The Odyssey, Page 6

  have vanished him utterly, as they've done to no other man

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  ever--I wouldn't be grieving so over his death

  had he fallen alongside his comrades upon Trojan soil

  or expired in his friends' arms after winding up the war!

  Then all the Achaians would have made him a burial mound,

  and great glory would have been his, and his son's, hereafter.

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  But now, ingloriously, the storm winds have swept him away.

  He's gone, out of sight, out of knowledge, leaving me pain and sorrow

  --and it's not on his sole account that I'm lamenting now,

  since the gods have inflicted other harsh troubles on me.

  All those highborn leaders who lord it over the islands--

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  Doulichion and Same and forested Zakynthos,

  besides those who rule as princes over rocky Ithake--

  are all paying court to my mother, and devouring our property.

  Yet she neither refuses this hateful marriage, nor can she make

  an end of the business, while they with feasting keep on

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  eating away our substance: very soon they'll destroy me too."

  Outraged by his statement, Athene responded, saying:

  "It's true, you're in urgent need of the vanished Odysseus,

  to come and lay hands on these shameless suitors!

  How I wish he'd appear now, here at your outer gate,

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  armed with helmet and shield and a brace of spears,

  the way he was the first time I set eyes upon him,

  in our house, drinking wine and enjoying himself, on his way

  back from Ephyre, where he'd gone to see Ilos, Mermeros' son.

  Odysseus had voyaged there aboard his speedy vessel

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  in search of a lethal poison that he wanted to get

  to smear the bronze tips of his arrows. But Ilos refused

  to give it him, fearing the wrath of the gods that are forever;

  yet my father did, for he loved the man most dearly.

  If only Odysseus might come, thus arrayed, among the suitors!

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  They'd all find a quick death then, and a bitter marriage.

  But of course all this rests on the knees of the gods--

  whether or not he'll return and exact full retribution

  in his own halls. But I urge you yourself to consider

  how you might drive out these suitors from your household,

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  so pay attention now, mark carefully what I tell you.

  Tomorrow call an assembly of the Achaian heroes:

  Speak your mind to them all, let the gods be your witnesses!

  Tell the suitors all to disperse, to go back home;

  And if your mother's heart is urging her toward marriage,

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  she should return to her powerful father's domain,

  where they'll set up the wedding and arrange the bride-gifts,

  lots of them, all that's fitting to go with a much-loved daughter.

  And for you yourself wise advice, if you'll take it: man a ship,

  the best you have, with twenty rowers, and go

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  to seek news of your father, who's been so long absent,

  just in case some person can tell you, or you pick up a rumor

  from Zeus, the most common way that mortals gather tidings.

  Go first to Pylos, interrogate noble Nestor,

  and from there to Sparta, to fair-haired Menelaos,

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  for he was the last of all the bronze-corseleted Achaians

  to get home. If you hear that your father's alive, and on his

  way back, then, though beleaguered, hold on for another year;

  but if you get word that he's dead, no longer living,

  then make your way back to your own dear country,

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  raise him a burial mound, perform funeral rites at it--

  lavish ones, as is fitting--and find your mother a husband.

  Then, when all this business is over and done with,

  is the time to consider, in your mind and spirit,

  how you might slaughter these suitors in your halls,

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  whether by guile or openly. It does not become you

  to persist in childish ways: you're no longer a child.

  Or have you not heard what glory noble Orestes won

  among all mankind when he slew his father's murderer,

  crafty Aigisthos, for killing his famous father?

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  You too, my friend--for I see how handsome and tall you are--

  be valiant, that men yet unborn may speak well of you!

  But now I shall go back down to my swift ship,

  where my comrades must be waiting impatiently for me.

  So think on these things, and pay heed to what I've told you."

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  Sagacious Telemachos then responded to her, saying:

  "Stranger, the words that you said were spoken considerately,

  as a father would speak to his son: I will never forget them.

  But please do stay longer, though eager to be on your way,

  so that when you've had a bath and refreshed your spirit

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  you can go to your ship with a present, happy at heart--

  an expensive and beautiful gift, to be an heirloom for you

  from me, such as guest-friends exchange with one another."

  The goddess, grey-eyed Athene, responded to him, saying:

  "Delay me no longer--I need to resume my journey:

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  and whatever gift your heart incites you to give me,

  give it me when I return here, to take back home. And choose

  something really precious: it'll bring you its worth in exchange."

  That said, the goddess, grey-eyed Athene, departed,

  flying up through the skylight. Into his heart she set

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  courage and strength, and put him in mind of his father

  even more than before. Reflecting on what had happened

  his mind was in awe: this must be a god, he thought.

  At once he approached the suitors, a godlike mortal.

  For them the far-famed minstrel was singing, and they

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  sat listening in silence. His song recounted the Achaians'

  wretched homecoming from Troy, laid on them by Athene.

  From upstairs the marvelous tale was heard and pondered

  by Ikarios' daughter, the prudent Penelope, who now

  went down from her high bright upper chamber: not

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  alone, for two of her handmaids followed in attendance.

  When she, bright among women, came where the suitors were,

  she stood by the central post of the snugly timbered roof,

  holding up her shining veil in front of her face,

  and flanked on either side by a devoted handmaid,

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  and then, in tears, addressed the godlike minstrel:

  "Phemios, much else you know to keep mortals spellbound--

  deeds of men and of gods, made famous by minstrels:

  give them one such song as you sit here, let them in silence

  still drink their wine, but quit this lay you're singing,

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  so unhappy, it always agonizes the heart in my breast,

  since on me beyond all others has come unforgettable

  grief, for that much-loved being I picture with such longing--

  my husband, of wide renown through Hellas and mid-Argos."

  Sagacious Telemachos then responded to her, saying:

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  "Mother, why do you begrudge so excellent a minstrel

  the right to please in whatever way he ch
ooses?

  It's not minstrels who are at fault, but Zeus, who deals out

  to bread-eating mortals whatever he likes for each.

  Don't blame this bard for singing the Danaans' grim fate:

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  men always show most enthusiasm for the newest lay

  that's performed with a view to enchant their listening ears!

  So harden your mind and heart, be resigned to listen:

  It was not Odysseus alone who lost his day of returning

  from Troy--many others perished, just as he did.

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  So go back to your room, get down to your regular tasks,

  at the loom, with the distaff; see to it that your handmaids

  do their proper work too! But speechmaking is men's business,

  and mine above all, since mine is the power in this household."

  Taken aback, Penelope now withdrew to her chamber,

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  and stored in her heart her son's smart observations.

  Upstairs she went, her handmaids with her, and then

  wept for Odysseus, her own dear husband, until

  grey-eyed Athene spread sweet sleep over her eyelids.

  But the suitors created an uproar throughout the shadowy hall,

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  each praying that he might be the one to bed and lie with her,

  and among them sagacious Telemachos was the first to speak:

  "You, my mother's suitors, domineering and arrogant,

  for now let us feast and enjoy ourselves, but please,

  no shouting! It's a rare pleasure to be able to hear

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  a minstrel like this one, with a voice like that of the gods!

  But tomorrow at dawn let's go and be seated in assembly,

  all of us, where I'll make you a forthright public request:

  Get out of my home! Go find other feasts for yourselves,

  consume your own goods, move around from house to house!

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  But if this is what you regard as better, more profitable,

  to devour one man's livelihood without offering compensation,

  then gobble on! I'll petition the gods who are forever,

  and maybe Zeus will grant me an occasion of reprisal,

  so that you, while still feasting for free in my halls, all perish!"

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  So he spoke; and all of them bit their lips hard, astonished

  at the way Telemachos had spoken out so boldly.

  Antinoos, son of Eupeithes, now addressed him, saying:

  "Telemachos, it must be the gods themselves who've taught you

  this high-flown delivery, this audacious way of speaking!

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  You, king of sea-girt Ithake? May the son of Kronos never

  grant you the throne, though it's yours by ancestral right!"

  Sagacious Telemachos responded to him, saying:

  "Antinoos, what I now say may perhaps offend you.

  This too I'd be glad to accept, were Zeus the giver:

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  do you think it the worst fate that could befall a man?

  To be king's no disaster: right from the start your domain

  Is enriched, and you yourself are held in greater honor.

  Still, there are many other princes of the Achaians,

  both young and old, who dwell here in sea-girt Ithake:

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  any one of them might get this, since noble Odysseus

  is dead. But I shall be lord over our own household,

  and the servants that noble Odysseus got as booty for me."

  Then Eurymachos, son of Polybos, responded to him, saying:

  "Telemachos, all these matters rest on the knees of the gods--

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  like, which of the Achaians will be king in sea-girt Ithake!

  So keep your possessions, lord it over your own household,

  and may the man never come here who'd deprive you by force

  of your possessions, as long as Ithake's inhabited! Yet

  I'd like, my good friend, to ask you about that stranger--

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  Where did he come from? What country does he claim as his?

  Where are his relatives, his family acres, to be found?

  Did he come here with news about your father's return,

  or was it just to take care of some business of his own?

  The way he took off and vanished, not even waiting

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  to meet us--he didn't look, though, like some common fellow."

  Sagacious Telemachos then responded to him, saying:

  "Eurymachos, by now all hope for my father's return

  has perished. No longer do I trust rumors from any source,

  or give any heed to prophecies, such as my mother

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  might pick up from a seer that she'd invited home.

  As for this stranger, he's from Taphos, a friend

  of my father, he says, named Mentes, wise Anchialos' son,

  and is lord of the Taphians, those master rowers."

  So spoke

  Telemachos; but in his heart he knew the immortal goddess.

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  The suitors now turned to dancing and the pleasures of song,

  pursuing their revels until it was evening: only darkness

  interrupted their merrymaking, only then

  did each of them slope off homeward to take his rest.

  But Telemachos made his way to the handsome courtyard,

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  in a sheltering corner of which his chamber had been built,

  and sought his bed there, pondering much in his mind,

  escorted by his old nurse, who bore the lighted torches--

  faithful Eurykleia, daughter of Ops, Peisenor's son.

  Long ago she'd been bought by Laertes, at a good price,

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  when she was still a young girl: twenty oxen, no less.

  He respected her in his home no less than his loyal wife,

  but never made love to her, for fear of his wife's anger.

  So now it was she who carried the lighted torches: of all

  the servants she loved him most, had nursed him as a child.

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  He opened the door of his well-carpentered chamber,

  sat down on the bed and took off his soft tunic,

  then placed it in the hands of this wise old woman, who

  now folded and smoothed the tunic, hung it up

  on a peg at the side of the corded bedstead, and went

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  out of the chamber, pulled the door shut behind her

  with its silver hook, and drew the bolt home by its thong.

  So the whole night through, wrapped in a woolen blanket,

  he brooded over the journey Athene had planned for him.

  Book 2

  When Dawn appeared, early risen and rosy-fingered,

  Odysseus' dear son got up from the bed he'd slept in,

  put on his clothes, slung a sharp sword from one shoulder,

  tied on a pair of fine sandals under his sleek feet,

  and sallied forth from his chamber, in appearance like a god.

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  At once he issued orders to the clear-voiced heralds

  to call to assembly the long-haired Achaians.1 They made

  the proclamation he ordered, and quickly the people gathered.

  When they were met together in a single body

  Telemachos now joined them, a bronze spear in one hand,

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  not alone, but accompanied by a pair of hunting dogs,

  and wondrous the grace that Athene now shed on him,

  so that the whole crowd watched him as he approached:

  he sat in his father's seat, and the elders made way for him.

  The hero Aigyptios was the first among them to speak,

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  a man bent with age, of
much varied experience.

  Besides, his dear son had accompanied godlike Odysseus

  to Ilion, rich in fine foals, aboard the hollow ships--