THE GODS IN COUNCIL—MINERVA’S VISIT TO ITHACA—THE CHALLENGE FROM

TELEMACHUS TO THE SUITORS.





Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide

after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit,

and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was

acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his

own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could

not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in

eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them

from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, oh

daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.



So now all who escaped death in battle or by shipwreck had got safely

home except Ulysses, and he, though he was longing to return to his

wife and country, was detained by the goddess Calypso, who had got him

into a large cave and wanted to marry him. But as years went by, there

came a time when the gods settled that he should go back to Ithaca;

even then, however, when he was among his own people, his troubles were

not yet over; nevertheless all the gods had now begun to pity him

except Neptune, who still persecuted him without ceasing and would not

let him get home.



Now Neptune had gone off to the Ethiopians, who are at the world’s end,

and lie in two halves, the one looking West and the other East.1 He had

gone there to accept a hecatomb of sheep and oxen, and was enjoying

himself at his festival; but the other gods met in the house of

Olympian Jove, and the sire of gods and men spoke first. At that moment

he was thinking of Aegisthus, who had been killed by Agamemnon’s son

Orestes; so he said to the other gods:



“See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing

but their own folly. Look at Aegisthus; he must needs make love to

Agamemnon’s wife unrighteously and then kill Agamemnon, though he knew

it would be the death of him; for I sent Mercury to warn him not to do

either of these things, inasmuch as Orestes would be sure to take his

revenge when he grew up and wanted to return home. Mercury told him

this in all good will but he would not listen, and now he has paid for

everything in full.”



Then Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, it served

Aegisthus right, and so it would any one else who does as he did; but

Aegisthus is neither here nor there; it is for Ulysses that my heart

bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely sea-girt island,

far away, poor man, from all his friends. It is an island covered with

forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a goddess lives there,

daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after the bottom of the

ocean, and carries the great columns that keep heaven and earth

asunder. This daughter of Atlas has got hold of poor unhappy Ulysses,

and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment to make him forget his

home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks of nothing but how he may

once more see the smoke of his own chimneys. You, sir, take no heed of

this, and yet when Ulysses was before Troy did he not propitiate you

with many a burnt sacrifice? Why then should you keep on being so angry

with him?”



And Jove said, “My child, what are you talking about? How can I forget

Ulysses than whom there is no more capable man on earth, nor more

liberal in his offerings to the immortal gods that live in heaven? Bear

in mind, however, that Neptune is still furious with Ulysses for having

blinded an eye of Polyphemus king of the Cyclopes. Polyphemus is son to

Neptune by the nymph Thoosa, daughter to the sea-king Phorcys;

therefore though he will not kill Ulysses outright, he torments him by

preventing him from getting home. Still, let us lay our heads together

and see how we can help him to return; Neptune will then be pacified,

for if we are all of a mind he can hardly stand out against us.”



And Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, if, then, the

gods now mean that Ulysses should get home, we should first send

Mercury to the Ogygian island to tell Calypso that we have made up our

minds and that he is to return. In the meantime I will go to Ithaca, to

put heart into Ulysses’ son Telemachus; I will embolden him to call the

Achaeans in assembly, and speak out to the suitors of his mother

Penelope, who persist in eating up any number of his sheep and oxen; I

will also conduct him to Sparta and to Pylos, to see if he can hear

anything about the return of his dear father—for this will make people

speak well of him.”



So saying she bound on her glittering golden sandals, imperishable,

with which she can fly like the wind over land or sea; she grasped the

redoubtable bronze-shod spear, so stout and sturdy and strong,

wherewith she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her, and

down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus, whereon forthwith

she was in Ithaca, at the gateway of Ulysses’ house, disguised as a

visitor, Mentes, chief of the Taphians, and she held a bronze spear in

her hand. There she found the lordly suitors seated on hides of the

oxen which they had killed and eaten, and playing draughts in front of

the house. Men-servants and pages were bustling about to wait upon

them, some mixing wine with water in the mixing-bowls, some cleaning

down the tables with wet sponges and laying them out again, and some

cutting up great quantities of meat.



Telemachus saw her long before any one else did. He was sitting moodily

among the suitors thinking about his brave father, and how he would

send them flying out of the house, if he were to come to his own again

and be honoured as in days gone by. Thus brooding as he sat among them,

he caught sight of Minerva and went straight to the gate, for he was

vexed that a stranger should be kept waiting for admittance. He took

her right hand in his own, and bade her give him her spear. “Welcome,”

said he, “to our house, and when you have partaken of food you shall

tell us what you have come for.”



He led the way as he spoke, and Minerva followed him. When they were

within he took her spear and set it in the spear-stand against a strong

bearing-post along with the many other spears of his unhappy father,

and he conducted her to a richly decorated seat under which he threw a

cloth of damask. There was a footstool also for her feet,2 and he set

another seat near her for himself, away from the suitors, that she

might not be annoyed while eating by their noise and insolence, and

that he might ask her more freely about his father.



A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer and

poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and she

drew a clean table beside them. An upper servant brought them bread,

and offered them many good things of what there was in the house, the

carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set cups of gold

by their side, and a manservant brought them wine and poured it out for

them.





Then the suitors came in and took their places on the benches and

seats.3 Forthwith men servants poured water over their hands, maids

went round with the bread-baskets, pages filled the mixing-bowls with

wine and water, and they laid their hands upon the good things that

were before them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink they

wanted music and dancing, which are the crowning embellishments of a

banquet, so a servant brought a lyre to Phemius, whom they compelled

perforce to sing to them. As soon as he touched his lyre and began to

sing Telemachus spoke low to Minerva, with his head close to hers that

no man might hear.



“I hope, sir,” said he, “that you will not be offended with what I am

going to say. Singing comes cheap to those who do not pay for it, and

all this is done at the cost of one whose bones lie rotting in some

wilderness or grinding to powder in the surf. If these men were to see

my father come back to Ithaca they would pray for longer legs rather

than a longer purse, for money would not serve them; but he, alas, has

fallen on an ill fate, and even when people do sometimes say that he is

coming, we no longer heed them; we shall never see him again. And now,

sir, tell me and tell me true, who you are and where you come from.

Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship you came in, how

your crew brought you to Ithaca, and of what nation they declared

themselves to be—for you cannot have come by land. Tell me also truly,

for I want to know, are you a stranger to this house, or have you been

here in my father’s time? In the old days we had many visitors for my

father went about much himself.”



And Minerva answered, “I will tell you truly and particularly all about

it. I am Mentes, son of Anchialus, and I am King of the Taphians. I

have come here with my ship and crew, on a voyage to men of a foreign

tongue being bound for Temesa4 with a cargo of iron, and I shall bring

back copper. As for my ship, it lies over yonder off the open country

away from the town, in the harbour Rheithron5 under the wooded mountain

Neritum.6 Our fathers were friends before us, as old Laertes will tell

you, if you will go and ask him. They say, however, that he never comes

to town now, and lives by himself in the country, faring hardly, with

an old woman to look after him and get his dinner for him, when he

comes in tired from pottering about his vineyard. They told me your

father was at home again, and that was why I came, but it seems the

gods are still keeping him back, for he is not dead yet not on the

mainland. It is more likely he is on some sea-girt island in mid ocean,

or a prisoner among savages who are detaining him against his will. I

am no prophet, and know very little about omens, but I speak as it is

borne in upon me from heaven, and assure you that he will not be away

much longer; for he is a man of such resource that even though he were

in chains of iron he would find some means of getting home again. But

tell me, and tell me true, can Ulysses really have such a fine looking

fellow for a son? You are indeed wonderfully like him about the head

and eyes, for we were close friends before he set sail for Troy where

the flower of all the Argives went also. Since that time we have never

either of us seen the other.”



“My mother,” answered Telemachus, “tells me I am son to Ulysses, but it

is a wise child that knows his own father. Would that I were son to one

who had grown old upon his own estates, for, since you ask me, there is

no more ill-starred man under heaven than he who they tell me is my

father.”



And Minerva said, “There is no fear of your race dying out yet, while

Penelope has such a fine son as you are. But tell me, and tell me true,

what is the meaning of all this feasting, and who are these people?

What is it all about? Have you some banquet, or is there a wedding in

the family—for no one seems to be bringing any provisions of his own?

And the guests—how atrociously they are behaving; what riot they make

over the whole house; it is enough to disgust any respectable person

who comes near them.”



“Sir,” said Telemachus, “as regards your question, so long as my father

was here it was well with us and with the house, but the gods in their

displeasure have willed it otherwise, and have hidden him away more

closely than mortal man was ever yet hidden. I could have borne it

better even though he were dead, if he had fallen with his men before

Troy, or had died with friends around him when the days of his fighting

were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his

ashes, and I should myself have been heir to his renown; but now the

storm-winds have spirited him away we know not whither; he is gone

without leaving so much as a trace behind him, and I inherit nothing

but dismay. Nor does the matter end simply with grief for the loss of

my father; heaven has laid sorrows upon me of yet another kind; for the

chiefs from all our islands, Dulichium, Same, and the woodland island

of Zacynthus, as also all the principal men of Ithaca itself, are

eating up my house under the pretext of paying their court to my

mother, who will neither point blank say that she will not marry,7 nor

yet bring matters to an end; so they are making havoc of my estate, and

before long will do so also with myself.”



“Is that so?” exclaimed Minerva, “then you do indeed want Ulysses home

again. Give him his helmet, shield, and a couple of lances, and if he

is the man he was when I first knew him in our house, drinking and

making merry, he would soon lay his hands about these rascally suitors,

were he to stand once more upon his own threshold. He was then coming

from Ephyra, where he had been to beg poison for his arrows from Ilus,

son of Mermerus. Ilus feared the ever-living gods and would not give

him any, but my father let him have some, for he was very fond of him.

If Ulysses is the man he then was these suitors will have a short

shrift and a sorry wedding.



“But there! It rests with heaven to determine whether he is to return,

and take his revenge in his own house or no; I would, however, urge you

to set about trying to get rid of these suitors at once. Take my

advice, call the Achaean heroes in assembly to-morrow morning—lay your

case before them, and call heaven to bear you witness. Bid the suitors

take themselves off, each to his own place, and if your mother’s mind

is set on marrying again, let her go back to her father, who will find

her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts that so dear

a daughter may expect. As for yourself, let me prevail upon you to take

the best ship you can get, with a crew of twenty men, and go in quest

of your father who has so long been missing. Some one may tell you

something, or (and people often hear things in this way) some

heaven-sent message may direct you. First go to Pylos and ask Nestor;

thence go on to Sparta and visit Menelaus, for he got home last of all

the Achaeans; if you hear that your father is alive and on his way

home, you can put up with the waste these suitors will make for yet

another twelve months. If on the other hand you hear of his death, come

home at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due pomp, build a

barrow to his memory, and make your mother marry again. Then, having

done all this, think it well over in your mind how, by fair means or

foul, you may kill these suitors in your own house. You are too old to

plead infancy any longer; have you not heard how people are singing

Orestes’ praises for having killed his father’s murderer Aegisthus? You

are a fine, smart looking fellow; show your mettle, then, and make

yourself a name in story. Now, however, I must go back to my ship and

to my crew, who will be impatient if I keep them waiting longer; think

the matter over for yourself, and remember what I have said to you.”



“Sir,” answered Telemachus, “it has been very kind of you to talk to me

in this way, as though I were your own son, and I will do all you tell

me; I know you want to be getting on with your voyage, but stay a

little longer till you have taken a bath and refreshed yourself. I will

then give you a present, and you shall go on your way rejoicing; I will

give you one of great beauty and value—a keepsake such as only dear

friends give to one another.”



Minerva answered, “Do not try to keep me, for I would be on my way at

once. As for any present you may be disposed to make me, keep it till I

come again, and I will take it home with me. You shall give me a very

good one, and I will give you one of no less value in return.”



With these words she flew away like a bird into the air, but she had

given Telemachus courage, and had made him think more than ever about

his father. He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that the

stranger had been a god, so he went straight to where the suitors were

sitting.



Phemius was still singing, and his hearers sat rapt in silence as he

told the sad tale of the return from Troy, and the ills Minerva had

laid upon the Achaeans. Penelope, daughter of Icarius, heard his song

from her room upstairs, and came down by the great staircase, not

alone, but attended by two of her handmaids. When she reached the

suitors she stood by one of the bearing posts that supported the roof

of the cloisters8 with a staid maiden on either side of her. She held a

veil, moreover, before her face, and was weeping bitterly.



“Phemius,” she cried, “you know many another feat of gods and heroes,

such as poets love to celebrate. Sing the suitors some one of these,

and let them drink their wine in silence, but cease this sad tale, for

it breaks my sorrowful heart, and reminds me of my lost husband whom I

mourn ever without ceasing, and whose name was great over all Hellas

and middle Argos.”9



“Mother,” answered Telemachus, “let the bard sing what he has a mind

to; bards do not make the ills they sing of; it is Jove, not they, who

makes them, and who sends weal or woe upon mankind according to his own

good pleasure. This fellow means no harm by singing the ill-fated

return of the Danaans, for people always applaud the latest songs most

warmly. Make up your mind to it and bear it; Ulysses is not the only

man who never came back from Troy, but many another went down as well

as he. Go, then, within the house and busy yourself with your daily

duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants; for

speech is man’s matter, and mine above all others 10—for it is I who am

master here.”



She went wondering back into the house, and laid her son’s saying in

her heart. Then, going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she

mourned her dear husband till Minerva shed sweet sleep over her eyes.

But the suitors were clamorous throughout the covered cloisters11, and

prayed each one that he might be her bed fellow.



Then Telemachus spoke, “Shameless,” he cried, “and insolent suitors,

let us feast at our pleasure now, and let there be no brawling, for it

is a rare thing to hear a man with such a divine voice as Phemius has;

but in the morning meet me in full assembly that I may give you formal

notice to depart, and feast at one another’s houses, turn and turn

about, at your own cost. If on the other hand you choose to persist in

spunging upon one man, heaven help me, but Jove shall reckon with you

in full, and when you fall in my father’s house there shall be no man

to avenge you.”



The suitors bit their lips as they heard him, and marvelled at the

boldness of his speech. Then, Antinous, son of Eupeithes, said, “The

gods seem to have given you lessons in bluster and tall talking; may

Jove never grant you to be chief in Ithaca as your father was before

you.”



Telemachus answered, “Antinous, do not chide with me, but, god willing,

I will be chief too if I can. Is this the worst fate you can think of

for me? It is no bad thing to be a chief, for it brings both riches and

honour. Still, now that Ulysses is dead there are many great men in

Ithaca both old and young, and some other may take the lead among them;

nevertheless I will be chief in my own house, and will rule those whom

Ulysses has won for me.”



Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered, “It rests with heaven to

decide who shall be chief among us, but you shall be master in your own

house and over your own possessions; no one while there is a man in

Ithaca shall do you violence nor rob you. And now, my good fellow, I

want to know about this stranger. What country does he come from? Of

what family is he, and where is his estate? Has he brought you news

about the return of your father, or was he on business of his own? He

seemed a well to do man, but he hurried off so suddenly that he was

gone in a moment before we could get to know him.”



“My father is dead and gone,” answered Telemachus, “and even if some

rumour reaches me I put no more faith in it now. My mother does indeed

sometimes send for a soothsayer and question him, but I give his

prophecyings no heed. As for the stranger, he was Mentes, son of

Anchialus, chief of the Taphians, an old friend of my father’s.” But in

his heart he knew that it had been the goddess.



The suitors then returned to their singing and dancing until the

evening; but when night fell upon their pleasuring they went home to

bed each in his own abode.12 Telemachus’s room was high up in a tower13

that looked on to the outer court; hither, then, he hied, brooding and

full of thought. A good old woman, Euryclea, daughter of Ops, the son

of Pisenor, went before him with a couple of blazing torches. Laertes

had bought her with his own money when she was quite young; he gave the

worth of twenty oxen for her, and shewed as much respect to her in his

household as he did to his own wedded wife, but he did not take her to

his bed for he feared his wife’s resentment.14 She it was who now

lighted Telemachus to his room, and she loved him better than any of

the other women in the house did, for she had nursed him when he was a

baby. He opened the door of his bed room and sat down upon the bed; as

he took off his shirt15 he gave it to the good old woman, who folded it

tidily up, and hung it for him over a peg by his bed side, after which

she went out, pulled the door to by a silver catch, and drew the bolt

home by means of the strap.16 But Telemachus as he lay covered with a

woollen fleece kept thinking all night through of his intended voyage

and of the counsel that Minerva had given him.