 
World-renowned Troy had fallen. After a siege of ten long years the united forces of the Greeks had sacked and burned the city. The princes, having thus satisfied their thirst for revenge, now longed for home, and putting to sea with their ships, soon sailed away with their companions. Some reached home in safety, others were tossed to and fro upon stormy seas, wandered about for years, and never succeeded in reaching their native land. Agamemnon, the bravest of the surviving heroes, met a still more terrible fate. Joyfully he had gazed once more upon his ancestral home, and thanking the gods for his safe return, hastened impetuously to the arms of his beloved spouse Clytemnestra, not knowing that the faithless one had wed another during his absence. The false one received him with feigned tenderness and presented him with a refreshing draught; he disrobed, drank with deep emotion from the old familiar goblet, and stretched his weary limbs luxuriously upon the soft cushions. Alas! while the unsuspecting hero slept, the despoiler of his fortune and his spouse suddenly fell upon him with a sword and slew him. How different is the story of the noble Penelope, the beautiful wife of Ulysses! He was king of the isle of Ithaca, off the western coast of Greece, and had been drawn into the war against Troy. Ever since her husband had set sail, a number of the young princes of Ithaca and the neighboring islands had beset her with proposals for her hand. She was young and beautiful and had great wealth in sheep and cattle, goats and swine, so that whoever wed her might hope, by taking Ulysses’ place as chief of the island, to rule over the minor princes. This was a tempting prospect and the young men used every means in their power to persuade the beautiful queen to return to her father’s house as a widow, so that they might formally demand her hand according to ancient custom. Ulysses, they said, would never return. But it was not easy for the suitors to banish the image of her beloved husband from the heart of this devoted wife. She could not so lightly break the tie in which she had found her youthful happiness. He will surely return, she thought, and though she wept day and night for fear and longing, this hope cheered her anxious soul. Year after year passed and still the war went on. At last news reached Ithaca that Troy had fallen and the heroes were returning. Fresh hope now filled the heart of the faithful wife, but another year passed, and still another, and no ship brought back her lord. Penelope talked with every stranger who came to Ithaca and asked for news of the hero. His companions were said to have returned long ago—Nestor to Pylos, Menelaus to Sparta; no one knew what had become of Ulysses or whether he was dead or living. For nine years longer the poor woman nursed her grief, until nineteen years had passed since she had seen her lord. He had left her with a nursling, now grown into a handsome lad, who was her only consolation, but much too impotent to cope with the presumptuous rabble, which became each year more insistent and at length hit upon a cruel means of forcing the poor lady to return to her father’s house. They leagued themselves with the princes of the neighborhood, over a hundred in number, and agreed that they would all assemble each morning at Ulysses’ palace, there to consume the produce of his herds and granaries and to drink his wines, until his heir, Telemachus, for fear of becoming impoverished, should be compelled to thrust his faithful mother from the door and thus force her into another marriage. Thenceforth the great halls of Ulysses’ palace were filled from morning till night with these uninvited guests, who compelled the king’s servants to do their bidding. They took what they wanted and mocked the owners with loud shouts and laughter. The herds were diminishing perceptibly, the abundance of grain and wine disappearing, and there was no one able to check the robbers. Penelope sat in her upper chamber at her loom and wept; Telemachus was derided whenever he showed himself among the insolent crowd. A god had brought this woe upon Ulysses’ house. Poseidon, ruler of the sea, was angry at the hero, who had sorely offended him. Therefore he drove him from south to north and from east to west upon the broad seas, dashed his ships to pieces, killed his companions, and forced him through whirlpools and canyons to strange peoples. And now, while his insolent neighbors were consuming his substance, he was held a prisoner upon a lonely island far from home, where reigned Calypso, a daughter of the gods. She desired him for her husband, but Ulysses brooded continually upon his dear country, his wife, and son. He went daily to the shore, and seated himself mournfully by the surf, wishing for nothing more ardently than that he might see the smoke ascending from his own hearth before he died. The gods in high Olympus were touched, especially his friend Athene. One day, when they were all assembled in their vast halls and the unfriendly Poseidon happened to be absent among the Ethiopians, Athene seized the opportunity to relate the story of the sad plight of Ulysses and Penelope to father Jupiter. The king of the gods was filled with compassion and gladly granted his daughter’s request that she might be permitted to visit Telemachus in disguise, to breathe courage into his soul, and that Hermes should be sent to the isle of Ogygia to transmit the command of the gods to Calypso to release immediately her prisoner. Athene straightway prepared for the journey. She bound her golden sandals upon her feet, took her mighty lance in her hand, and descending like the wind upon Ithaca, stood suddenly before Telemachus’ lofty gateway, in the guise of Mentor, the Taphian king. Here she saw with amazement the wild company of wanton suitors feasting and drinking, gambling and shouting, and the servants of Telemachus waiting upon them, carving the meat, washing the tables, and pouring wine and mixing it with water after the ancient custom. Among them, taking no part in their revels, sat Telemachus, with a heavy heart. He no sooner saw the stranger at the gate than he went to meet him, gave him his hand, and, greeting him kindly, took his lance. He then conducted the unknown guest into the dwelling, but not among the revellers, so that his meal should not be disturbed by their riotous behavior. The stranger was placed upon a dais, with a footstool under his feet. Telemachus seated himself beside him, and at a sign a servant immediately brought a golden ewer and a silver basin, bathed their hands, and placed a polished table before them. The stewardess brought bread and meat, while a lusty servant poured the wine. Not until the stranger had been refreshed with food and drink did Telemachus ask his name and the object of his journey. “I am Mentor, the son of Alcimus, and rule the Taphians,” said the disguised goddess. “I have come hither on my way to Temesa, in a ship which lies at anchor in the bay, and as Ulysses and I are old friends, I wished in passing to pay thee a visit.” Thereupon Telemachus told the story of his wrongs to his guest. The goddess listened attentively, just as though she had not known it all before. She advised him to adopt a manly attitude in public assemblage, boldly to forbid the suitors the house, and, above all, to set out for Sparta and Pylos, where lived the valiant heroes Nestor and Menelaus, Ulysses’ companions in the siege of Troy. There he might learn where they had parted from his father and where he was now most likely to be found; “for a divine inspiration tells me that he is not dead,” added Mentor. “He is indeed far away, shipwrecked and held by cruel captors, but thou shalt certainly see him again if thou wilt follow my advice.” The youth began to love and revere his father’s old friend. In accordance with the ancient rites of hospitality, he offered him a gift at his departure, which was declined on the plea of haste. He promised to come again on his return voyage, however, when he would take the gift with him. Upon this, he disappeared suddenly like a bird, and for the first time Telemachus suspected that he had been entertaining a divinity. He pondered all that the stranger had said, and determined to follow the divine counsel. He began at once to protest against the suitors’ demeanor, and they, never having seen him appear so manly before, were astonished at his boldness. Antinous and Eurymachus, however, the most insolent among them all, mocked at his words and soon had them all laughing at him. They spent the evening in song and dance, and when night came dispersed as usual to their own dwellings. Telemachus also went to his sleeping chamber, accompanied by his faithful old nurse, Euryclea, carrying a flaming torch before him. He threw off his soft flowing garment and tossed it to the old dame who, folding it carefully, hung it on the wooden peg by his bed. Telemachus threw himself upon his couch and wrapped himself in the woollen covers. The old dame retired, barring the doors. As soon as morning dawned Telemachus sprang from his couch, dressed himself, laced his sandals, and girded on his sword. Thus apparelled, the stately youth sallied forth. He sent out heralds to summon the populace to assemble, and when the crowd had gathered in close ranks, he went among them bearing his lance and accompanied by two swift-footed dogs. Then to the amazement of all, Telemachus stepped forth, caused the heralds to bring him the sceptre, as a sign that he wished to speak, and began as follows: “I have called you, people of Ithaca, because the deep distress of my house impels me. My father, as you know, is far away, perhaps forever lost to me. I am forced to endure every day a swarm of unmannerly guests intrenching themselves in my house, who pretend to court my mother, while they maliciously consume my substance and will soon make a beggar of the king’s son. Unhappy one! I need a man such as Ulysses was to purge my house of this plague. Therefore I pray you to resent the wrong. Be ashamed before your neighbors and fear the vengeance of the gods. Did my good father ever intentionally offend you, and am I not already unhappy enough in losing him?” At these words tears overcame him and he dashed the sceptre to the ground. Pity and compassion seized upon the assemblage. All were silent except the most determined of the suitors, Antinous, who answered insolently: “Bold-tongued youth, what sayest thou? Wouldst thou make us hateful in the eyes of the people? Who but thyself is to blame for thy troubles? Why dost thou not send away thy mother and why does she not go willingly? Has she not mocked us with subterfuges and kept us in suspense for more than three years? Did she not say: ‘Delay the wedding until I shall have finished weaving the shroud for my old father-in-law, Laertes, that the women may not censure me if the old man, who in life possessed such riches, should be carried out unclothed’? And what did the crafty lady do? She wove day after day, but the garment was never finished, and at length we learned the secret from one of her women. By lamp-light she undid the work of the day. Then we compelled her to finish it, and now we demand that she shall keep her promise. Thou must immediately command her to return to her father’s house and take for her husband whoever pleases her or one whom her father shall select for her. If thou doest this, none of us will molest thee further; but we shall not retire until she has chosen a bridegroom from among the Achaians.” Telemachus spurned the proposal with righteous indignation. Once more he besought the suitors to spare his house and threatened them with the vengeance of the gods. But they only mocked at him and everyone who took his part. He then proposed that a ship should be fitted out, so that he might sail to Pylos and Sparta to seek his father, and if in a year’s time he should have heard nothing of him, he promised that his mother should wed with whom she would. This proposal was received with scorn, and the assembly broke up. Sadly Telemachus wandered down to the sea, bathed his hands in the dark waters, and prayed to the goddess who had appeared to him the day before. Behold, as he stood there alone, Mentor, his father’s old friend, came toward him. He also had been amongst the people and had heard with anger the defiant language of the suitors. Indeed he had arisen to speak for Telemachus, but their mocking cries prevented him; and now he reappeared, as Telemachus believed, to assist him in carrying out his plans. Mentor, or rather Athene, encouraged him, urged him not to delay the journey, and even offered to supply a ship and crew. Telemachus went straight home, confided his plan to his old nurse Euryclea, and ordered her to provide wine in jars, meal in skins, and whatever else was needful for the voyage. The tender-hearted old dame wept bitterly when she saw the delicate youth prepare to start on such a long and dangerous journey. She begged him a thousand times to give it up and await his father’s arrival at home. He was manfully resolute, however, and the nurse was obliged to promise to keep his departure a secret—not even to tell his mother until she should have missed him. Athene, in Mentor’s shape, was meanwhile employed in hiring a ship and oarsmen, so that by evening everything was in readiness. When the suitors had retired and everyone was asleep, Mentor took Telemachus secretly away. The youths carried the provisions down to the ship, raised the mast, and bound it fast with ropes. Then the rowers came aboard and loosed the ship from shore. Athene had seated herself by the side of Telemachus. The oars splashed gayly on the quiet surface of the sea. The silent night encompassed them, and only the twinkling stars illumined with a faint light the dark waters through which the vessel was being swiftly propelled. |
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