Come now, listen closely. Take my words to heart.
At daybreak summon the island’s lords to full assembly,
give your orders to all and call the gods to witness:
tell the suitors to scatter, each to his own place.
As for your mother, if the spirit moves her to marry,
let her go back to her father’s house, a man of power.
Her kin will arrange the wedding, provide the gifts,
the array that goes with a daughter dearly loved.
320 For you,
I have some good advice, if only you will accept it.
Fit out a ship with twenty oars, the best in sight,
sail in quest of news of your long-lost father.
Someone may tell you something
or you may catch a rumor straight from Zeus,
rumor that carries news to men like nothing else.
First go down to Pylos, question old King Nestor,
328 then cross over to Sparta, to red-haired Menelaus,
of all the bronze-armored Achaeans the last man back.
330 Now, if you hear your father’s alive and heading home,
hard-pressed as you are, brave out one more year.
If you hear he’s dead, no longer among the living,
then back you come to the native land you love,
raise his grave-mound, build his honors high
with the full funeral rites that he deserves —
and give your mother to another husband.
Then,
once you’ve sealed those matters, seen them through,
think hard, reach down deep in your heart and soul
for a way to kill these suitors in your house,
340 by stealth or in open combat.
341 You must not cling to your boyhood any longer —
it’s time you were a man. Haven’t you heard
what glory Prince Orestes won throughout the world
when he killed that cunning, murderous Aegisthus,
who’d killed his famous father?
And you, my friend —
how tall and handsome I see you now —be brave, you too,
so men to come will sing your praises down the years.
But now I must go back to my swift trim ship
and all my shipmates, chafing there, I’m sure,
350 waiting for my return. It all rests with you.
Take my words to heart.”
“Oh stranger,”
heedful Telemachus replied, “indeed I will.
353 You’ve counseled me with so much kindness now,
like a father to a son. I won’t forget a word.
But come, stay longer, keen as you are to sail,
so you can bathe and rest and lift your spirits,
357 then go back to your ship, delighted with a gift,
a prize of honor, something rare and fine
as a keepsake from myself. The kind of gift
360 a host will give a stranger, friend to friend.”
Her eyes glinting, Pallas declined in haste:
“Not now. Don’t hold me here. I long to be on my way.
As for the gift —whatever you’d give in kindness —
save it for my return so I can take it home.
365 Choose something rare and fine, and a good reward
that gift is going to bring you.”
With that promise,
off and away Athena the bright-eyed goddess flew
like a bird in soaring flight
but left his spirit filled with nerve and courage,
370 charged with his father’s memory more than ever now.
He felt his senses quicken, overwhelmed with wonder —
this was a god, he knew it well and made at once
for the suitors, a man like a god himself.
Amidst them still
the famous bard sang on, and they sat in silence, listening
375 as he performed The Achaeans’ Journey Home from Troy:
all the blows Athena doomed them to endure.
And now,
from high above in her room and deep in thought,
she caught his inspired strains . . .
379 Icarius’ daughter Penelope, wary and reserved,
380 and down the steep stair from her chamber she descended,
not alone: two of her women followed close behind.
That radiant woman, once she reached her suitors,
drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks,
paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof,
with one of her loyal handmaids stationed either side.
Suddenly, dissolving in tears and bursting through
the bard’s inspired voice, she cried out, “Phemius!
So many other songs you know to hold us spellbound,
389 works of the gods and men that singers celebrate.
390 Sing one of those as you sit beside them here
and they drink their wine in silence.
391 But break off this song —
the unendurable song that always rends the heart inside me . . .
the unforgettable grief, it wounds me most of all!
How I long for my husband —alive in memory, always,
396 that great man whose fame resounds through Hellas
397 right to the depths of Argos!”
“Why, mother,”
poised Telemachus put in sharply, “why deny
our devoted bard the chance to entertain us
any way the spirit stirs him on?
400 Bards are not to blame —
Zeus is to blame. He deals to each and every
laborer on this earth whatever doom he pleases.
Why fault the bard if he sings the Argives’ harsh fate?
It’s always the latest song, the one that echoes last
in the listeners’ ears, that people praise the most.
Courage, mother. Harden your heart, and listen.
Odysseus was scarcely the only one, you know,
whose journey home was blotted out at Troy.
409 Others, so many others, died there too.
So, mother,
410 go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks,
the distaff and the loom, and keep the women
working hard as well. As for giving orders,
men will see to that, but I most of all:
I hold the reins of power in this house.”
Astonished,
she withdrew to her own room. She took to heart
the clear good sense in what her son had said.
Climbing up to the lofty chamber with her women,
she fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband,
till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep.
420 But the suitors broke into uproar through the shadowed halls,
all of them lifting prayers to lie beside her, share her bed,
until discreet Telemachus took command: “You suitors
who plague my mother, you, you insolent, overweening . . .
for this evening let us dine and take our pleasure,
no more shouting now. What a fine thing it is
to listen to such a bard as we have here —
the man sings like a god.
But at first light
we all march forth to assembly, take our seats
so I can give my orders and say to you straight out:
430 You must leave my palace! See to your feasting elsewhere,
devour your own possessions, house to house by turns.
But if you decide the fare is better, richer here,
destroying one man’s goods and going scot-free,
all right then, carve away!
But I’ll cry out to the everlasting gods in hopes
that Zeus will pay you back with a vengeance —all of you
destroyed in my house while I go scot-free myself!”
S
o Telemachus declared. And they all bit their lips,
amazed the prince could speak with so much daring.
440 Eupithes’ son Antinous broke their silence:
“Well, Telemachus, only the gods could teach you
to sound so high and mighty! Such brave talk.
443 I pray that Zeus will never make you king of Ithaca,
though your father’s crown is no doubt yours by birth.”
But cool-headed Telemachus countered firmly:
“Antinous, even though my words may offend you,
447 I’d be happy to take the crown if Zeus presents it.
You think that nothing worse could befall a man?
It’s really not so bad to be a king. All at once
450 your palace grows in wealth, your honors grow as well.
But there are hosts of other Achaean princes, look —
young and old, crowds of them on our island here —
and any one of the lot might hold the throne,
now great Odysseus is dead . . .
But I’ll be lord of my own house and servants,
all that King Odysseus won for me by force.”
457 And now Eurymachus, Polybus’ son, stepped in:
“Surely this must lie in the gods’ lap, Telemachus —
which Achaean will lord it over seagirt Ithaca.
460 Do hold on to your own possessions, rule your house.
God forbid that anyone tear your holdings from your hands
while men still live in Ithaca.
But about your guest,
dear boy, I have some questions. Where does he come from?
Where’s his country, his birth, his father’s old estates?
Did he bring some news of your father, his return?
Or did he come on business of his own?
How he leapt to his feet and off he went!
No waiting around for proper introductions.
And no mean man, not by the looks of him, I’d say.”
470 “Eurymachus,” Telemachus answered shrewdly,
“clearly my father’s journey home is lost forever.
I no longer trust in rumors —rumors from the blue —
nor bother with any prophecy, when mother calls
some wizard into the house to ask him questions.
As for the stranger, though,
476 the man’s an old family friend, from Taphos,
wise Anchialus’ son. He says his name is Mentes,
lord of the Taphian men who love their oars.”
So he said
but deep in his mind he knew the immortal goddess.
480 Now the suitors turned to dance and song,
to the lovely beat and sway,
waiting for dusk to come upon them there . . .
and the dark night came upon them, lost in pleasure.
Finally, to bed. Each to his own house.
Telemachus,
off to his bedroom built in the fine courtyard —
a commanding, lofty room set well apart —
retired too, his spirit swarming with misgivings.
His devoted nurse attended him, bearing a glowing torch,
489 Eurycleia the daughter of Ops, Pisenor’s son.
490 Laertes had paid a price for the woman years ago,
still in the bloom of youth. He traded twenty oxen,
honored her on a par with his own loyal wife at home
but fearing the queen’s anger, never shared her bed.
She was his grandson’s escort now and bore a torch,
for she was the one of all the maids who loved
the prince the most —she’d nursed him as a baby.
He spread the doors of his snug, well-made room,
sat down on the bed and pulled his soft shirt off,
tossed it into the old woman’s conscientious hands,
500 and after folding it neatly, patting it smooth,
she hung it up on a peg beside his corded bed,
then padded from the bedroom,
drawing the door shut with the silver hook,
sliding the doorbolt home with its rawhide strap.
There all night long, wrapped in a sheep’s warm fleece,
he weighed in his mind the course Athena charted.
BOOK TWO
Telemachus Sets Sail
1 When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
the true son of Odysseus sprang from bed and dressed,
over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword,
fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet
and stepped from his bedroom, handsome as a god.
At once he ordered heralds to cry out loud and clear
and summon the flowing-haired Achaeans to full assembly.
Their cries rang out. The people filed in quickly.
When they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds,
10 Telemachus strode in too, a bronze spear in his grip
and not alone: two sleek hounds went trotting at his heels.
And Athena lavished a marvelous splendor on the prince
so the people all gazed in wonder as he came forward,
the elders making way as he took his father’s seat.
15 The first to speak was an old lord, Aegyptius,
stooped with age, who knew the world by heart.
For one dear son had sailed with King Odysseus,
bound in the hollow ships to the stallion-land of Troy —
19 the spearman Antiphus —but the brutal Cyclops killed him,
20 trapped in his vaulted cave, the last man the monster ate.
Three other sons he had: one who mixed with the suitors,
22 Eurynomus, and two kept working their father’s farms.
Still, he never forgot the soldier, desolate in his grief.
In tears for the son he lost, he rose and said among them,
“Hear me, men of Ithaca. Hear what I have to say.
Not once have we held assembly, met in session
since King Odysseus sailed away in the hollow ships.
Who has summoned us now —one of the young men,
one of the old-timers? What crisis spurs him on?
30 Some news he’s heard of an army on the march,
word he’s caught firsthand so he can warn us now?
Or some other public matter he’ll disclose and argue?
He’s a brave man, I’d say. God be with him, too!
May Zeus speed him on to a happy end,
whatever his heart desires!”
Winning words
with a lucky ring. Odysseus’ son rejoiced;
the boy could sit no longer —fired up to speak,
he took his stand among the gathered men.
39 The herald Pisenor, skilled in custom’s ways,
40 put the staff in his hand, and then the prince,
addressing old Aegyptius first, led off with, “Sir,
that man is not far off —you’ll soon see for yourself —
I was the one who called us all together.
Something wounds me deeply . . .
not news I’ve heard of an army on the march,
word I’ve caught firsthand so I can warn you now,
or some other public matter I’ll disclose and argue.
No, the crisis is my own. Trouble has struck my house —
a double blow. First, I have lost my noble father
50 who ruled among you years ago, each of you here,
and kindly as a father to his children.
But now this,
a worse disaster that soon will grind my house down,
ruin it all, and all my worldly goods in the bargain.
Suitors plague my mother —against her will —
sons of the very men who are your finest here!
They’d sooner die than approach her father’s house
so Icarius himself might see to his daughter’s bridal,
hand her to whom he likes, whoever meets his fancy.
Not they —they infest our palace day and night,
60 they butcher our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats,
feasting themselves sick, swilling our glowing wine
as if there’s no tomorrow —all of it, squandered.
Now we have no man like Odysseus in command
to drive this curse from the house. We ourselves?
We’re hardly the ones to fight them off. All we’d do
is parade our wretched weakness. A boy inept at battle.
Oh I’d swing to attack if I had the power in me.
By god, it’s intolerable, what they do —disgrace,
my house a shambles!
You should be ashamed yourselves,
70 mortified in the face of neighbors living round about!
Fear the gods’ wrath —before they wheel in outrage
and make these crimes recoil on your heads.
73 I beg you by Olympian Zeus, by Themis too,
who sets assemblies free and calls us into session —
stop, my friends! Leave me alone to pine away in anguish . . .
Unless, of course, you think my noble father Odysseus
did the Achaean army damage, deliberate harm,
and to pay me back you’d do me harm, deliberately
setting these parasites against me. Better for me
80 if you were devouring all my treasure, all my cattle —
if you were the ones, we’d make amends in no time.
We’d approach you for reparations round the town,
demanding our goods till you’d returned the lot.
But now, look, you load my heart with grief —
there’s nothing I can do!”
Filled with anger,
down on the ground he dashed the speaker’s scepter —
bursting into tears. Pity seized the assembly.
All just sat there, silent . . .
no one had the heart to reply with harshness.
90 Only Antinous, who found it in himself to say,
“So high and mighty, Telemachus —such unbridled rage!
Well now, fling your accusations at us?
Think to pin the blame on us? You think again.
It’s not the suitors here who deserve the blame,
it’s your own dear mother, the matchless queen of cunning.
Look here. For three years now, getting on to four,
she’s played it fast and loose with all our hearts,
building each man’s hopes —
dangling promises, dropping hints to each —
100 but all the while with something else in mind.
This was her latest masterpiece of guile:
The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) Page 11