausicaä rose betimes, with her mind full of the dream, and went down
to the hall, where she found her mother sitting by the hearth with her
women, spinning the bright sea-purple thread. Inquiring for her father
she learnt that he had but that moment gone forth to attend the
council of elders, and hastening after him she found him before the
doors of the house.

"Father," she said, "may I have the waggon to take the household
raiment to the place of washing? Thou thyself hast ever need of clean
garments when thou goest to the council, and my brothers will reproach
me if they lack clean raiment when they go to the dance."

Thus spake the maiden, being ashamed to make mention of her own
marriage. But Alcinous knew, and smiled to himself, as he ordered his
thralls to prepare the waggon. So when they had harnessed the mules,
Nausicaä and her handmaids brought the soiled garments, and bestowed
them behind the seat. And her mother brought a basket with food for
the midday meal and oil for her daughter and the other maidens when
they took their bath. Then they took their seats, Nausicaä grasped the
reins, and they went off at a sharp trot towards the riverside.

After a pleasant drive, they came to the place where stood a row of
cisterns on the river's bank. There they unharnessed the mules, and
left them to crop the sweet clover in the water-meadows. Then they
unloaded the waggon, threw the garments into washing-troughs, and trod
them with their feet until they were thoroughly cleansed, and having
wrung them out, they spread them on the white pebbly beach to dry.
While the garments were bleaching in the wholesome sun and air, they
took their bath, and afterwards sat down to the midday meal. When that
was ended, they threw off their veils, and stood up to play at ball.

It was a pretty and graceful sight; they were all comely maidens,
glowing with youth and health. Their sport was accompanied by dance
and song, and as they chased the flying ball, keeping time with hand
and foot and voice, they seemed like a choir of mountain nymphs, led
by Artemis, when she goes forth to the chase, in the wild valleys of
Arcady or Lacedæmon. Tallest and fairest of them all was Nausicaä, who
led the sport, moving like a queen among her vassals.

Presently they grew tired of their sport, and Nausicaä flung the ball
for the last time to one of her handmaids. The girl missed the ball,
and it fell into the middle of the river, whereupon the whole company
set up a sharp cry. The sound came to the ears of Odysseus, and woke
him from his long slumber. He sat up in his bed of leaves and communed
with himself: "Behold I hear the shrill cry of women, or perhaps of
the nymphs who haunt this wild place. Now may I learn of what sort are
the natives of this land, whether they be fierce and inhospitable, or
gentle and kind to strangers." Plucking a leafy bough, and holding it
before him to cover himself, he stepped forth from the thicket, and
came in sight of that gentle company. Grim and dreadful he looked,
like a hungry lion, buffeted by rain and wind, who goes forth in a
tempest to seek his prey; for he was haggard with long fasting, and
sore disfigured by his battle with the sea; his eyes glared with
famine, and his hair and beard hung ragged and unkempt about his face.
At this fearful apparition the maidens fled shrieking along the river
bank, all but Nausicaä, who stood her ground, and gazed fearlessly,
though in wonder, while Odysseus came slowly forward. When he was
still some way off he stopped, fearing to offend her delicacy if he
came nearer. Then with a gesture of entreaty he began to speak, and
Nausicaä knew at once that it was no common man who stood before her.

"Have pity on me, O queen!" he began, in soft and insinuating tones.
"Art thou a goddess, or a mortal woman? If thou art a goddess, thou
seemest to me most like to Artemis, daughter of great Zeus, both in
face, and in stature, and in form. But if thou art mortal, then thrice
blessed are thy father and mother, and thrice blessed thy brethren,
and their spirits are refreshed because of thee, when thou goest, a
very rose of beauty, to the dance. Happy the man who wins thee for his
bride! Never yet have I seen the like of thee among all the children
of men. Only once have I beheld aught to compare unto thee, a young
palm-tree which I saw growing tall and straight by the altar of Apollo
at Delos. I saw it, and was amazed, for it was wondrous fair; and even
so is my soul filled with wonder and dread when I look upon thy face,
so that I am afraid to draw near unto thee, though sore is my need.
Yesterday I was flung naked on thy coast, after a voyage of twenty
days. Many things have I suffered, and more, I ween, remains for me in
store; for I am a man of many woes. Have compassion on me, dread lady!
I am thy suppliant, and to thee first I address my prayer. Show me the
way to the city, and give me a cloth to wrap round me, that I may go
among the people without shame. And may the gods give thee all,
whatsoever thy heart desireth, a husband and a home, and happy wedded
love, shedding warmth in thine house, and a strong defence against all
ills from without, but above all a sacred treasure in thy husband's
heart, and in thine."

"Whatever be thy misfortunes," answered Nausicaä, "I am sure they are
not the fruit of thine own folly or wickedness. And since thou art
come as a suppliant to this land of ours, thou shalt want nothing,
whether it be raiment, or aught else that befits thy state. I will
show thee our city, and tell thee the name of the people. Know that
thou hast come to the country of the Phæacians, whose ruler and king
is Alcinous, and I am his daughter."

Then she called to her handmaids, who were looking on, half
frightened, half curious, from behind rocks and trees, a long way off,
ready to resume their flight at the slightest alarm: "Come hither, and
fear not the man; neither he nor any other shall ever come to this
land with thoughts of harm; for we are very dear to the immortal gods.
Far away we dwell amidst the rolling seas, remote from the haunts of
men. But this is some hapless wanderer, driven by chance to our
shores, and we must cherish him, for from Zeus come all strangers and
beggars, and a little gift is a great thing to them. Take the stranger
to a sheltered place, where he may wash and dress him, and give him
wherewithal to clothe himself, and after that, meat and drink."

When they heard the words of their mistress the girls came stealing
timidly back, one by one. And they gave Odysseus clean raiment, and
when he had washed and clothed himself, he came back to the place
where Nausicaä was waiting. Wonderful was the change which had been
made in his appearance by the refreshing bath and fitting apparel.
Instead of the squalid, battered wretch who had begged for countenance
and shelter, Nausicaä saw before her a stalwart, stately man,
broad-shouldered, and deep of chest, with dark clustering hair and
beard, like the curling hyacinth, and an air of majesty and command.

"Hear me, friends," whispered Nausicaä, as she saw him coming,
"methinks some god hath wrought a miracle on this man, who but now was
so hideous to behold. Would that we might prevail with him to make his
abode among us! She would be a proud maiden who should wed with such
as him. Now give the stranger food and drink." And they did so, and
Odysseus ate and drank with keen appetite, having tasted nothing for
many days. While he was eating, the maidens folded the garments and
placed them in the waggon, and when he had finished, Nausicaä mounted
the waggon, and bidding him and the handmaids follow on foot started
the mules and drove slowly towards the city. When they reached the
cultivated lands outside the walls she drew up, and addressed Odysseus
thus: "Stranger, I may not go with thee further, for I fear the
envious tongues of the citizens, who will point the finger at us and
say: 'See what a tall and handsome stranger Nausicaä hath brought with
her!--some seafaring man whom she hath brought with her to be her
husband, since she despises the men of her own nation.' And this will
be a reproach unto me. Therefore wait thou awhile, and do as I bid
thee. Not far from here is a temple and grove of Athene, a fair
coppice of poplar-trees, and a spring of clear water. Go thou thither,
and wait until we have time to reach my father's house, then rise and
go into the city and inquire for the dwelling of Alcinous. A little
child could show thee the way, for there is none like it in all the
city."

[Illustration: Odysseus and Nausicaä]

So saying, Nausicaä drove on, leaving Odysseus where he was. He soon
found the temple, and going in knelt down and prayed to the goddess to
continue her favour. When he thought that Nausicaä had had time to
reach home, he rose and went into the city. The road lay along a
narrow causeway, which connected the city with the mainland, and on
either side was a sheltered haven, with ships drawn up on the beach.
Passing through the gates he came next to the place of assembly, in
front of a temple of Poseidon, with a circle of massive stones bedded
deeply in the earth. Wherever he looked he saw signs of a busy
seafaring people--masts, and oars, and great coils of rope--and his
ears were filled with the sound of saw and hammer from the
shipwrights' yards.

II

As he stood thus gazing about him, he saw a young maiden coming
towards him, carrying a pitcher. He inquired of her the way to the
house of Alcinous, and she bade him follow her, as she was going that
way. "My father's house," she said, "is close to the house which thou
seekest. But thou art a stranger, I perceive, and not of this land;
walk therefore warily, and regard no man, for the Phæacians love not
the face of the stranger, nor are they given to hospitality. Their
home is the deep, and their ships are as swift as a bird--swift as a
thought--for they are the favourites of Poseidon."

So saying, the maiden led the way swiftly, and Odysseus followed,
keeping close behind. He remarked with wonder that though the streets
were full of people, so that they had to walk carefully, and thread
their way through the crowd, none seemed to notice him or his
companion, or gave any sign of being conscious of their presence. The
truth was that the supposed maiden was none other than his patron
goddess Athene, who so ordered it that he was invisible to all eyes
but hers.

As they went, his companion entertained him with an account of the
family history of the Phæacian king, Alcinous, whose father,
Nausithous, was the son of Poseidon. Alcinous married Arete, who was
related to him by blood, and was honoured exceedingly by her husband
and by all the Phæacians. "She is the idol of her household,"
continued the maiden, "and all eyes follow her with love and reverence
when she goes through the town. So high is her character that even men
consult her in their differences, and defer to her judgment. If thou
canst enlist her on thy side, thou wilt soon obtain the safe conduct
which thou desirest, and reach thy home in safety and honour."

They had now reached a large enclosed piece of land, surrounded by a
tall fence, above which appeared the boughs of goodly trees, laden
with their burden of fruit. "Here is the garden of Alcinous,"
whispered the maiden, "and yonder is the gate. Enter boldly in, and
seek out the queen, who is now sitting at meat with her husband's
guests. Make thy petition to her, for if her heart incline unto thee
all will be well."

With that word she vanished from his sight, and left him standing at
the gates of Alcinous. Wondering greatly he entered the garden, and
gazed about him. So fair a sight had never met his eyes. Fruit-trees
without number stood ranged in ordered rows, pear-trees, and
pomegranates, and rosy apples, the luscious fig, and olives in their
bloom. Their fruit never failed, summer or winter, all the year round.
There blows the warm west wind without ceasing, nursing the tender
blossom, and mellowing the swelling fruit. He saw pears and figs
hanging on the trees in every stage of growth. Another part of the
enclosure was set apart for the cultivation of the vine; and here also
the same wonder was to be seen, springtime and summer dancing
hand-in-hand, and yellow autumn treading close in their footsteps.
Side by side hung the ripe, purple cluster, the crude grape just
turning from green to red, and tiny green bunches lately formed from
the blossom. There the labour of the vintagers never ceased, and the
winepress overflowed without end.

Between the rows of fruit-trees were garden-beds, in which grew all
manner of flowers and useful herbs; and the whole was watered by a
perennial stream, divided into channels which brought the water to
every part of the garden.

Turning with a sigh from that paradise of colour and perfume, Odysseus
passed on to the house, and stood for a while, scanning that stately
structure. His eyes were almost blinded by the light which flashed
from the outer walls, which were built of solid brass, with a coping
of blue steel. The doors were of gold, with silver lintel and
doorposts, and brazen threshold. Then he entered the hall, still
unseen of all eyes; and here new wonders awaited him. Within the
doorway on either side sat dogs wrought in silver and gold, living
creatures, that know neither age nor death, which Hephæstus, the
divine artificer, made, in the wisdom of his heart, to guard the house
of the prince Alcinous day and night. At intervals stood figures of
youths fashioned in gold, with torches in their hands, which at
night-time shed a blaze of light throughout the hall. And all round
the walls were set rows of seats, covered with richly woven cloths,
the work of women's hands. There sat the noble chieftains of Phæacia,
feasting on the bounty of their king.

Far within, visible through a wide-opened door, was seen another
chamber, where a troop of domestics were busy at their tasks. Some
were grinding the yellow grain in hand-mills, others were walking to
and fro at the loom, and others sat plying distaff and spindle,
nodding their heads like poplars waving in the wind. Very choice was
the fabric woven in that chamber, for the women of Phæacia were famed
beyond all others for their skill in weaving, even as the men
surpassed all the world in seamanship.

Such were the glories of the house of Alcinous, and when Odysseus had
gazed his fill he began to think of the purpose for which he had come.
The feasters were just pouring a libation to Hermes, to be followed by
a parting cup, before they went home. At that very moment their eyes
were opened, and they saw Odysseus kneeling at the feet of Arete, and
heard him utter these words:

"Great queen, daughter of a race divine, behold me, a toil-worn
wanderer, who hath come hither to implore thy grace. Intercede for me,
I pray thee, with thy husband, that he may send me speedily to my
native land: and may it be well with thee, and with all this fair
company, and with the children who come after thee."

Thereupon he sat down by the hearth in the ashes near the fire; and
for awhile not a word was spoken, but all sat gazing at him in wonder.
At last an aged Phæacian broke the silence, and said, looking at
Alcinous: "My prince, it becomes thee not to suffer this stranger to
sit on the ground in the ashes. Behold, we are all waiting for thee to
speak and declare thy will. Give this poor man thy hand, and set him
on a seat, that he may know that his prayer is granted. And let them
give him to eat, and fill a bowl for a libation to Zeus, in whose care
are all suppliants."

Alcinous rose in response to the words of the elder, who was famed
among the Phæacians for his eloquence and wisdom, and taking Odysseus
by the hand raised him from his abject posture, and seated him by his
side. Food and drink were placed before him, and while he was eating,
Alcinous ordered a bowl to be filled for a libation to Zeus, the god
of hospitality. The wine was served out to the guests, the libations
were poured, and then Alcinous began to speak again, unfolding his
purpose towards Odysseus.

"Here me, ye princes of Phæacia. Go ye now to your rest, and to-morrow
we will call an assembly of all the elders, and make a great feast and
sacrifice, and after that we will take counsel how we may best send
the stranger on his way. Safe and sound we will bring him to his
native land, but after that he must take up his portion, according as
the Fates have ordained for him, and spun the thread of his life,
rough or smooth, from the hour when his mother bare him. I speak as
supposing our guest to be a man; but if he be a god, come down from
heaven, then I fear that the gods are devising some snare against us.
For never has it been their wont to appear among us in disguise, but
at sacrifice and at feast they freely consort with us in their own
shape, seeing that we are of their own kin."

"Alcinous," answered Odysseus, "let not this fear trouble thee. I am
no god, as thou mayest see right well. If ye know any man conspicuous
for the burden of sorrow which he bears, ye may learn my lot from his.
But none, methinks, can equal the sum of what I have endured by the
ordinance of heaven. Care sits by my side day and night, but within me
is a monitor whose voice I must obey, even my hungry belly, that calls
aloud to be filled, and will not let me alone to chew the cud of
bitter thought. Shameless he is, and clamorous exceedingly. Therefore
let me sup and question me no further to-night; but rouse thee betimes
to-morrow, and send me with all speed to my native land. Let me once
see my possessions, and my household, and my stately home, and then I
will close mine eyes in peace."

A murmur of approval went round the hall as Odysseus ended his speech.
One by one the guests took leave of Alcinous, and he and his hosts sat
awhile conversing together, while the servants were removing the
remnants of the feast, and setting the house in order for the night.
Arete was the first to speak, for she recognised the garments which
Odysseus was wearing as the work of her own hands. "Friend," said she,
"let me ask thee one question. How camest thou by this raiment? For
surely thou hast not brought it with thee in thy voyage across the
deep. Say who thou art and whence thou comest."

Thus challenged Odysseus told her all the story of his shipwreck on
the island of Calypso, of his long sojourn there, of his voyage on the
raft, his second shipwreck, and his landing on the coast of Phæacia.
Concluding he touched feelingly on his meeting with Nausicaä, and the
kindness, courtesy, and modesty of her behaviour. "Never saw I such
grace and prudence," he added, "in one so young and so lovely."

"Yet in this she did not well," replied Alcinous, "that she brought
thee not straightway to this house, but suffered thee to find thy way
alone."

"Nay, blame her not," answered Odysseus, "she bade me come hither with
herself and the maidens, but I feared to offend thee, and chose to
come alone."

"Think not that I am so hasty, or given to causeless anger," said
Alcinous; "excess in all things is evil."[1] Then he looked earnestly
at Odysseus, and continued, after a pause: "I would to heaven that thy
thoughts were as mine; then wouldst thou abide for ever in this land,
and take my daughter to wife, and I would give thee house and lands.
But I see that thou art steadfastly purposed to leave us; and none
shall detain thee against thy will. To-morrow thou shalt go. I will
appoint a ship and a crew, and they shall bear thee sleeping to thine
own land, yea though it be more distant than far Euboea, which lies,
as I am told, in the uttermost parts of the earth. Yet the Phæacians
went thither in their ships, and returned on the same day. They have
no equals, as thou shalt soon learn, in seamanship, and no ships in
all the world are like mine."

[Footnote 1: _Nothing too much_, the corner-stone of Greek morality.]

After some further talk they parted for the night, and Odysseus, after
all his hardships, was right glad to lay him down in the soft bed
prepared for him in the gallery before the house. But before he closed
his eyes he muttered a prayer to Zeus that Alcinous might abide by his
promise, and send him safely home.

Next day was appointed for a great feast in the palace of Alcinous, to
which all the chief men of Phæacia were invited, and when Odysseus
returned to the house, after some hours spent in a visit to the town,
hefound the courts and galleries thronged with a great company. The
preparations for the banquet were on a heroic scale: twelve sheep,
eight fat swine, and two oxen, the choicest of the herd, were
slaughtered, and a goodly row of casks, filled with the finest
vintages, gave further token that Alcinous was no niggardly host.

"Come," said Alcinous, meeting Odysseus at the gate. "The guests are
seated, and all is ready. Trouble not thyself as to the manner of thy
home-coming; that is cared for already, and the ship lies at her
moorings. But to-day is a day of good cheer, when thou shalt learn how
gay and joyous a life the Phæacians live."

As he spoke, they entered the banquet hall, and Odysseus sat down by
the side of Alcinous. Rich and dainty was the fare, and many times the
great wine-bowls were filled and emptied; for the Phæacians were a
luxurious race, much given to the pleasures of the table. Among the
guests Odysseus was especially struck by one venerable figure, who sat
by himself against a pillar, on which hung a harp within reach of his
hands. Odysseus noticed that he ate slowly and deliberately, and
seemed to feel for the cup when he wished to drink, "It is Demodocus,
the blind harper," whispered Alcinous. "We shall presently have a
taste of his quality. He is a rare minstrel."

Accordingly, when the last course was removed, the harp was placed in
the singer's hands, and after striking a deep chord he began to sing,
choosing for his theme a famous tale of Troy, which told how Achilles
and Odysseus quarrelled at a banquet, and reviled each other with
bitter words, and how Agamemnon rejoiced in spirit because of the
strife; for he had heard an oracle from Apollo, foretelling that when
the noblest of the Greeks fell out Troy's end would be near at hand.

Odysseus listened, and a flood of emotion filled his mind, so sad were
the memories recalled by the minstrel's lay. Of all his gallant peers,
for ten years his companions in many a joyful feast, and many a high
adventure, how many were left? And he, among the last of the
survivors, was now growing old, after twenty years of war and
wandering, far from his wife and home. He was now, indeed, on the eve
of his return; but at what a price had it been won! And who could tell
what heavy trials awaited him when once more he set foot on his native
soil? Was it not but too probable that he would find his house made
desolate, Telemachus dead, and Penelope wedded to another?

Overpowered by these gloomy forebodings, he covered his face, and wept
aloud. When Demodocus paused in his singing he wiped away his tears,
and poured a drink-offering from his cup; but every time the minstrel
resumed his lay a new fit of weeping succeeded. At last, Alcinous, who
had hitherto been totally absorbed in that rare minstrelsy, observed
his guest's emotion, and partly divining the cause came to his relief.
"How say ye, fair sirs?" he said, rising and addressing the company.
"Shall we go forth for awhile, and show the stranger that we have
other and manlier pastimes, now that we have eaten and drunken, and
cheered our souls with song? Let him not say of us when he goes home
that we sit all day by the wine-cup, but let him learn that the
Phæacians surpass all mankind in boxing, and in wrestling, and in
leaping, and in the speed of their feet."

So saying he rose from his seat and led the way to the place of
assembly. Crowds soon flocked to see the friendly trial of strength
and skill. The first event was the foot race, and this was followed by
matches of wrestling, boxing, leaping, and throwing the weight.
Odysseus stood watching the Phæacians at their sports, and thinking of
the mighty feats which he had witnessed and shared at the funeral
games of Patroclus. Presently he felt a hand on his shoulder, and
heard himself challenged by a young Phæacian, whose name was Euryalus,
in these terms: "Why so gloomy, father? Away with care! All is ready
for thy departure, and thou shalt soon be home again. But come, give
us a proof of thy manhood, if thou knowest aught of games of skill.
Thou seemest a stout fellow, and I doubt not that thou wilt acquit
thee well."

"Friend," answered Odysseus, "mock me not. Thou seest how broken I am,
and worn by my long battle with the sea; and care sits heavy on my
heart, forbidding me to think of the things which thou namest."

"Nay," said Euryalus, with a scornful laugh, "I see that I was
mistaken in thee. Thou art plainly no athlete, but some cunning
merchant, with thy head full of thy cargo, and fingers only skilled in
counting thy gains."

Then Odysseus bent his brows, and answered with a stern look: "Friend,
thou art over-saucy of thy tongue. But so it ever is; the gods
dispense their gifts with sparing hand, and give not all excellence to
the same man. One man is mean of aspect, but heaven's grace descends
upon his lips, so that men look upon him with delight while he