“It is neither pride nor scorn that keep me from you,” said Penelope. “I know quite well how Odysseus looked when he left Ithaca on a swift ship. Very well, Euryclea, carry the couch from the bedchamber and heap it well with fleeces, cloaks, and coverlets.”
But this Penelope only said to try her husband. He, however, frowned and said: “Woman, these are bitter words that you have spoken. Who has set my bed elsewhere? No one in the world could move it, not if he were in the full strength of youth. I myself built it, and there is a secret connected with it. In the middle of the place where we planned to build the palace grew a tall olive tree, straight and strong as a pillar. I let it stand, and had the rooms so arranged that it was inside our bedchamber. When the stone walls were up, I cut away the leafy branches of the tree, set in a ceiling of wood, and smoothed and carved the trunk. It formed one post of the couch, and the others were made to match it. Then the frame was inlaid with gold, silver, and ivory, and thongs of oxhide were stretched from end to end to hold fleeces and coverlets. This was our couch, Penelope. I do not know whether it still stands, but whoever moved it had to hew the trunk of the olive tree from its root.”
When the queen heard these words her knees shook. Weeping she rose from her chair, ran to her husband, opened her arms to clasp him, and kissed his head many times. “Odysseus!” she cried, “you have always been the wisest of men! Do not be angry with me for this! The deathless gods sent us suffering because it would have been too much bliss for mortals to spend their youth in joy, and travel a smooth path to old age. You must not hold it against me that I did not instantly welcome you. My heart was in constant fear that some deceiver might trick me. Now that you have spoken of what no one knows except you and me and old Actoris who came here with me from my father’s house, my doubt is dispelled and I am wholly convinced.”
Through the night, husband and wife told each other all they had suffered in those twenty years, and Penelope had no rest until she had heard of all the wanderings of Odysseus. But at last they fell silent and went to their couch. Deep peace and quiet reigned throughout the palace.
ODYSSEUS AND LAERTES
The following morning Odysseus prepared for a journey. “We two,” he said to Penelope, “have almost drained the cup of sorrow, you with grieving for me, and I with longing to return to my native land. Now that we are together again and masters of what is ours, you shall see to what property still remains in our house. What the suitors have wasted will be made good partly by the gifts they presented at the very last, partly by the spoils and the gifts I brought home with me. But I must go to the country, to my old father who has been mourning my death for so long. Now since the rumor of the suitors’ death is bound to spread sooner or later, I advise you to withdraw to the women’s quarters with your handmaids, and give no one an opportunity to see or question you.”
So saying, Odysseus slung his sword over his shoulder and woke Telemachus and the two herdsmen who were to accompany him. All three armed, and at sunrise Odysseus hastened through the city with them. But Pallas Athene shed a heavy mist about them, so that no one could see the four travellers.
They soon reached the farm of old Laertes, one of the first he had acquired to swell the number of acres which were his by inheritance. In the middle was the house, and all around it were stables, sheds, and other outbuildings. An old Sicilian woman saw to the needs of her master in that remote and lonely place. When they stood before the door, Odysseus said to his companions: “Go in, and have a fatted boar slaughtered in honor of my homecoming. I myself will go out to the fields where my father is probably toiling, and see if he recognizes me. Then he and I will return, and we shall feast and rejoice.” With that, Odysseus handed his sword and his spear to Telemachus, and the three went into the house.
But he himself took the path to the fields. First he crossed the orchard. In vain he looked for Dolius, the head gardener, for his sons, and for the rest of the fieldworkers. They had all gone to fetch stones to fence in the vineyard. When Odysseus got there, he found his old father alone. He was busy transplanting a vine. The old man looked like a laborer. He was wearing a coarse, soiled smock covered with patches, and had protected his legs from thorns by wrapping around them strips of leather. His hands were gloved with old hide, and on his head was a goatskin cap.
When Odysseus saw his father in this wretched attire he was so shaken with sorrow that he had to support himself against a pear tree while he wept bitterly. Nevertheless he could not resist the temptation to question his father and try him with gentle reproaches. He went up to the old man who was just loosening the earth around a tree, and said to him: “You seem to understand fruit-growing. Vines, olive, fig and pear trees—all are well-tended. And the vegetable garden is excellently cared for too. There is only one thing wrong, and please do not be offended if I tell you frankly what it is. You yourself are not well taken care of, old man. It is not right for your master to let you go around in soiled, patched clothes. To look at you, one would not think that you were a servant at all. Your build is kingly. A man like you deserves a bath and good food and the comforts due to old age. Tell me, whom do you work for? And is this country really Ithaca, as a man I just met told me? He was, I must say, a discourteous fellow. He did not even bother to answer me when I asked him if a friend to whom I am bound by ties of hospitality was still living here. I want to visit him. For you see, long ago I gave lodging to a man in my own country, and no dearer guest ever crossed my threshold. He came from Ithaca and told me he was the son of Laertes. I gave him the best of all I had and honored him with gifts when he left me—seven talents of the finest gold, a silver pitcher embossed with flowers, twelve tapestries, tunics and mantles, and four lovely and skilled handmaids whom I let him choose for himself.”
This was the tale Odysseus invented on the spur of the moment. When his father heard it he lifted his head, and his eyes filled with tears as he said: “You have, indeed, come to the land you inquired about, stranger. But base and arrogant people, whom all those gifts you mentioned would not satisfy, live in it now. The man you are looking for is no longer here. Had you found him, Oh, how amply he would have requited you for what you did for him! But now tell me how many years have passed since your guest, since my son visited you. For it was my son, my poor son who now, perhaps, lies at the bottom of the sea, or whose flesh wild beasts and birds of prey have devoured. His parents could not even clothe him in a shroud! Penelope, his faithful wife, could not close his eyes and weep at his bier! But you—where did you come from? Where is your ship? Who is with you? Or were you a passenger on another’s ship and landed here alone?”
“I shall tell you,” said Odysseus. “I am Eperitus, son of Apheidas from Alybas. A tempest drove my ship from Sicania toward your shores, and it lies at anchor not far from the city. It is five years since Odysseus, your son, left my country. He was light of heart when he went, and birds of good omen accompanied him. We hoped to visit each other often, and each vowed to speed his guest with splendid gifts.”
The world grew dark before the eyes of old Laertes. With both hands he took the dark dust and strewed it over his gray head and broke into loud lament. Then the heart of Odysseus was stirred and almost burst in his breast. He rushed to his father, flung his arms around him, and cried: “It is I, it is I myself, father, about whom you asked! After twenty years I have come home! Check your grief and tearful lamenting, for I shall tell you the good news in few words: I have slain all the suitors in my palace!”
Laertes looked at him in amazement and finally said: “If you are really Odysseus, if you are really my son, give me a clear sign so that I may be sure.”
“First of all, father,” said Odysseus, “look at this scar. It came from the wound a boar dealt me in the chase, the time you and my mother sent me to her old father Autolycus to fetch the gifts he had promised me. But you shall have other proof. I shall show you the trees you once gave me. For when I was a very little boy and went to the orchard with you, we w
alked between rows of trees and you told me the names of the various kinds. Thirteen pear trees you gave me, ten apple trees, forty fig trees, and fifty vines which bear great clusters of grapes.” The old man could doubt no longer. He reeled fainting against his son, who caught him in his sinewy arms. When he had regained consciousness, he cried in a loud voice: “Zeus and all the gods! I know it is my son, if indeed the suitors have been punished!” Then he turned to Odysseus: “Hardly have I got you back when I am tormented with fresh anxiety for you, my son,” he said. “Because of you, the noblest families in Ithaca and the surrounding islands have lost their sons. The city, the entire region will rise against you!”
“Do not be afraid, father,” Odysseus comforted him. “Let us not brood over these things now, but go to your house where your grandson Telemachus is waiting for us. With him are the two herdsmen who tend the cows and the swine, and they have prepared our meal.”
When they reached the house, they found Telemachus and his companions cutting up the meat and filling the cups with wine. But before he sat down to eat, Laertes was bathed and anointed by his faithful old servant. For the first time in years he put on a kingly robe. And while he was fastening it, Pallas Athene approached, straightened his bowed shoulders, and made him tall and majestic, so that when he joined the others Odysseus looked at him in astonishment and said: “Surely one of the immortals must have increased your stature and strength!”
And Laertes replied: “Had I felt as young and strong yesterday as now, I should have fought at your side, and many a suitor would have fallen beneath my blows.”
As they sat down to the meal, Dolius and his sons returned from their work in the fields. When they saw Odysseus, they stood still in amazement, as if rooted to the threshold, but Odysseus spoke kindly to them. “We have been waiting for you,” he said. “Come and eat with us now, and save your wonder for another time.”
Then Dolius ran to him and kissed his hands at the wrist. “You have come home at last, my dear master!” he cried. “Our wish is fulfilled! But tell me, does Penelope know, or shall we send her a message?”
“She knows everything,” said Odysseus. “No messenger is needed.” Then the sons of Dolius crowded around their king, and together they feasted at the board.
ATHENE CALMS REBELLION IN THE CITY
In the meantime, rumors of the terrible fate which had overtaken the suitors spread through the city of Ithaca. The kinsmen of the slain streamed from all sides and hastened to the palace where they found the corpses heaped in a corner of the court. With loud laments they carried them off for burial. The bodies of the suitors who had come from islands nearby were sent home in fishing boats.
Then the fathers, brothers, and other kinsmen of the dead gathered in the market place. Eupeithes, father of Antinous, was first to speak. “Friends,” he said in a voice broken with tears, “the man I accuse here before you has brought misfortune on Ithaca and on her neighbor islands. Twenty years ago he took many of our brave citizens off in his ships. And he lost both ships and men! Now that he has returned alone, he has slain the best of our young men. Come, let us pursue this evildoer before he has time to escape to Pylos or Elis! We must seize him or be disgraced for all time. For our sons and grandsons would be shamed if we did not punish the murderer of our sons and brothers. I, at any rate, could not live with this blot on my honor. The soul of my son would drag me down to the underworld. So let us follow Odysseus and Telemachus before they can leave this island!”
His listeners kindled at these words, but just as they were prepared to start their pursuit, Phemius, the singer, and Medon, the herald, appeared in their midst. Their coming evoked surprise, for no one had dreamed they were still among the living. And Medon addressed the assembly: “Men of Ithaca, hear what I have to say to you! What Odysseus has done, I can swear to you, was not done against the will of the gods. I myself saw an immortal who, in the shape of Mentor, stood beside him, now quickening his heart with courage, now casting a spell of madness on the suitors. It was this god who felled them, who littered the floor with their bodies.”
Terror seized the gathering at these words of Medon’s. When they had recovered from the first shock, gray-haired Halitherses, son of Mastor, who could look before and after, rose and spoke. “Citizens of Ithaca,” he said, “you yourselves are at fault for all that has happened. Why were you so slack and indifferent? Why did you not follow Mentor’s and my advice and curb your headstrong sons who went to the palace day after day, squandering the possessions of our king and harassing his wife with their demands? You alone are to blame for all that took place in the palace. If you are wise, you will not pursue a man who has done nothing but slay the foes who intruded on his house. If you do, misfortune will overtake you, and your own actions will be the cause of it.”
When Halitherses had ended, tumult broke out among the people. Some sided with the older man, others with Eupeithes. Some, therefore, remained in the market place while the rest girt on their armor and met outside the city to go forth and avenge their kinsmen.
When Pallas Athene, gazing down from Olympus, saw the angry mob, she went to her father Zeus and said: “Ruler of us all, tell me what your wisdom prompts you. Is it your will to punish the peaceful inhabitants of Ithaca with discord and civil war, or to calm the feud between these two factions?”
“Why inquire about decisions long since made?” said Zeus. “Was it not you who resolved, with my full consent, that Odysseus should come home and avenge the wrongs done to his house? Since I accorded you your wish then, do as you like now. But if you ask my advice, it is this. The suitors have been destroyed; Odysseus shall be king for all time, and this shall be sworn to in a sacred covenant. We gods shall see to it that the kinsmen of the slain forget their anger and sorrow. They shall be at peace with their king and one another, and peace and prosperity shall reign in Ithaca.”
The goddess was well pleased with these words. She left the craggy heights of Olympus and darted down to the island of Ithaca.
ODYSSEUS THE VICTOR
The meal in the house of Laertes was over. They were still seated at the table and listening to the story of Odysseus. At last he said: “I fear that while we have been talking, our enemies have not wasted their time. It might be wise for one of us to go to see whether they are coming.” Instantly one of the sons of Dolius rose and left the room. He had not gone far before he saw a host in full battle array surging toward the farm. In great alarm he raced back and called: “They are coming, Odysseus, and are almost here! Quickly, take to your weapons!” And up jumped the men seated around the table. Odysseus, his son, and the two herdsmen made four. Then came the six sons of Dolius, and finally gray-haired Laertes and Dolius themselves. Odysseus headed the little troop, and they thronged over the threshold.
Hardly were they out in the open when a powerful ally, Pallas Athene in the shape of Mentor, joined them. Odysseus recognized her at once, and his heart beat high with hope. “Telemachus,” he said to his son, “now justify my faith in you. Fight in the forefront and do honor to your line which has always been distinguished for courage and staunchness!”
“Can you doubt me after seeing me fight the suitors?” Telemachus replied. “I shall not disgrace you and our house.”
“What a day!” cried Laertes jubilantly. “Father, son, and grandson will vie in valor!” As the last word left his lips, Pallas Athene approached him and whispered in his ear: “Son of Arcisius, you who are dearer to me than all other men, pray to Zeus and the daughter of Zeus, and then hurl your lance.” So said Athene, and she filled his heart with courage. He made his prayer and cast his spear, and it struck the cheek piece of Eupeithes’ helmet and pierced the jaw of his foe. With a loud clatter of arms the father of Antinous sank into the dust. Odysseus and Telemachus, meanwhile, led their companions against their enemies and raged among them with sword and lance. They would have killed all of them and not one would have returned home, had not Pallas Athene raised her voice and stopped the figh
ting. “Leave off, citizens of Ithaca,” she cried. “Leave off and disperse. This strife shall end here and now!”
Her words rang out like thunder, and the weapons dropped from the hands of the warriors and rolled on the ground. As if a storm had scattered them they turned and fled to the city, intent only on saving their lives. But Odysseus and his men were not terrified by the voice of their ally. High they swung their swords and brandished their lances, and they followed their foes like eagles pursuing their prey.
But Zeus wanted peace. He flashed his lightning into the earth before the feet of the goddess. “Son of Laertes,” she said, turning back to Odysseus, “curb your lust for battle, so that the Thunderer may not be displeased with you!” Willingly Odysseus and his men obeyed, and Athene led them to the market place of Ithaca. Heralds were dispatched to summon the people to assembly. They came with tranquil hearts, and Athene, in the shape of Mentor, set a covenant between the king and his people.
The publishers wish to express their special gratitude to Mr. James E. Walsh of the Institute for Classical Studies at Harvard University for his valuable help and advice with this book in general and for establishing the index, and to Dr. Hans Nachod for his assistance in assembling the illustrative material.
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