Book II

THE grey mists flushed into red, and the Rosy-fingered shone,
And lightly upsprang from his bed Odysseus’ beloved son;
And he clad him, and flung around his shoulder his falchion keen,
And his beautiful sandals he bound fast under his feet’s white sheen.
Then forth of his chambers he went, as a god were his presence revealing;
And straight his command he sent to the heralds with voice clear-pealing
To call to the folkmote-stead the Achaeans with long-flowing hair.
And the heralds did as he said, and the folk came gathering there.
But when all assembled were they, when thronged were the folk of the land,
To the folkmote he hied him away with his brazen spear in his hand.
Not alone went he to the place, but his fleet hounds followed his tread,
And over him heavenly grace did Pallas Athene shed;
So stately his princely pride that all men were fain to admire.
And the elders moved aside, and he sat in the seat of his sire.
Then out and spake to the crowd Aegyptius, hero bold,
By weight of his years overbowed, but filled with knowledge untold.
Yea too, his beloved son with the godlike Odysseus’ band
In the hollow galleys had gone unto Ilium the war-steed land,
Even Antiphus, spearman brave, whom the Cyclops limb from limb
Had rent in his shadowy cave, and had supped the last upon him.
But three sons had he beside; with the suitors Eurynomus joined,
But two with their sire did abide, the toils of the farm-stead to mind.
Yet still of the lost with pain did he think, and with long heart-ache;
And his tears fell down like rain, to the folk as the old man spake:
“Ithacans, hearken to me, and give heed to the word that I say.
Of us there hath been no folkmote, nor gathering, since the day
When Odysseus the godlike in hollow galleys went sailing away.
And now, who hath gathered us thus? what hopes have stirred him, or fears?
Is he one of the younger men, or of such as be stricken in years?
Hath he heard any tidings at all concerning the host’s return
Which now he would tell us, as who hath been first thereof to learn?
Or comes he to speak aught else that to all the land doth pertain?
He is good man and true, I ween; he is blest in his deed; may he
At the hand of Zeus all blessing whereof his heart is fain! “
Then Odysseus’ son was fain of the omen, the well-wishing word;
Nor long did he silent remain, for he burned that his cause should be heard:
And forth in the midst did he stand, and the sceptre was given to his hand
By the herald Peisenor, who nursed wise counsels and deep in his breast;
And he spake: to the old man first the words of his mouth he addressed:
“Old sire, not afar is the man, as thyself full soon shalt see,
Who hath gathered the folk: above all men anguish encompasseth me.
I have heard no tidings at all concerning the host’s return
Which now I might tell you, as one that was first thereof to learn:
Nor of aught shall I speak to the common weal that doth appertain;
But the matter concerning myself, my grief and my house’s bane.
It is twofold; my gallant sire have I lost, who of old bare sway
Over you that be here, and even as a father was kind alway.
But sorer than this, and harder to bear, is the evil thing
That shall utterly waste my goods, and my house into ruin shall bring.
My mother by suitors unwelcome all is sorely beset,
Yea, the sons of the men the princes that here in our presence are met.
None of them will brook to go, as though ’twere in honour he sought her,
To the house of Icarius her sire, who would take bride-gifts for his daughter,
And would give her to whomso he would, whosoever should please him best;
But day after day they come haunting our house, that we find no rest;
And ever they slaughter our sheep, and our fading goats and our kine
And they banquet, but not on their own, and they drink the flame-flushed wine
Recklessly; wide is the waste, for here no hero we have,
Such as Odysseus was, from its ruin the house to save.
But for us, we are all too weak, and if we should essay the fight,
But a feeble folk were we found, all skilless of warrior-might.
Oh, drive them away would I, an I had but the strength for this,
For the deeds that are done are unbearable now, foul shame it is
To see how my substance is ruined! Ye ought to be shame-stricken too,
And to blush in the sight of the dwellers around beholding you!
And if ye regard not men, of the wrath of the Gods take heed,
Lest they requite on your heads, being wroth for the evil deed.
But I pray you by Heaven-throned Zeus, and by Themis that aye doth reign
Over councils of men, who doth bring them together, and scatter again,
O friends, forbear! Let me pine alone in my bitterest grief!—
Unless it should hap that my father Odysseus, the hero-chief,
To Achaia’s well-greaved people of malice hath done any ill,
For the which ye take vengeance on me, and in malice work your will
Setting these men upon me;—and yet of a truth it were better for me
If ’twere ye that devoured my cattle and store thus recklessly.
For if it were ye that consumed, by and by were a recompense made;
Up and down through the town had we gone, and with passionate words had we prayed,
Demanding our own, until all that is ours were restored us again:
But now on mine heart are ye casting a load of incurable pain.”
Wrathful he spake in their ears, and the sceptre he dashed to the ground:
Forth burst the passionate tears: pity-smitten were all around.
There was silence throughout the place, for no man upon him would take
To defend the wrong for a space, nor a bitter reply to make,
Till Antinous’ shameless face arose, and in answer he spake:
“Telemachus!—blusterer, reinless in passion! what thing hast thou said
Striving to put us to shame?—thou wouldst fain heap reproach on our head.
I tell thee, thou canst not blame the Achaean suitors for this,
But even thy mother,—right crafty and shiftful of wit she is!
For now is the third year sped, yea, the end of the fourth is near,
That she cheateth and mocketh the hearts of all the Achaeans here.
She leadeth on all to hope, and message on message hath sent,
Promising this man and that, yet other is her intent.
Yea, this thing too she devised of her wiles, our hearts to deceive—
In her bower did she set up her stately loom, she began to weave;—
Full wide and fine of thread was the web;—and to us she said:
‘Youths, suitors to me, since verily godlike Odysseus is dead,
Tarry, how eager soe’er for my bridal, until I have wrought
A shroud,—for I would not the work of mine hands should come to naught,—
A winding-sheet for the hero Laertes, against the day
When the baneful doom of the outstretcher death shall snatch him away,
Lest Achaia’s daughters at me should in indignation be loud,
If he, after all his wealth, should be lying without a shroud.’
So did she speak, and lightly consented our lordly will.
So through the days at the great tall web was she weaving still;
But at night she unravelled it all, with the torches beside her set.
Three years by her wiles were we baffled, and none mistrusted her yet.
But at last, when the fourth year came, as onward the seasons rolled,
Then one of her women, who knew full well, of her stratagems told,
And the while she unravelled the web we suddenly came on her there;
So perforce must she bring the work to an end, how loth soe’er.
But for thee,—even this is the suitors’ answer to thee, and so
Thou shalt know it well in thine heart, and all the Achaeans shall know:
Even send thy mother away from the house, and bid her depart
To wed the man that her father commands, and who pleaseth her heart.
But and if she shall still go on to breed the Achaeans unrest
With all the lore that Athene can pour into woman’s breast,—
So cunning in beautiful work as she is, so prudent-souled
With craft even more than hath ever been told of the women of old
That aforetime amongst the fair-tressed daughters of Hellas were found,
As Tyro, Alcmene, Mycene withal, the beautiful-crowned,—
Proud names, but none of them all with Penelope’s wisdom wise;
Howbeit, I ween, not good was this her crafty device;—
Still will we eat thy substance, and still will devour thy store
Till thy mother shall change her intent, and shall know the counsels no more
Which the Gods now put in her heart:—in sooth great fame winneth she
For herself, but bitter regret for the rich store gone for thee.
For not to our lands, neither elsewhither hence will we ever depart,
Ere she wed an Achaean, what man soever shall please her heart.”
Then unto him wise-witted Telemachus answered again:
“Antinous, how should I thrust from the doors, or dare to constrain
The mother that bare me, that nursed me? My father is far away,
Be he living or dead: it were hard the bridal gifts to repay
To her father, if I of myself should take on me to banish my mother,
Yea, ills should I have at her father’s hands, and many another
Would heaven send down, for she, going forth of the house, would call
The Vengeance-furies against me, and on mine head would fall
The indignation of men;—I never will say this word!
But if by the thing that I speak your hearts unto anger be stirred,
Then get you forth of mine halls, and at other men’s tables carouse,
Devouring your own possessions, and changing from house to house.
But if this thing seemeth to you more honest and fair to see,
On one man only to live, and devour his goods scot-free,
Waste on, and I will cry to the Gods that endure for aye,
If Zeus will grant a requital for these your deeds one day,
Then, when ye die in these halls, shall your blood on your own heads be.”
So did Telemachus speak, and far-seeing Zeus from on high,
From a windy mountain-peak, sent forth two eagles to fly.
Onward awhile they swept, the blast of the breezes along,
And anigh to each other they kept as they strained their pinions strong.
But when they were right overhead the voiceful folkmote-stead,
Round and round in the air they wheeled, and their pinions they shook,
And down with a death-boding glare on the faces of all did they look:
And the cheeks of each other they tore, and their necks, till the blood dripped down;
Then suddenly darted they o’er the houses to right and the town.
And the folk at the fierce birds wondered, beholding the thing with their eyes;
And with fear in their hearts they pondered what thing out of this should arise.
Out spake to the rest thereupon an old man, one of the seers,
Halitherses, Mastor’s son, who was chiefest among his peers
In foreshowing of fates unto men, and in knowing the lore of the birds;
And he to the multitude then spake kindly-warning words:
“Ithacans, now, if ever give ear to the words I shall say,
And unto the suitors most chiefly of all do I speak this day.
For on them is a woe-surge rolling, and topples above them its brow;
For Odysseus not long shall be lost to his friends, but even now
He is near, and the seeds of death and of doom for the suitors all
Is he sowing; yea, and to many beside shall mischief befall
In Ithaca’s sunglow-land:—but let us give heed to restrain them
While yet there is time,—nay rather let them of themselves refrain them,
Taking heed to their ways; they shall straightway find it is far better so;
For I prophesy not out of skilless fancy: I speak that I know.
For I say that all his weird hath now been accomplished at last
As I foretold, when over the seas unto Ilium passed
The Argive array, and Odysseus the crafty went up with the host.
I said, out of manifold woes, and all his companions lost,
Unknown unto all he should come to his own in the twentieth year:
And behold, the accomplishment now of all these things is near.”
Answered Eurymachus, Polybus’ son, with scoffing reply:
“Old man, prithee get thee now to thine own home; prophesy
To thy babes, lest haply some mischief befall them in days to be.
And herein am I better than thou in revealing fate’s decree:
‘Neath the beams of the sun there are birds full many that flit to and fro,
And not fate-boding are all;—but Odysseus hath perished, I know,
Far hence, and I would thou too hadst been ended along with him there;
Then wouldst thou not go prating thy prophecies everywhere,
Nor wouldst thou be hounding Telemachus on to wrath yet more,
Looking to have some gift at his hands for thine household’s store.
But mark me, for this that I say unto thee shall be surely fulfilled:
If thou, in the wisdom of old and in manifold lore deep-skilled,
Practise on him that is younger, enkindling his anger the more,
First, his lot shall be harder, his troubles more than before,
And nothing at all shall his strivings avail him, for aught that ye say;
And on thee will we lay such a mulct as shall vex thy spirit to pay;
Yea, dotard, and bitter vexation of soul shall be thine that day.
And thus will I counsel Telemachus here in the midst of you all:
Let him even send his mother away to her father’s hall,
And her kinsfolk shall order the bridal, and store of gifts shall array,
Even such as befit when a princess in marriage is given away.
But till then will the sons of Achaia not cease from this wooing here,
How hard soever ye find it, for no man’s face do we fear,
No, not even Telemachus, wordy enow though he be:
Nor yet do we reck of the prophecies, greybeard, spoken by thee;
For thy babbling shall come to naught, but thou shalt be hated the more.
And still shall he weep for his substance devoured, and see of his store
Nothing again, while ever she mocketh us, putting away
Her marriage, and we, expecting and chafing from day to day,
Wrangle for her that is peerless, and care not for any beside,
Though many a maiden there is that might well be a hero’s bride.”
Out spake unto him Telemachus wary of wit, and replied:
“Eurymachus, suitors all, puffed up with insolent pride,
No more unto you will I pray, nor for justice to you will I call,
For now do the Gods know this, and know the Achaeans all.
But come now, give me a galley and twenty men, that these
On a quest, the desire of my heart, may speed me over the seas.
I will go unto Sparta, and Pylos the sandy, there to enquire
Of the home-coming track of my father, so long time lost to his home,
If perchance any mortal will tell me, or heaven-sent rumour come,
Such as speedeth with tidings to men, but is trackless as lightning-fire.
If so of my father’s life and his home-coming feet I may hear,
Surely, howe’er woe-worn, I may still bear up for a year.
But and if I shall hear of him dead, in the land of the living no more,
Then will I turn me again, going back to my fatherland shore,
And will heap him a barrow, and all the befitting death-rites pay
To his shade: to a husband then will I give my mother away.”
So he, having made an end, sat down in his anger and grief:
And Mentor arose, the friend of Odysseus the princely chief,
Who, or ever he sailed oversea, gave his whole house into his hand,
That all should obey him there, and that Mentor should guard them with care;
So with kindly warning did speak he out to the folk of the land:
“Hearken to me now, Ithacan men, I will utter my mind:
Never let king any more be moved of his heart to be kind,
Gracious, and swaying a sceptre in righteousness; nay, but rather
Stern, and an evil oppressor; for he that was kind as a father
And good to his folk, as though they were sons of his loins begotten,
Hath none to remember Odysseus now, he is clean forgotten.
But in sooth in the suitor-crew mine envy hath nowise a part
For the deeds of violence they do in their folly and blindness of heart,
For their lives are they setting at stake as they spoil with a proud high hand
Odysseus’ house, saying, ‘Tush, he will never come back to his land.’
But now with the rest of the folk am I wroth, in that nothing we do,
Neither stretching a finger, nor speaking a word, to check this crew
Of suitors, for all that so many ye be, and they so few.”
And Leiocritus, son of Evenor, made answer to him straightway:
“Mischief-maker! infatuate! what hast thou dared to say,
Bidding them put down us? It were thankless labour and sore
If thou fight for a feast single-handed with heroes, and they many more.
For if Ithaca’s hero Odysseus himself were to come this day
On the suitors feasting his palace within, and himself should essay,
In his fierceness of wrath and his might, to drive them thence away,
His wife should not smile, howsoe’er she had longed for his face, when he came,
But there in his hour of return should he die by a death of shame,
If he fought with so many as we; sheer folly is this thy rede.
Now scatter, ye people; let each to the things of himself give heed.
Halitherses and Mentor shall help this stripling forth on his way,
As is meet and right, for the friends of his father of old were they.
Ha, but I trow long time in the Ithacan land shall he sit,
Agape for tidings;—this journey, he ne’er shall accomplish it.”
So the council was broken off, as the people thence he sent,
For even as the folk had come, so tamely returned they home;
And the suitors with laughter and scoff to the halls of Odysseus went.
But Telemachus down to the sands of the seashore turned him away;
In the hoar brine washed he his hands; to Athene then did he pray:
“Hear me, who cam’st to our house in thy godhead yesterday,
And didst bid me go in a galley over the misty sea,
Tidings to seek of the sire so long time lost unto me.
Lo, none will help me of all the Achaeans; nay, rather they thwart,
And the suitors most of all, in the malice and pride of their heart.”
So did he cry in prayer, and Athene anigh to him came.
But Mentor’s shape she bare, and the sound of her speech was the same;
And she lifted her voice, and to him the light-winged words spake she:
“Telemachus, neither a coward hereafter nor fool shalt thou be,
If a drop of thy father’s spirit of might hath been shed into thee,
The spirit of him that was mighty in word and in deed to prevail;
Then shall this journey of thine be neither in vain nor fail.
But and if thou art nowise Penelope’s son nor Odysseus’ seed,
I look not to see the desire of thine heart become thy deed.
For few are the sons in sooth that are like to the sire, nay rather
The more part fall far short, and but few overpass their father.
But seeing that neither a coward hereafter nor fool shalt thou be,
And seeing Odysseus’ wit not quite hath forsaken thee,
There is hope that thine hands shall perform it, thine eyes the fulfilment see.
Let be the suitors awhile in the path of their counsel to go—
Nay rather, their madness, for wisdom they know not, nor justice they know;
For nothing they wot of the death, of the black doom nought see they
That aye draweth nearer and nearer, to perish all in a day.
Thou shalt not much longer pine for the journey, thine heart’s desire.
So true a friend am I unto thee and thy godlike sire,
That I will provide thee a ship, and myself go with thee withal.
But now go back to the throng of the suitors that feast in thine hall.
Get ready victual for thee, and in vessels bestow it then,
Wine in the jars two-handed, and corn the marrow of men
In goat-skins deftly sewn, and with speed will I gather a crew
From the folk, of men that will offer themselves; and galleys there be
Many in Ithaca girdled with sea-wash, old and new;
And out of them all the goodliest ship will I choose for thee,
And in haste will we rig her, and launch her forth on the broad-wayed sea.”
So did Athene say, the daughter of Zeus, and with speed
Telemachus turned to obey, when he heard the Goddess’s rede.
And back to the palace he hied, heart-gnawed by the old fierce pain;
And there he beheld in their pride and their riot the suitor-train.
Ripping up goats were they and singeing swine in the court;
And Antinous came straightway unto him to make them sport.
And he laughed, and he seized his hand, and he spake, in the midst as they stood:
“Telemachus, blusterer, reinless in passion, forbear to brood
In thine heart over ill word spoken or ill deed done any more;
But prithee now, eat of the fat and drink of the sweet as before,
And be merry, for sure the Achaeans thy friends shall supply thy need,
This ship of thine and the chosen crew, and so shalt thou speed
For news of thy father away unto Pylos’ sacred shore.”
But to him wise-witted Telemachus sadly and sternly replied:
“Antinous, how should I bear, in the midst of your insolent pride,
To sit at the revel unmurmuringly, and be merry of cheer?
It is nothing that ye in the days gone by have wasted here
Many goodly possessions of mine, and I but a young child then?
But now am I come unto man’s estate, and of other men
Hear counsel, and now in my breast my spirit is waxen great.
I will do what I may to deal to you all an evil fate,
Whether by going to Pylos, or working in Ithaca here.
I will go,—not in vain; but my journey shall speed, of that no fear!—
As a passenger faring, since I may not in mine own ship go;
For ye will not help me, since ye have counted it better so.”
He spake, and indignantly tore his hand from the mocker’s hand.
And they turned to the feast once more, that riotous suitor-band.
Loudly upon him they cried with scoff and with taunt and with sneer;
And thus in their insolent pride, ’gan one to another to jeer:
“Surely Telemachus horribly plotteth to murder us all!
To Pylos, forsooth, must he go, from thence his avengers to call,
Or Sparta-wards,—who but he?—so grimly in earnest he seems!
Or it may be to haste unto Ephyre’s fair fat land that he dreams,
With a freight of man-slaying poisons joyfully thence to come home,
Dash them into the wine-bowl, and deal to us all our doom! “
Then cried through the laughter-burst another with sneering lip:
“And who knoweth but he, he too, as he rides in his hollow ship,
Shall be lost, like his father, afar from his friends and his native shore?
Then should we have more trouble of him than ever before;
Even the task of dividing his substance, and giving his house
To this lad’s mother,—or rather, to him that shall be her spouse.”
From their voices he turned him away, to the high-roofed chamber to pass
Of his father, where heaped up lay the gold and the glittering brass,
And in chests was there raiment gay: much odorous oil there was.
And within the tall jars stood of the old sweet generous wine;
With the grape’s unmingled blood were they filled,—’twas a drink divine—
Fixed in a row to the wall, till the day when Odysseus at last
Should return to his home, with all his wearifold woes overpast.
And to guard the stores there were folding-doors heavy-bolted fast.
And ever by night and day was the faithful stewardess there,
Who guarded and watched alway her treasures with sleepless care.
Eurycleia was she, the daughter of Ops, that handmaid old.
So into the chamber he brought her, and straightway his need he told:
“Mother, come fill me with generous wine some jars with speed,
Thy choicest next unto that which thou guardest with diligent heed,
Ever looking for him, for the evil-starred, for the coming home
Of Odysseus the seed of Zeus, escaped from death and from doom.
Fill for me twelve, and on all of them fasten the lids well-pitched;
And then shalt thou pour me barley-meal into hides strong-stitched;
And let it be twenty measures of grain that the mill hath ground.
Let no soul know it but thou, and let all together be found.
For at evenfall will I take them away, in the twilight hour
When my mother shall turn to her rest, and shall pass up into her bower.
For to Sparta I go, and to Pylos the sandy, to hear, if I may,
Some news of my father beloved, some word of his home-coming day.”
But a shriek from her pale lips brake as his purpose the old nurse heard;
And with sobs to her darling spake Eurycleia the light-winged word:
“Why, why, dear son, hath thine heart this purpose? how came it to thee?
And whither away o’er the dread wide world art thou minded to flee,
Our darling, our only one?—He hath perished afar from his land,
Odysseus, the seed of Zeus, on an unknown alien strand.
And even with thy going thy foes will be plotting with wicked heart
By treachery to slay thee, and all this store amongst them to part.
Ah no! but tarry thou here with thy goods: no need for thee
To rush on destruction, and wander forlorn on the harvestless sea.”
But then unto her wise-witted Telemachus answering spake:
“Nay, be of good cheer; with a God’s good help this counsel I take.
But swear that thereof to my mother beloved no word thou wilt say
Or ever eleven or twelve days end from my going away,
Or she fall in a longing for me, and hear I am gone and afar,
That she may not with tears unavailing her radiant loveliness mar.”
So he spake, and the old nurse swore by the Gods an oath most dread.
And so soon as the swearing was o’er, and the words of the oath were said,
The sweet wine fiery-eyed into tall brown jars she poured,
And the skins right safely she tied when the meal therein she had stored:
But back to the hall he hied, with the suitors to sit at the board.
But Athene with eyes grey-gleaming had yet another intent;
For, like to Telemachus seeming, about the city she went;
And she stood by many an one, and to each her behest spake she
To gather at set of the sun to the swift ship down by the sea.
To Noemon the glorious son of Phronius passed she, to crave
A galley, and thereupon his swiftest he willingly gave.
Then faded the sun’s last rays, and shadowed were all the ways:
And the swift ship down to the swell of the sea drew she, and the gear
She stowed, even all that the well-benched galleys are wont to bear.
At the harbour’s uttermost bound she moored it, and down on the beach
The stout crew gathered around, and the Goddess heartened each.
But the Grey-eyed One furthermore must accomplish her fullest intent;
And leaving the twilight shore to the hall of Odysseus she went.
And she poured down slumber-dew on the banqueting suitor-train;
From their hands the goblets flew, and bewildered was each drowsed brain:
And they stumbled dazed through the town on their couches to lay them down;
For the sleep-dews chilled their joys, and had quenched the revel’s fire.
And, still with the shape and the voice of Mentor the friend of his sire,
Forth did the Grey-eyed call the son, and thus did she say,—
Faint glimmered the stately hall as grand in the gloaming it lay—
“Telemachus, come, for the oars are out, and the galley doth ride
On the bay, and the well-greaved shipmen for naught but thy coming abide.
Let us make no stay, but forth and away o’er the rolling tide.”
Then Pallas Athene led the way, to the shore as she passed
Full swiftly, and after her sped the son of Odysseus fast.
So these twain came forthright to the ship and the whispering strand,
And beheld in the dim half-light the long-haired shipmen stand;
And Telemachus’ sacred might spake unto his trusty band:
“Hither, my merry men, ship we the victual, for all hath been brought
Together within mine hall, and my mother thereof knoweth naught,
Nor yet of the handmaids any, save one that is ware of my thought.”
Then back to the palace he strode, and behind him followed the men:
And, returning full soon with their load, in the well-benched galley then
All the provision they stored, as the son of Odysseus said.
And Telemachus went aboard,—but Pallas Athene led.
And forthright to the stern she gat, and there the Goddess sat:
And Telemachus sat by her side, and the hawsers the men let go:
And swiftly aboard they hied them, and sat on the benches arow.
And a fresh strong breeze from the west at Athene’s command up-sprang
Clipping the foam from the crest of the wave o’er the sea as it sang.
And Telemachus called on his men to lay hand to the tackling-gear;
And they right cheerily then to the words of his mouth gave ear;
And they hoisted the tall pine mast, and they set it into its place
In the centre-block, and fast with the two forestays did they brace.
And they spread the white sail wide with the thongs of the twisted hide,
And the sail bellied out with the blast, and the cutwater plunged; on each side
Was the hiss of the foam flying past, and the roar of the sundering tide;
And the ship flieth on through the dash of the surges running her race.
And the ropes of the galley they lash, making everything taut in its place,
Then crown great bowls with the wine, drink-offerings thence they pour
Forth to the deathless divine blessed Gods that abide evermore.
And most unto Zeus’s grey-eyed Daughter the honour they gave.
So o’er waves star-shimmering, dayspring-glimmering, onward they drave.