Book I — The Gods in Council

Sing to me, Muse, of the man of many turnings—driven far, after he sacked the holy citadel of Troy. Many the cities of men he saw, and came to know their minds; many the sorrows he suffered at sea, within his own heart, striving to save his life and the homecoming of his comrades. Yet even so he could not save his comrades, though he yearned to— for by their own reckless folly they were destroyed, the fools, who devoured the cattle of Helios Hyperion; and he took from them the day of their returning. Of these things, goddess, daughter of Zeus, tell us too, beginning where you will.

Now all the others, as many as had fled sheer destruction, were safe at home, escaped from both war and the sea; but that one man alone, longing for his homecoming and his wife, the queenly nymph Calypso, shining among goddesses, held back in her hollow caves, yearning to make him her husband. But when the year came, as the seasons wheeled, the year the gods had spun by fate for him to return home to Ithaca—not even then, among his own people, was he free of trials. All the gods pitied him save only Poseidon, who raged unceasingly against godlike Odysseus until he reached his own land.

But Poseidon had gone among the far-off Ethiopians— the Ethiopians, sundered in two, the farthest race of men, some where Hyperion sets, and some where he rises— to accept a hecatomb of bulls and rams. There he sat feasting at the banquet; but the other gods were all assembled in the halls of Olympian Zeus. Among them the father of men and gods began to speak, for he was turning over in his mind the thought of blameless Aegisthus, whom far-famed Orestes, Agamemnon’s son, had slain. Mindful of him, he addressed the immortals:

“Alas, how mortals blame the gods! From us, they say, come evils; yet they themselves, by their own reckless follies, suffer pains beyond their fate, just as now Aegisthus, beyond what was fated, married the wedded wife of Atreus’ son, and killed him on his return, knowing full well it meant sheer destruction, since we warned him beforehand: we sent Hermes, the keen-eyed slayer of Argus, to tell him neither to kill the man nor to woo his wife; for from Orestes vengeance would come for Agamemnon’s line, whenever he came of age and longed for his own land. So spoke Hermes, but for all his good counsel he could not persuade the heart of Aegisthus; and now he has paid the full price at once.”

Then the goddess gray-eyed Athena answered him: “Father of us, son of Cronus, highest of all kings, indeed that man lies in a fitting destruction; so may any perish who does such deeds. But my heart is torn for shrewd Odysseus, unfortunate one, who suffers sorrows long apart from his friends on a sea-girt island, where the navel of the sea is. A wooded island; there a goddess makes her home, daughter of the ruinous-minded Atlas, who knows the depths of all the sea and himself holds the tall pillars that keep earth and heaven apart. His daughter holds back that wretched, sorrowing man, and ever with soft and wheedling words she charms him to forget Ithaca. Yet Odysseus, yearning even to see the smoke leaping up from his own land, longs to die. But your own heart is not moved, Olympian. Did not Odysseus please you with sacrifice beside the Argive ships in broad Troy? Why, Zeus, do you rage at him so?”

Then cloud-gathering Zeus answered her and said: “My child, what word has escaped the barrier of your teeth? How could I ever forget godlike Odysseus, who surpasses all mortals in wisdom, and most eagerly offered sacrifice to the immortals who hold wide heaven? But Poseidon the Earth-holder nurses a relentless grudge because of the Cyclops—the eye he put out, godlike Polyphemus, whose strength is greatest among all the Cyclopes. The nymph Thoösa bore him, child of Phorcys the lord of the barren sea, after she lay with Poseidon in the hollow caverns. From that day Poseidon the earth-shaker does not kill Odysseus, but keeps him wandering far from his native land. Come then, let all of us here take thought of his homecoming, how he may reach his home. And Poseidon will relent from his anger, for he cannot, alone, strive against all the gods immortal, with immortals all opposing him.”

Then the goddess gray-eyed Athena answered him: “Father of us, son of Cronus, highest of lords, if now indeed it is pleasing to the blessed gods that shrewd Odysseus return to his own home, then let us send Hermes, the slayer of Argus, our messenger, to the island Ogygia, so that without delay he may announce to the fair-tressed nymph our firm decree, the homecoming of much-enduring Odysseus, that he may go. And I myself will go to Ithaca, to rouse his son yet more, and put courage into his heart, so that he may call the long-haired Achaeans to assembly, and speak out to all the suitors, who without ceasing slaughter his thronging sheep and his shambling, horned cattle. I will send him on to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to learn of his dear father’s homecoming, if he may hear of it, and so win glorious renown among men.”

So speaking, she bound beneath her feet her beautiful sandals, immortal, golden, which carry her over the water and over the boundless earth on the breath of the wind. And she took her strong spear, tipped with sharp bronze, heavy, huge, and solid; with it she overpowers the ranks of heroes whenever she is angered, she the daughter of a mighty father. Then she shot down from the peaks of Olympus, and came to Ithaca, there in the forecourt of Odysseus at the outer gate, on the threshold of the court, and in her hand the bronze spear; she looked like a stranger, Mentes, leader of the Taphians. And there she found the arrogant suitors. They were amusing their hearts with board games at the doors of the hall, sitting on the hides of oxen they themselves had slaughtered; and heralds and ready servants were bustling among them— some mixing wine and water in the mixing bowls, some wiping the tables with spongy, porous cloths and setting them out, while others carved meat in plenty.

Far the first to see her was godlike Telemachus, sitting among the suitors, troubled at heart, picturing in his mind his noble father—would he come sometime and scatter the suitors through the house, win honor himself and rule his own possessions? Thinking this among the suitors, he saw Athena and went straight to the forecourt, angry at heart that a guest should stand so long at the gate. He stood beside her, took her right hand and received the bronze spear, and spoke, and addressed her with winged words:

“Welcome, stranger. You shall be entertained among us, and then, after you have tasted food, you shall tell us what you need.”

So speaking, he led the way, and Pallas Athena went with him. When they entered the high-roofed house, he carried her spear and set it on a well-made rack against a tall pillar, where many other spears of much-enduring Odysseus stood. He led her to a chair, spread a cloth beneath it, beautiful and well-worked; a footstool was there for her feet. He himself placed a painted stool beside her, apart from the others, the suitors, lest the guest, vexed by all the uproar, should take no pleasure in his meal among such arrogant men, and so that he might ask about his absent father. Then a maidservant brought water in a beautiful golden pitcher, poured it over a silver basin for washing, and drew up a polished table beside them. The worthy housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, and many delicacies, giving freely of her stores. A carver lifted platters of meat of every kind and placed them before them, and golden cups beside them; and a herald came often and poured wine for them.

Then in came the arrogant suitors, and they all sat down in order on chairs and stools, and heralds poured water over their hands, and maidservants heaped bread in baskets beside them, and servants filled the mixing bowls with drink. They reached out their hands to the good things set before them. But when they had put away the desire for food and drink, the suitors’ hearts turned to other pleasures— to song and dance, for these are the crowning of a feast. A herald placed a very beautiful lyre in the hands of Phemius, who sang among the suitors under constraint. He struck the lyre and struck up a clear song. But Telemachus spoke to gray-eyed Athena, holding his head close, so the others would not hear:

“Dear stranger, will you be angry at what I say? These men here care about such things—the lyre and song— easily, because without penalty they eat another’s livelihood, the livelihood of a man whose white bones now rot somewhere on the mainland, lying in the rain, or in the sea the waves roll them. If they saw him return to Ithaca, they would all pray to be swifter of foot rather than richer in gold and robes. But now he has perished by an evil fate, and no more comfort comes to us, if some earthly traveler says he is coming; the day of his return is lost. But tell me this, and tell me true: Who are you, of what people? Where is your city and your parents? What sort of ship brought you? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaca? Who do they claim to be? For I do not think you came here on foot. And tell me this truly, so that I may know well: Is this your first visit, or are you a guest-friend of my father? For many came to our house in other days, since that man traveled much among men.”

Then the goddess gray-eyed Athena answered him: “So, I will tell you everything truly. My lineage: I claim I am Mentes, son of lordly Anchialus, and I rule the Taphians, lovers of the oar. Now I have come here with my ship and my companions, sailing over the wine-dark sea to men of strange speech, to Temese for bronze, and I bring gleaming iron. My ship stands out there, near the fields, away from the city, in the harbor of Rheithron, under wooded Neion. We claim to be guest-friends of each other, of old from our fathers, as you may learn if you go and ask the old hero Laertes, who, they say, no longer comes to town but endures hardship apart in the country, with an old woman who sets his food and drink when weariness grabs his limbs as he drags himself up the vineyard’s slopes. But I came because they told me that your father was already at home; but now the gods are hindering his path. For godlike Odysseus has not yet died on the earth; no, somewhere still alive he is held back on the open sea, on a sea-girt island, and cruel, wild men hold him, I think, against his will. But now I will prophesy to you, as the immortals put it in my heart, and as I think it will come to pass, though I am no seer nor skilled in bird-signs: He will not be absent much longer from his own dear land, even if iron chains hold him; he will devise some way to return, since he is a man of many devices. But tell me this, and tell me true: Are you, so tall as you are, truly the son of Odysseus? To a strange degree you are like him in head and beautiful eyes; for many times we kept company together before he embarked for Troy, where went the best of the Argives in their hollow ships. Since then I have not seen Odysseus, nor has he seen me.”

Then mindful Telemachus answered her: “Very well, stranger, I will tell you truthfully. My mother says I am his son; I myself do not know, for no one ever knows for sure his own begetting. Would that I were the son of a lucky man whom old age came upon among his own possessions. But as it is, they say I was born of the most unfortunate of mortal men—since you ask me this.”

Then the goddess gray-eyed Athena answered him: “The gods have not made your line nameless for the future, since Penelope bore you such a son as you are. But tell me this, and tell me true: What feast is this, what crowd is this? What need have you of it? Is it a club feast or a wedding feast? Certainly not a bring-your-own, for they seem to me to be feasting arrogantly, acting outrageously through your house. A right-thinking man would feel disgust coming in among such shameful deeds.”

Then mindful Telemachus answered her: “Stranger, since you ask me this and question me, I will say: This house was once meant to be rich and blameless, while that man still dwelled among his people. But now the gods, with an evil design, have willed it otherwise, since they have made him the most unknown of all men. I would not grieve so much for him if he were dead, if he had fallen with his comrades among the people of Troy, or died in the arms of friends after winding up the war. Then all the Achaeans would have heaped his tomb, and he would have won great glory for his son hereafter. But now the storm winds have snatched him without glory; gone out of sight, out of knowledge, he left behind anguish and sorrow for me. Not for him alone do I mourn and lament; the gods have devised other cruel woes. For all the noble men who rule the islands, Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus, and those who lord it in rocky Ithaca— all these woo my mother and waste my household. She does not refuse the hated marriage, but is not able to end it; meanwhile, they with their feasting consume my house, and soon they will destroy me as well.”

Then Pallas Athena, indignant, said to him: “Ah me, truly you do have need of absent Odysseus, to lay his hands on the shameless suitors. If only he would come now and stand at the outer doors of the hall, with helmet and shield and two spears, the man as he was when I first saw him in our house drinking and taking pleasure, on his return from Ephyra, from the house of Ilus son of Mermerus— for Odysseus had gone there in a swift ship seeking a man-killing poison to coat his bronze arrows, but Ilus gave him none, for he feared the wrath of the gods who live forever; my father gave it to him, for he loved him dreadfully. If Odysseus, such as he was then, should meet the suitors, they would all be swift of death and bitter of marriage. But this, of course, lies on the knees of the gods: whether he will return and take vengeance in his halls, or not. Still, I urge you to consider how you may drive the suitors from the hall. Come now, pay attention, and listen to my words. Tomorrow, call the Achaean heroes to assembly; speak your word, and let the gods be witnesses. Command the suitors to scatter, each to his own home, and if your mother’s heart urges her to marry, let her go back to the house of her great father; then her kinsfolk will prepare the wedding, and a dowry, the many gifts that should go with a beloved daughter. And to you I give wise counsel, if you will listen: Fit out a ship, the best you have, with twenty oars, and go to seek news of your long-absent father, should some mortal tell you, or you hear a voice from Zeus, which often brings tidings to men. Go first to Pylos and question godlike Nestor; then from there to Sparta to fair-haired Menelaus, for he came home last of the bronze-clad Achaeans. If you hear that your father is alive and coming home, then, worn out though you are, you could endure for a year; but if you learn that he is dead and no longer living, come home to your dear native land, heap a mound for him and pay funeral rites to him in full, lavish as is fitting, and give your mother away to a husband. After you have done this and carried it through, then consider in your mind and heart how you may kill the suitors in your halls, whether by trickery or openly. You must not cling to childish thoughts; you are no longer of an age for that. Or have you not heard what glory godlike Orestes won among all mankind, when he slew his father’s murderer, the crafty Aegisthus, for killing his glorious father? So you too, my friend—I see that you are handsome and tall— be strong, so that men born later may praise you. But now I will go down to my swift ship and my companions, who I think are impatiently waiting for me. You take thought yourself, and heed my words.”

Then mindful Telemachus answered her: “Stranger, indeed you speak these words with kindly purpose, like a father to a son, and I will never forget them. But come, stay a while, eager though you are to go, so that after bathing and taking pleasure in your heart, you may go to your ship, rejoicing in spirit, bearing a gift, precious and very beautiful, a keepsake from me, such as dear guest-friends give to friends.”

Then the goddess gray-eyed Athena answered him: “Do not detain me longer now, for I am eager to be on my way. The gift which your heart urges you to give me, give it when I return, so I may carry it home. Pick something very beautiful; it will bring you something worthy in return.”

So spoke the goddess gray-eyed Athena, and she departed, like a bird soaring upward; and in his heart she put strength and courage, and made him remember his father even more than before. And he perceived it in his heart, and was amazed in spirit, for he suspected it was a god. Then he went back among the suitors, a godlike man.

The famous singer was singing to them, and they sat in silence listening. He sang of the Achaeans’ bitter homecoming from Troy, which Pallas Athena laid upon them. Up in her high room she heard it, the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, and she caught the song’s inspired theme. She came down the steep stairs from her chamber, not alone; two handmaids attended her. And when the queen of women came among the suitors, she stood beside a pillar that held the sturdy roof, holding her shining veil before her cheeks, and a faithful handmaid stood on either side. Then she wept and addressed the godlike singer:

“Phemius, you know many other spells of men, the deeds of gods and men that singers celebrate; sing them one of those as you sit here, and let them drink their wine in silence; but cease this painful song that ever wears away the heart in my breast, since unforgettable sorrow comes upon me beyond all; I mourn for such a husband, remembering him, whose fame goes wide through all Hellas and through Argos.”

Then mindful Telemachus answered her: “My mother, why do you begrudge the trusted singer to give delight however his mind stirs him? The singers are not to blame; Zeus, I think, is to blame, who gives to men who live by bread whatever he wishes, to each. There is no cause for resentment if he sings the evil fate of the Danaans. For men most praise the song that falls freshest round the listeners’ ears. Let your heart and spirit endure to listen; not Odysseus alone lost the day of his return at Troy; many others likewise perished. Go to your room and tend to your own work, the loom and the distaff, and bid your handmaids do their tasks. Speaking is the men’s concern, all men, but most of all me; for mine is the power in this house.”

Then astonished, she went back to her chamber, burying in her heart the wise words of her son. She went up to her upper room with her handmaids and wept for Odysseus, her dear husband, until gray-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids.

But the suitors broke into uproar in the shadowy hall, and each one prayed to lie beside her in bed. Then mindful Telemachus was the first to speak among them: “Suitors of my mother, who have this excessive violence, for now let us take pleasure in the feast; stop the clamor, since it is a beautiful thing to listen to a singer like this, with a voice like the gods. At dawn, let us go and sit in assembly, so that I may speak my word openly before you: to leave my halls. Prepare other feasts, eating your own possessions, going in turn from house to house. But if it seems better to you and more desirable to destroy one man’s livelihood without recompense, then waste it. I will call on the gods who live forever, in hope that Zeus may grant that deeds of requital be done. Then you might perish inside this house, unpaid for.”

So he spoke, and they all bit their lips in amazement at Telemachus, because he had spoken so boldly. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: “Telemachus, surely the gods themselves are teaching you to be a lofty speaker, a bold talker. May the son of Cronus never make you king in sea-girt Ithaca, though it is your birthright by lineage.”

Then mindful Telemachus answered him: “Antinous, even if you resent it, I shall try to accept it, should Zeus grant it to me. Or do you think this is the worst thing that could happen to a man? It is no bad thing to be a king: quickly the house grows rich, and the man himself more honored. But there are other chieftains among the Achaeans in sea-girt Ithaca, many of them, young and old; let one of them have the kingship, since godlike Odysseus is dead. But I will be lord of my own house and of the servants whom godlike Odysseus won for me in war.”

Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him: “Telemachus, indeed this lies on the knees of the gods, whoever among the Achaeans will be king in sea-girt Ithaca. But your possessions you may keep, and be lord over your own house. May no man ever come who, while Ithaca still lives, against your will would carry off your goods. But I wish, good sir, to ask you about the stranger: Where is this man from? What land does he claim? Where is his kin and his native soil? Did he bring some news of your father’s return, or did he come here on business of his own? How quickly he sprang up and departed, and did not wait to be recognized. Yet he was no mean man to look on.”

Then mindful Telemachus answered him: “Eurymachus, truly my father’s homecoming is lost. I no longer trust in messages, if they come from anywhere, nor do I heed any prophecy, should my mother call a seer into the hall and question him. The stranger is a guest-friend of my father’s from Taphos; he claims descent from Mentes, son of lordly Anchialus, who rules the Taphians, lovers of the oar.”

So spoke Telemachus, but in his heart he knew it was the immortal goddess. Then the suitors turned to the dance and to the delightful song, and took their pleasure, and they waited for evening to come on. And as they made merry, dark evening came upon them. Then each went home to sleep, to his own house, wherever each had his bed. But Telemachus went to his chamber, built in the fine courtyard, high up and commanding a wide view, and there he went to bed, pondering many things in his mind. Wise Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, son of Peisenor, went before him with a lit torch in her hands; in bygone days Laertes had purchased her with his goods, when she was in her first youth, for the price of twenty oxen, and he honored her in his halls as much as his wedded wife, but he never lay with her, for he shunned his wife’s wrath. She it was who now bore the torch and led Telemachus; she loved him most of all the serving women, and had nursed him in his infancy. He opened the doors of the well-made chamber, sat on the bed and took off his soft tunic, and put it into the wise old woman’s hands. She smoothed it and folded it, and hung it on a peg Beside the corded bedstead. Then she went out of the room, pulled the door to by its silver handle, and shot the bolt home with a leather thong. There all night long, wrapped in a soft fleece, Telemachus pondered in his heart the journey that Athena had laid on him.