But Telemachus replied: “No, Antinous. I can no longer sit at the same board with you. I am not a boy any more. From now on, whether I go or stay, you shall deal with a full-grown man. But I will go, and nothing shall keep me!” And as he spoke, he withdrew his hand and hurried to his father’s storerooms where gold and bronze were kept, where costly tunics filled the chests and flasks of fragrant oil and big jars of old wine were set up around the walls. All these things were under the care of Euryclea, an old serving-woman. When he had entered and closed and bolted the doors behind him, he said to her: “Quick, fill twelve two-handled jars with the choicest wine and seal them well. Then pour twenty measures of barley-meal into well-sewn skins, and put everything together. Before nightfall, but after my mother has gone to her sleeping-chamber, I shall fetch everything. Do not tell her that I have gone to look for my father until twelve days have passed, unless she asks for me before that.” Euryclea wept at his going, but promised to do as he had asked.
Meantime Athene had assumed the shape of Telemachus, enlisted men for the journey, and borrowed a ship from Noemon, a wealthy citizen of Ithaca. Then she dazed the minds of the suitors. The cups dropped from their hands, and they fell into a deep sleep. When she had done this, she again appeared as Mentor, joined Telemachus, and urged him not to put off his departure. Swiftly they went to the shore where they found the ship and the crew. They had ample provisions stored in the hold and then went aboard. When the waves were already lapping the keel and the wind swelled the sails, they poured a libation to the gods and all night sped over the sea with a favorable breeze.
At sunrise, Pylos, Nestor’s city, lay before their eyes. The people had come down to the shore in nine groups, each of which sacrificed nine black bulls to the god of the sea. They burned the offering to Poseidon and prepared to feast on the meat. When the men from Ithaca landed, Athene in the guise of Mentor led Telemachus into the center of the ring where Nestor sat with his sons.
Servants went back and forth preparing the board, while others turned the meat on the roasting-spits. As soon as the Pylians saw strangers come ashore they thronged to meet them, clasped their hands in greeting, and pressed Telemachus to sit beside their king. Peisistratus, Nestor’s son, who was as young as Telemachus, greeted him and Mentor with the warmest hospitality and bade them take a seat of honor on the thick, soft fleeces, between Nestor and his son Thrasymedes. Then he set before them the choicest pieces of meat, filled two golden cups with wine, drank to them, and said to the old man who was Athene: “Pour a libation to Poseidon, O stranger, and tell your younger friend to do likewise. For mortals are in need of the favor of the gods.” Athene took the cup, begged Poseidon to bless Nestor, his sons, and his people, and prayed that he might help Telemachus accomplish what he had set out to do. Then she poured the wine out on the sand and told the son of Odysseus to do the same.
When they had eaten and drunk, old Nestor graciously asked the strangers where they had come from and what was the object of their journey. Telemachus replied to both questions, and when he began to speak of his father he sighed and said: “Up to now our attempts to find out what has happened to him have been in vain. We do not know whether he died on the mainland, at the hands of foes, or drowned in an angry sea. And so I beg you to tell me what you know. Perhaps you yourself witnessed his death, or heard of it from travellers. Do not spare us from a sense of pity, but tell us the truth.”
“Now that you speak of those mournful years, I shall tell you the whole tale,” answered Nestor. And—after the fashion of old men—he began very far back. First he named the heroes who had died near the walls of Troy. He told of the quarrel between the two sons of Atreus, and finally of his own journey home. Of Odysseus he knew just as little as Telemachus himself. But he related the story of Agamemnon’s death in Mycenae, and the vengeance of Orestes. In the end he advised Telemachus to go to Sparta, to King Menelaus, who had only just returned from a distant land on whose coast a storm had wrecked his ship. Since he had been on his homeward journey longer than any other Argive hero, he was the most likely to have heard something, somewhere, of the fate of Odysseus.
Athene approved Nestor’s counsel and said: “While we have been talking with one another, darkness has fallen. Permit my young friend to accompany you to your palace and sleep there. I myself will see to the ship and spend the night aboard. In the morning I shall sail to the Cauconians, where I have a debt to collect. But I beg you to send my friend Telemachus to Sparta with one of your sons and to give him your swiftest horses.”
So saying, Athene suddenly changed into a sea-eagle and soared into the sky. All gazed after her in astonishment and Nestor took Telemachus by the hand and said: “You have no cause to be sad, for, young as you are, gods protect you and walk at your side. Your companion was Athene, the daughter of Zeus, who also favored your father above all the other Achaeans.” Then the old man prayed to the goddess, promised to sacrifice a yearling heifer to her the next morning, and, with his sons and the husbands of his daughters, conducted his guest to the palace in Pylos. Here a last libation was poured and the cup passed from one to the other. Then they lay down to sleep. For Telemachus, a couch had been prepared in the great hall, and next to him lay Peisistratus, Nestor’s brave son.
At the first pale light of dawn Nestor rose, went to the threshold, and seated himself on one of the polished stones which were placed on either side of the door. His own father, Neleus, had liked to sit there. Presently his six sons joined him, and the last to come, Peisistratus, brought with him the guest from Ithaca, lordly Telemachus. And now the heifer, which Nestor had pledged the goddess, was led to the palace. Laerces, the goldsmith, was summoned to gild her horns. Slaves fetched wood and fresh water and prepared the sumptuous board. Up from the shore came the comrades of Telemachus. Two of Nestor’s sons held the cow by her gilded horns. Another brought a basin and barley for the offering, a fourth the ax to strike down the victim, a fifth held the bowl to catch its blood. When the animal had been felled with the ax, Peisistratus, the sixth son, cut its throat, while Nestor’s wife and daughters prayed to the gods. The best pieces were burned as an offering to Athene, and on them dark wine was poured. The rest was put on spits and roasted.
Meanwhile Telemachus refreshed himself in a warm bath, and now appeared clad in a splendid tunic and a costly mantle. While all feasted, the best and fleetest horses were harnessed to take the guest to Sparta. A servant put wine and provisions into the chariot which Telemachus mounted. Up beside him sprang Peisistratus, and he took the reins and swung the goad. The horses flew along the road, and soon Pylos was left behind. All day long they drove, and the horses did not tire.
When the sun was about to set and all the roads grew dark, they came to the city of Pherae, where an Argive hero by the name of Diocles, son of Ortilochus, had his house. He received the two with warm hospitality and they spent the night with him. The following morning they drove on between fields of wheat and on the next evening came to the great city of Lacedaemon or Sparta, flanked on all sides by steep, jagged mountains.
TELEMACHUS IN SPARTA
King Menelaus was holding a feast in his palace in Sparta. Among the throng of his neighbors and relatives a singer was plucking the strings of his lyre. Tumblers kept the guests amused with their agile leaps and somersaults, Menelaus was celebrating the betrothal of two of his children, Hermione, Helen’s daughter, who was to be the bride of Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, and Megapenthes, Menelaus’ son by a slave woman, whom the king was giving in marriage to a well-born Spartan girl. In the midst of the joyful tumult, Telemachus and Peisistratus arrived and were announced to Menelaus by Eteoneus, one of his warriors, who asked whether the horses of the strangers were to be unharnessed, or whether, because of the great crowd of guests, the two young men should be sent to the house of another. “Eteoneus!” exclaimed Menelaus. “What foolish talk is this? You know how many times I have enjoyed the hospitality of others, and that I should never turn a stranger from my d
oor for any reason whatsoever. Have their horses unyoked at once, and invite them in to the feast.”
Eteoneus quickly left the hall with a number of servants. They unharnessed the sweating horses and walked them to the stable, where the manger had already been filled. The chariot was set against the white wall near the entrance. The guests were conducted to the palace, where a bath had been prepared to cleanse them of the dust of the journey. Then they were taken to King Menelaus, who bade them sit beside him at the board. Telemachus was astonished at the splendor of the hall and the abundance and richness of the fare set before them. “Look, Peisistratus,” he whispered to his friend. “Look at all that flashing bronze, gold, silver, and ivory! What priceless treasure! Zeus’ palace on Olympus cannot be more magnificent!”
Telemachus had lowered his voice, but Menelaus had caught the last few words. “No mortal can compete with Zeus,” he said smilingly. “His palace and all he possesses is imperishable. But it is true that among mortals it might be difficult to find one who could vie with me in wealth. For what I have, I have collected by wanderings and hardships. It took me eight years to come home. I was in Cyprus, Phoenicia, Egypt, Ethiopia, and Libya. Now there is a country for you! The lambs are born with horns on their heads. The sheep bear young three times a year, and neither masters nor herdsmen ever lack meat or milk and cheese. But while I was collecting treasure in many lands, my brother in Mycenae was killed by the guile of his faithless wife, so that I cannot enjoy these possessions with a light heart. You must have heard all these things from your fathers—whoever they may be. Believe me, I should be satisfied with a third of what I own, if only the heroes who fell at Troy were still alive! And there is one, in particular, whom I mourn so bitterly that the thought of him makes food lose its savor and troubles my sleep. For no Argive had to suffer as greatly as Odysseus. I do not even know whether he is living or dead. Perhaps his people are mourning his death by now—his old father Laertes, Penelope, his faithful wife, and his son Telemachus, who was a small child when his father left for the war.”
So spoke Menelaus, and he moved the heart of Telemachus so that the tears fell from under his lashes and he hid his eyes in his crimson robe. At that the king of Sparta knew that he must be the son of Odysseus.
While he was pondering this, Helen came from her fragrant chamber, and her beauty was like that of a goddess. A throng of lovely handmaids surrounded her. One placed a chair for her, another spread a fleecy rug beneath it, while a third brought her the silver basket she had once received from the queen of Thebes in Egypt. It was filled with spun yarn, and a spindle with violet wool lay on top. The queen seated herself in the chair, put her feet on a stool, and began to ask her husband about the strangers who had recently arrived. “Nowhere in the world have I seen anyone who looked so exactly like noble Odysseus as does this youth,” she said softly to Menelaus, and he answered: “That is just how it seems to me! Hands and feet, the expression of the eyes, the way the hair grows—all resembles him! Besides, the young man wept a short time ago when I spoke of Odysseus.”
Peisistratus had heard them talking and now said aloud: “You have guessed right, King Menelaus. This is Telemachus, the son of Odysseus. But he is too modest to tell you himself. Nestor, my father, sent us here together to see if Telemachus cannot find out what has become of his father.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Menelaus. “Then my guest is really the son of my dearest friend, of the man whom I should receive with the warmest hospitality if he were here on his way home, in his own person!” And as the king went on to speak of Odysseus with words of love and longing, all who heard him shed tears—Helen, Telemachus, Menelaus himself, and even the son of Nestor who was reminded of his own brother Antilochus, who had died in saving his father before the walls of Troy.
But after a time they remembered how useless and joyless a thing it is to grieve at a feast. They finished their meal, and after the servants had poured water for their hands, prepared to go to their couches. But Helen, the daughter of Zeus, who was versed in magic, cast into the last round of wine a herb which blots out the memory of pain and eases all sorrow. Anyone who drank of the draught so blended would shed no tear for a whole day, not even if his father or mother died, or if his son or brother were slain by a foe before his very eyes. So they all grew merry and talked far into the night. Crimson blankets were spread for the guests on the couches in the portico, but Menelaus and Helen slept in the inmost chamber of the palace.
The next morning the king asked his guests the purpose of their journey. When he heard about the suitors and the state of affairs in Ithaca; he said indignantly: “And those wretches plan to take the place of great Odysseus! Even as the lion returns to his lair, in which a hind has laid to sleep her young while he was away in a fertile valley, so Odysseus will come back and put an end to them—an end full of terror! Listen, and I will tell you what Proteus, the old man of the sea, told me in Egypt. Under my hands he took on one shape after another, but finally I got the better of him and forced him to reveal the destinies of the Argive heroes who were on their homeward journey. ‘In my mind’s eye,’ said the god, ‘I see Odysseus shedding tears of longing on a lonely island. The nymph Calypso is keeping him there against his will, and he has neither a ship nor oarsmen to take him home to his native land.’ This is all I can tell you about your father. Stay with us eleven or twelve days, and when you go we shall give you precious gifts in parting.”
Telemachus thanked him, but he did not consent to remain. Then Menelaus gave him a mixing-bowl of silver, with a rim of gold. It was of incomparable beauty, the work of Hephaestus himself. And an abundant morning meal of the meat of goats and sheep was prepared for the guests.
THE SUITORS’ PLOT
While Telemachus was away in Pylos and Sparta, the suitors on the island of Ithaca, in the palace of Odysseus, continued their bouts and amused themselves with throwing the discus and the spear. One day, when Antinous and Eurymachus, the strongest and handsomest among them, were sitting a little apart from the rest, Noemon, son of Phronius, went up to them and said: “Do you know when Telemachus is expected back from Pylos? The ship on which he is making his journey is mine. I lent it to him, but now I need it myself to sail to Elis. I keep mares there for breeding, and I want to fetch a colt to tame it and train it.”
The two suitors were surprised, for they did not even know that Telemachus had left. They thought he had retired to his property in the country, where he had herds of goats and swine. Now they jumped at the conclusion that he had forced Noemon to give him his ship. But the man denied this. “I gave it to him of my own free will,” he said. “Who would refuse an act of friendship to one who is in trouble? That would have been unfeeling and harsh. Besides, he was accompanied by noble youths, and Mentor went with them as their guide—or was it perhaps a god in the guise of Mentor? For now that I come to think of it, I saw Mentor himself here only yesterday!” So saying, Noemon left the suitors and went back to his father’s house.
But Antinous and Eurymachus were astonished and vexed at this unexpected news. They rose and joined the others who were seated in a circle, resting from their games. Seething with anger, Antinous cried to them with flashing eyes: “This Telemachus has gone on his quest. He has undertaken the journey we refused to believe in. May Zeus destroy him before he does us any harm! Give me a swift-sailing boat, friends, with twenty oarsmen, and I shall lie in wait for him in the strait between Ithaca and Same, so that his voyage of exploration may end in death.” All acclaimed his plan and promised to get him everything he required. Then the suitors withdrew into the palace.
But there was one who spied on the council they held there. It was Medon, the herald, who hated the shameless suitors, even though he performed services for them. He had stood outside, but close enough to hear every word they said, and now he hurried to Penelope to report their plot to the queen. Her knees shook as she listened. For a long time she was speechless with distress. Her breath failed her, her eyes filled
with tears. “Oh, why did my son have to go?” she burst out at last. “Is it not enough that his father has perished? Shall the name of our house be blotted from the earth?” And when Medon could give her no explanation, she sank weeping on the threshold of her chamber, and her handmaids lamented with her. “Why did he go without telling me?” cried Penelope. “I would have advised him against this journey! Call Dolius, my old servant, and tell him to go to Laertes and give him this sad news. Perhaps that old and experienced man will think of something we can do.”
Then Euryclea, the old serving-woman, opened her lips and said: “I shall not hide it from you any longer, my queen, even if you kill me for keeping silence up to now. I knew of his going. I myself gave him everything he needed for his voyage. He made me swear not to tell before the twelfth day, unless you yourself noticed his absence. But now I advise you to bathe and adorn yourself, and to pray for protection for your son at the altar of Athene, daughter of Zeus.”
Penelope did as the old woman had counselled. When she had pleaded for the safety of Telemachus in solemn prayers, she lay down to sleep. And in a dream Athene sent her Iphthime, her sister, the wife of the hero Eumelus. Iphthime comforted her and promised that her son would return. “Be of good courage,” she said. “Your son has a guide whom all other men would envy him. Pallas Athene herself goes at his side. She will protect him against the suitors. It is she who has sent me to you in your dream.” So said the vision and vanished through the bolted door. And Penelope woke from her sleep filled with courage and gladness.
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