BOOK I

The Council of the Gods and the Summons to Telemachus

Tell of the storm-tossed man, O Muse, who wandered long after he sacked the sacred citadel of Troy.¹ Many the men whose towns he saw, whose ways he proved; and many a pang he bore in his own breast at sea, while struggling for his life and his men’s safe return. Yet even so, despite his zeal, he did not save his men; for through their own perversity they perished, having recklessly devoured the cattle of the exalted Sun, who therefore took away the day of their return. Of this, O goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak as thou wilt to us.

Now all the others who were saved from utter ruin were at home, safe both from war and sea. Him only, longing for his home and wife, the potent nymph Calypso, a heavenly goddess, held in her hollow grotto, desiring him to be her husband. Yet, when the time had come in the revolving years at which the gods ordained his going home to Ithaca, even then, among his kin, he was not freed from trouble. Yet the gods felt compassion, all save Poseidon, who steadily strove with godlike Odysseus till he reached his land.

But Poseidon now was with the far-off Ethiopians, remotest of mankind, who form two tribes, one at the setting of the Exalted one, one at his rising; awaiting there a sacrifice of bulls and rams. So sitting at the feast he took his pleasure. The other gods, meanwhile, were gathered in the halls of Zeus upon Olympus when thus began the father of men and gods; for in his mind he mused of gallant Aegisthus, whom Agamemnon’s far-famed son, Orestes, slew. Mindful of him, he thus addressed the immortals:

“Lo, how men blame the gods! From us, they say, comes evil. But through their own perversity, and more than is their due, they meet with sorrow; even as now Aegisthus, pressing beyond his due, married the lawful wife of the son of Atreus and slew her husband on his coming home. Yet he well knew his own impending ruin; for we ourselves forewarned him, dispatching Hermes, our clear-sighted killer of Argus, and told him not to slay the man nor woo the wife. ‘For vengeance follows from Orestes, son of Atreus, when he comes of age and longs for his own land.’ This Hermes said, but though he sought Aegisthus’ good, he did not change his purpose. And now Aegisthus makes atonement for it all.”

Then answered him the goddess, clear-eyed Athene: “Our father, son of Kronos, most high above all rulers, that man assuredly lies in befitting ruin.² So perish all who do such deeds! Yet is my heart distressed for wise Odysseus, hapless man, who, long cut off from friends, is meeting hardship upon a sea-encircled island, the navel of the sea. Woody the island is, and there a goddess dwells, daughter of evil-minded Atlas who knows the depths of every sea and through his power holds the tall pillars firm which keep earth and sky asunder. It is his daughter who detains this hapless, sorrowing man, ever with tender and insistent words enticing him to forgetfulness of Ithaca. And still Odysseus, through longing once to see the smoke of his native land would gladly die. Nevertheless, your heart turns not, Olympian one. Did not Odysseus pay you honor by the Argive ships and offer sacrifices on the plain of Troy? Why then are you so wrathful with him, Zeus?”

Then answered her cloud-gathering Zeus, and said: “My child, what word has passed the barrier of your teeth? How could I possibly forget princely Odysseus, who is beyond all mortal men in wisdom, beyond them too in giving honor to the immortal gods, who hold the open sky? No, but Poseidon, who encompasses the land, is ceaselessly enraged because Odysseus blinded of his eye the Cyclops, godlike Polyphemus, who of all Cyclops has the greatest power. A nymph, Thooäsa, bore him, daughter of Phorcys, lord of the barren sea, for she within the hollow caves united with Poseidon. And since that day earth-shaking Poseidon does not indeed destroy Odysseus, but ever drives him wandering from his land. Come then, let us all here plan for his turning home. So shall Poseidon lay by his anger, unable, in defiance of us all, to strive with the immortal gods alone.”

Then answered him the goddess, clear-eyed Athene: “Our father, son of Kronos, most high above all rulers, if it now please the blessed gods that wise Odysseus shall return to his own home, let us send Hermes forth—the Guide, the killer of Argus—into the island of Ogygia, straightway to tell the fair-haired nymph our steadfast purpose, that hardy Odysseus shall set forth upon his homeward way. I in the meanwhile go to Ithaca, to rouse his son yet more and to put vigor in his breast; that, summoning to an assembly the long-haired Achaeans,^a he may denounce the band of suitors, men who continually butcher his huddling flocks and slow-paced, crook-horned oxen. To Sparta will I send him and to sandy Pylos, to try to learn of his dear father’s coming, and so to win a good report among mankind.”

So saying, under her feet she bound her beautiful sandals, immortal, made of gold, which carry her over the flood and over the boundless land swift as a breath of wind. She took her ponderous spear, tipped with sharp bronze, thick, long, and strong, with which she vanquishes the ranks of men,—of heroes, even,—when this daughter of a mighty sire is roused against them. Then she went dashing down the ridges of Olympus and in the land of Ithaca stood at Odysseus’ gate, on the threshold of his court. Holding in hand his brazen spear, she seemed the stranger Mentes, a Taphian^b leader. Here then she found the haughty suitors. They were amusing themselves with games of draughts before the palace door, seated on hides of oxen which they themselves had slain. Near by were pages and busy squires, some mixing wine and water in the bowls, others with porous sponges washing and laying tables, while others still carved them abundant meat.

By far the first to see Athene was princely Telemachus. For he was sitting with the suitors, sad at heart, picturing in mind his noble father,—how he might come from somewhere, make a scattering of the suitors, take to himself his honors, and be master of his own. Thus thinking while he sat among the suitors, Athene met his eye. Straight to the door he went, at heart disturbed to have a stranger stand so long before his gate.³ So drawing near and grasping her right hand, he took her brazen spear, and speaking in winged words he said: “Hail, stranger, here with us you shall be welcome; and by and by when you have tasted food, you shall make known your needs.”

Saying this, he led the way, and Pallas Athene followed. When they were come within the lofty hall, he carried the spear to a tall pillar and set it in a well-worn rack, where also stood many a spear of hardy Odysseus. Athene herself he led to a chair and seated, spreading a linen cloth below. Good was the chair and richly wrought; upon its lower part there was a rest for feet. Beside it, for himself, he set a sumptuous seat apart from all the suitors, for fear the stranger, meeting rude men and worried by their din, might lose his taste for food; and then that he might ask him, too, about his absent father. Now water for the hands a servant brought in a beautiful pitcher made of gold, and poured it out over a silver basin for their washing, and spread a polished table by their side. And the grave housekeeper brought bread and placed before them, setting out food of many a kind, freely giving of her store. The carver, too, took platters of meat, and placed before them, meat of all kinds, and set their golden goblets ready; while a page, pouring wine, passed to and fro between them.

And now the haughty suitors entered. These soon took seats in order, on couches and on chairs. Pages poured water on their hands, maids heaped them bread in baskets, and young men brimmed the bowls with drink; and on the food spread out before them they laid hands. So after they had stayed desire for drink and food, then in their thoughts they turned to other things, the song and dance; for these attend a feast. A page put a beautiful harp into the hands of Phemius, forced to sing among the suitors; and touching the harp, he raised his voice and sang a pleasing song. Then said Telemachus to clear-eyed Athene, his head bent close, that others might not hear:

“Good stranger, will you feel offense at what I say? These things are all their care,—the harp and song,—an easy care when, making no amends, they eat the substance of a man whose white bones now are rotting in the rain, if lying on the land, or in the sea the waters roll them round. Yet were they once to see him coming home to Ithaca, they all would pray rather for speed of foot than stores of gold and clothing. But he, instead, by some hard fate is gone, and naught remains to us of comfort—no, not if any man on earth shall say he still will come. Passed is his day of coming. But now declare me this and plainly tell, who are you? Of what people? Where is your town and kindred? On what ship did you come? And how did sailors bring you to Ithaca? Whom did they call themselves? For I am sure you did not come on foot. And tell me truly this, that I may know full well if for the first time now you visit here, or are you my father’s friend? For many foreigners once sought our home; because Odysseus also was a rover among men.”

Then said to him the goddess, clear-eyed Athene: “Well, I will very plainly tell you all: Mentes I call myself, the son of wise Anchialus, and I am lord of the oar-loving Taphians. Even now I put in here, with ship and crew, when sailing over the wine-dark sea to men of a strange speech, to Temeseê, for bronze.⁴ I carry glittering iron. Here my ship lies, just off the fields outside the town, within the bay of Reithron under woody Neäïon. Hereditary friends we count ourselves from early days, as you may learn if you will go and ask old lord Laeärtes. He, people say, comes to the town no more, but far out in the country suffers hardship, an aged woman his attendant, who supplies him food and drink whenever weariness weighs down his knees, as he creeps about his slope of garden ground. Even now I came, for I was told your father was at home. But, as I see, the gods delay his journey; for surely nowhere yet on earth has royal Odysseus died; living, he lingers somewhere still on the wide sea, upon some sea-girt island, and cruel men constrain him, savage folk, who hold him there against his will. Yet, I will make a prophecy as the immortals prompt my mind and as I think will happen; although I am no prophet and have no skill in birds.⁵ Not long shall he be absent from his own dear land, though iron fetters bind him. Some means he will devise to come away; for many a trick has he. But now, declare me this and plainly tell, if you indeed—so tall—are the true son of Odysseus. You surely are much like him in head and beautiful eyes. So often we were together before he embarked for Troy, where others too, the bravest of the Argives,^c went in their hollow ships. But since that day I have not seen Odysseus, nor he me.”

Then answered her discreet Telemachus: “Yes, stranger, I will plainly tell you all. My mother says I am his child; I myself do not know; for no one ever yet knew his own parentage. Yet would I were the son of some blest man on whom old age had come amongst his own possessions. But now, the man born most ill-fated of all human kind—of him they say I am, since this you ask me.”

Then said to him the goddess, clear-eyed Athene: “Surely the gods meant that your house should never lack when they allowed Penelope to bear a son like you. But now declare me this and truly tell, what means the feast? What company is this? And what do you do here? Is it a drinking bout or wedding? It surely is no festival at common cost. How rude they seem, and wanton, feasting about the hall! A decent man must be indignant who comes and sees such outrage.”

Then answered her discreet Telemachus: “Stranger,—since now you ask of this and question me,—in former days this house had promised to be wealthy and esteemed, so long as he was here; but the hard-purposed gods then changed their minds and shut him from our knowledge more than all men beside. For were he dead, I should not feel such grief, if he had fallen among comrades in the Trojan land, or in the arms of friends when the skein of war was wound. Then would the whole Achaean host have made his grave, and for his son in after days a great name had been gained. Now, silently the robber winds have swept him off. Gone is he, past all sight and hearing, and sighs and sorrows he has left to me. Yet now I do not grieve and mourn for him alone. The gods have brought me other sore distress. For all the nobles who bear sway among the islands,—Doulichion, Same, and woody Zacynthus,—and they who have the power in rocky Ithaca, all woo my mother and despoil my home. She neither declines the hated suit nor has she power to end it; while they with feasting impoverish my home and soon will bring me also to destruction.”⁶

Stirred into anger, Pallas Athene spoke: “Alas! in simple truth you greatly need absent Odysseus, to lay hands on the shameless suitors. What if he came even now and here before his house stood at the outer gate, with helmet, shield, and his two spears,—even such as when I saw him first at my own home, drinking and making merry, on his return from Ephyra, from Ilus, son of Mermerus. For there on his swift ship went Odysseus, seeking a deadly drug in which to dip his brazen arrows. And Ilus did not give it, for he feared the immortal gods; my father, however, gave it, for he held him strangely dear. If as he was that day Odysseus now might meet the suitors, they all would find quick turns of fate and bitter rites of marriage. Still, on the gods’ lap it lies if he shall come or no and if within his hall he shall find vengeance; but yours it is to plan to thrust these suitors from the hall. Give me your ear and heed my words. Tomorrow, summoning to an assembly the Achaean lords, announce your will to all and call the gods to witness! Bid the suitors all disperse, each to his own. And for your mother, if her heart inclines to marriage, let her go hence to her rich father’s house. They there shall make the wedding and provide the many gifts which should accompany a well-loved child. Then for yourself I offer wise advice, and you should listen. Man the best ship you have with twenty oarsmen, and go in quest of your long-absent father. Perhaps some man may give you news or you may hear some rumor sent from Zeus, which oftenest carries tidings. First go to Pylos, and question royal Nestor. Then on to Sparta, to light-haired Menelaus; for he came last of all the armed Achaeans. And if you hear your father is alive and coming home, then, worn as you are, you might endure for one year more. But if you hear that he is dead,—no longer with the living,—you shall at once return to your own native land, and pile his mound and pay the funeral rites, full many, as are due, and you shall give your mother to a husband. Moreover, after you have ended this and finished all, within your mind and heart consider next how you may slay the suitors in your halls, whether by stratagem or open force. You must behave no longer like a child, being the man you are. Have you not heard what fame royal Orestes gained with all mankind, because he slew the slayer, wily Aegisthus, who had slain his famous father? You too, my friend,—for certainly I find you fair and tall,—be strong, that men hereafter born may speak your praise. Now I will go to my swift ship and to my comrades, who tire at my delay. Rely upon yourself. Heed what I say.”

Then answered her discreet Telemachus: “Stranger, in this you speak with kindness, even as a father to a son. Never shall I forget it. But tarry now, though eager to be gone. Bathe, and refresh yourself; then glad at heart turn to your ship, bearing a gift of price and beauty, to be to you a keepsake from myself, even such a thing as dear friends give to friends.”

Then answered him the goddess, clear-eyed Athene: “Keep me no longer now, when pressing on my way. And any gift your kind heart bids you give, give when I come again, for me to carry home. Choose one exceeding beautiful; yours in return shall be of equal worth.”

Saying this, clear-eyed Athene passed away, even as a bird—a sea-hawk—takes its flight. Into his heart she had brought strength and courage, turning his thoughts upon his father more even than before. As he marked this in his mind, an awe came on him. He perceived it was a god. At once he sought the suitors, godlike himself.

To them the famous bard was singing, while they in silence sat and listened. He sang of the return of the Achaeans, the sad return, which Pallas Athene had appointed them on leaving Troy.

Now from her upper chamber, there heard this wondrous song the daughter of Icarius, heedful Penelope, and she descended the long stairway from her room, yet not alone; two slave-maids followed her.⁷ And when the royal lady reached the suitors, she stood beside a column of the strong-built roof, holding before her face her delicate veil, while a faithful slave-maid stood upon either hand. Then bursting into tears, she said to the noble bard:

“Phemius, many another tale you know to charm mankind, exploits of men and gods, which bards make famous. Sit and sing one of these. The rest drink wine in silence. But cease this song, this song of woe, which harrows evermore the soul within my breast; because on me has fallen grief not to be appeased. So dear a face I miss, ever remembering one whose fame is wide through Hellas^d and mid-Argos.”

Then answered her discreet Telemachus: “My mother, why forbid the honored bard to cheer us in whatever way his mind is moved? The bards are not to blame, but rather Zeus, who gives to toiling men even as he wills to each. And for the bard, there is no ground for blaming if he sings the Danaaäns’ ^e cruel doom. The song which men most heartily applaud is that which comes the newest to their ears. Then let your heart and soul submit to listen; for not Odysseus only lost the day of his return at Troy, but many another perished also. No, seek your chamber and attend to matters of your own,—the loom, the distaff,—and bid the women ply their tasks.⁸ Words are for men, for all, especially for me; for power within this house rests here.”

Amazed, she turned to her own room again, for the wise saying of her son she laid to heart. And coming to the upper chamber with her maids, she there bewailed Odysseus, her dear husband, till on her lids clear-eyed Athene caused a sweet sleep to fall.

But the suitors broke into uproar up and down the dusky hall, and longed to win her favor. Then thus discreet Telemachus began to speak: “Proud suitors of my mother, let us now enjoy our feast and have no brawling. For a pleasant thing it is to hear a bard like this, one who is like the gods in voice. But in the morning we will have a meeting of the assembly—let every man be there—and I shall tell you then in plainest terms to quit my halls. Seek other tables and eat what is your own, changing from house to house! Or if it seems to you more profitable and pleasant to spoil the substance of a single man without amends, go wasting on! But I will call upon the gods that live forever and pray that Zeus may grant me requital for your deeds. Then beyond all amends, here in this house you shall yourselves be spoiled.”

He spoke, and all with teeth set in their lips marveled because Telemachus had spoken boldly. Then said Antinouäs, Eupeithes’ son: “Telemachus, surely the gods themselves are training you to be a man of lofty tongue and a bold speaker. But may the son of Kronos never make you king in sea-encircled Ithaca, although it is by birth your heritage!”

Then answered him discreet Telemachus: “Antinouäs, will you feel offense at what I say? Willingly would I take the rule, if Zeus would grant it. Do you suppose a kingship is the worst fate in the world? Why, it is no bad thing to be a king! His house grows quickly rich and he himself receives more honor. Still, here in sea-encircled Ithaca are many other lords of the Achaeans, young and old, some one of whom may take the place, since royal Odysseus now is dead. But I myself will be the lord of our own house and of the slaves which royal Odysseus brought as prizes home.”

Then answered him Eurymachus, the son of Polybus: “Telemachus, in the gods’ lap it lies to say which one of the Achaeans shall be king in sea-encircled Ithaca. Your substance may you keep and of your house be lord; may the man never come who, heedless of your will, shall strip you of that substance while men shall dwell in Ithaca. But, good sir, I would ask about this stranger—whence the man comes, and of what land he calls himself. Where are his kinsmen and his native fields? Does he bring tidings of your father, or is he come with hope of his own gains? How hastily he went! Not waiting to be known! And yet he seemed no low-born fellow by the face.”

Then answered him discreet Telemachus: “Eurymachus, as for my father’s coming, that is at an end. Tidings I trust no more, let them come whence they may. Nor do I heed such divinations as my mother seeks, summoning a diviner to the hall. This stranger is my father’s friend, a man of Taphos; Mentes he calls himself, the son of wise Anchialus, and he is lord of the oar-loving Taphians.”

So spoke Telemachus, but in his mind he knew the immortal goddess. Meanwhile the suitors to dancing and the boisterous song turned merrily, and waited for the evening to come on. And on their merriment dark evening came. So then, desiring rest, they each departed homeward.

But off the beautiful court where a chamber was built high upon commanding ground, Telemachus now went to bed with many doubts in mind. And walking by his side, with blazing torch, went faithful Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, Peisenor’s son, whom once Laeärtes bought for himself when she was but a girl, and paid the price of twenty oxen. He gave her equal honor with the mistress of his house, but never touched her person or annoyed his wife.

She it was now who bore the blazing torch beside Telemachus; for she of all the handmaids loved him most and was his nurse when little. He opened the doors of the strong chamber, sat down upon the bed, pulled his soft tunic off, and laid it in the wise old woman’s hands. Folding and smoothing out the tunic, she hung it on a peg beside the well-bored bedstead, then left the chamber, and by its silver ring pulled to the door, drawing the bolt home by its strap. So there Telemachus, all the night long, wrapped in a fleece of wool, pondered in mind the course Athene counseled.