“In truth the beasts came near devouring thee and thou hadst caused me shame and sorrow, old man,” he cried. “I have already troubles enough, for I sit here grieving bitterly for my dear master, whose fat swine I am obliged to send daily to the impious men in his palace, while he, perhaps, goes hungry or wanders like a beggar among strangers, if perchance he still sees the light of the sun. But come into my hut, that I may set bread and wine before thee and thou canst tell me who and whence thou art.”
Thus speaking he preceded Ulysses into the hut, where he prepared him a couch of straw covered with goatskins. Ulysses was touched by his kindness and said: “May Jupiter send thee what thou most wishest for, friend, in return for thy kindness to me.”
“One should not despise any guest, oh stranger, however humble,” answered the swineherd, “for all strangers are under the protection of Jupiter. In my house the hospitality is very scanty, for, as thou knowest, a servant has not much to give. To be sure, were my old master living and at home I should be better off. He would have taken good care of me and have made provision for my old age in return for my long and faithful service. But my good master is gone. O that Helen’s race might be destroyed root and branch for bringing death to so many brave men!”
With these words he tucked up his long garment, went to one of the sties, and took out two sucking pigs. After killing them he slowly roasted them on the spit at the fire, laid the pieces before Ulysses, mixed wine in a wooden tankard, and set it before him. “There, stranger,” said he, “eat and drink of the best we shepherds have. The suitors who fear neither gods nor men eat the fattened pork. The gods have always been displeased at deeds of violence. Even robbers often fear the gods, but these fear and reverence nothing, and the divinities have delayed their punishment thus far. The cursed ones must have secret information that Ulysses has perished miserably, else would they not waste his substance so recklessly. No king hereabouts was so richly blessed with property as Ulysses. He owned twelve herds of cattle and as many of sheep and goats. Each of the shepherds must now send a daily contribution from the fattened flocks to the palace, and soon all will be dissipated.”
The listener was indignant at what he had heard, but concealed his feelings, and when he had finished eating he said: “What would you think, friend, if I should bring thee good news? Tell me the name of thy rich and powerful master. I have travelled so far that perchance I can tell thee somewhat of him.”
“Spare thyself the trouble,” answered the swineherd. “He will not return. Who knows on what rocky coast his bones are bleaching? Woe, woe is me! Neither father nor mother was as dear to me as my kind master.”
“Listen, my dear fellow,” answered Ulysses. “I will swear to thee a sacred oath that Ulysses shall return. When he has come thou shalt give me a fine tunic and a cloak in return for my good news. I do not ask for them now, needy as I am, for I despise the wretch who lies for gain, even though want incites him. But hear me. All that I now foretell shall come to pass. When the present moon has waned and the new one begins to increase, Ulysses will be at home and shall have punished all who have not respected his wife and son.”
“Silence, old man,” interrupted the swineherd. “Drink and talk of something else, and may the gods forgive thee the oath. Sadness fills my heart. I am troubled about the son also, the splendid Telemachus, whom an evil spirit has persuaded to wander abroad to seek news of his father. I hear that the shameless suitors are lying in wait for him to kill him on his return, that the race of Arkisios may perish. But now, old man, tell me of thy own troubles.”
“It would take me a year to unfold my tale of woe,” answered the artful Ulysses, and began to tell many stories of his adventures and feats of bravery. When he had finished, “Unhappy man,” said the swineherd, “thou hast touched my heart. But why dost thou tell me lies about Ulysses who never will return? Thou wilt not thus acquire my favor; for if I show thee honor and kindness I do it only in honor of Jupiter and for sympathy for thy troubles.”
“Thou hast an incredulous heart in thy breast,” cried Ulysses angrily; “for thou dost not even believe my oath. But listen to me; we will make a bargain. I will stay here until Ulysses comes, and when he is here thou shalt send me home to Dulichium, well fitted out with cloak and tunic. If he cometh not, then shalt thou and thy grooms bind me and throw me down from this rock.”
“The gods forbid that I should ever do such a thing,” answered the swineherd. “Never could I pray to Jupiter again should I thus abuse the laws of hospitality.”
During this conversation evening had descended, and the under herders came in with their beasts. There was a tremendous grunting, and it was a long time before all the bristly creatures were safe in their sties. When they were taken care of, the swineherd ordered the men to bring in a fatted five-year-old to regale the guest.
While the men were outside he chopped wood and laid it on the fire and made all ready. When the meal was prepared, the good swineherd made a fair division. He divided each part seven times. The first part was taken out for the nymphs and Hermes; the others were for his guest, his four servants, and himself. The old man received a large piece of the fat back, the piece of honor which is generally given to the guest. Ulysses was delighted and said: “Good Eumæus, mayest thou be as beloved of Jupiter as thou art of me, whom thou hast so honorably entertained.”
“Eat, my unhappy friend,” answered the kindly man, “and make the most of what thou hast, for the gods give and take as it pleases them.”
After supper was over and night had fallen, an awful west wind whistled through the hut. The rain fell in torrents. Ulysses shivered miserably in his rags and it did not seem to occur to the swineherd to offer him a warm cloak. The hero contrived a jest to see if he could not get it by craft. “Listen, Eumæus and ye shepherds,” said he. “The wine has made me merry and I must tell ye an amusing tale. Perhaps it is not fitting that I should tell it, but as I have begun I will finish it. I have just been wishing that I were as young and strong as when I lay with your master before Troy. And then I recollected a trick by which Ulysses once helped me in great straits.
“One night we had planned an ambush close to the city wall—Menelaus, Ulysses, and I—but we had taken but a few men with us. Night was approaching and we lay down in a thicket amongst reeds and swamp grass. All at once the sky became overcast and a cruel north wind began to blow. Snow fell, and our shields were soon encrusted with ice. I was worse off than the others, for they had their cloaks in which to wrap themselves and were covered with their shields. Thus they slept without feeling the storm. I alone had not brought my cloak, and was obliged to lie in the rain in my thin tunic. My teeth chattered and I shook as though in a fever.
“At length, past midnight, when I could no longer endure it, I nudged Ulysses who lay beside me, and said: ‘Noble Ulysses, I am nearly dying of cold, for I left my cloak behind. Do thou devise something for me.’ ‘Keep quiet,’ he said softly. Then raising his voice he awakened the others. ‘Listen, friends,’ he said, ‘I have just had a memorable dream. There are so few of us and we are so far from the ships, someone should run to Agamemnon and tell him to send us aid.’ Thoas, Andræmon’s son, obligingly set out, leaving his purple cloak upon the ground. Ulysses tossed it to me and I laughingly wrapped myself therein and slept till morning. You see, friends, I was thinking that were I now as young and strong as then that perhaps someone would give me a robe for the night, either out of good-will or for fear of my strength. But of course the humble man in beggar’s garb is despised.”
The men laughed and the swineherd praised the stranger’s cunning. “Thou hast spoken well,” he said, “and hast drawn a very good comparison. Therefore I will give thee what thou desirest. Take this cloak, but in the morning thou must give it back, for we shepherds have few clothes. If Telemachus should return he will doubtless give thee garments and send thee back to thy home.”
While speaking he prepared a couch of sheep and goat skins by the hearth for the guest and placed a cloak over it to cover him. The servants lay down beside Ulysses, but the swineherd did not sleep within, but carefully guarding his herds he bivouacked nightly in a cleft by the rock which sheltered him from the north wind. Ulysses was much pleased with the good man’s faithful service.
Chapter IX
Telemachus leaves Sparta and lands in Ithaca
In the meanwhile Athene had not ceased planning for her favorites. That same night she went to Menelaus’ palace in Sparta to admonish Telemachus to return home and to warn him of the dangers lying in wait for him. “When thou art near the shores of Ithaca,” she said, “let thy companions row immediately to the city, but do thou go alone to the hut of old Eumæus, who is honestly devoted to thee, to spend the night. Let him hasten to the city to tell Penelope of thy safe arrival.” With these words the goddess disappeared. When morning dawned Telemachus arose and met Menelaus, who was also abroad, and immediately begged to be allowed to depart.
“Far be it from me, dear youth, to keep thee here against thy will,” answered Menelaus. “But wait at least until I can give thee parting gifts and have the women prepare a good meal, that thou mayest set out strengthened and refreshed.”
Menelaus bade the maids prepare a repast in haste and himself went into the treasury to select a gift for the departing guests. Helen also opened her chest, which held beautifully embroidered garments worked by her own hands. She took out the largest and finest one for Telemachus. Menelaus followed her with a golden goblet and a silver pitcher. He presented them, saying: “May Jupiter grant thee a prosperous voyage. Behold I am giving thee the most valuable thing that I possess. It was a present from the Sidonian king when I passed through Phœnicia. Truly it is as cunning a piece of work as though made by Hephæstos himself.”
“I, too, desire to make thee a present,” said Helen, holding out the magnificent robe. “Let it adorn the bride on thy wedding day. Until then let thy worthy mother keep it in her chest. Fare thee well, and return in peace to thy stately palace and land of thy fathers.”
Telemachus received the splendid gifts with gratitude and gave them to Pisistratus, who in silent admiration stowed them away in the chariot. Then they all went into the hall and sat down to the banquet. As soon as it was over, the two youths hastened to depart, and Menelaus accompanied them to their chariot with a goblet of wine, drinking to their health and giving them a final hand clasp with the words: “Farewell, youths. Bear my greeting to father Nestor who truly loved me like a father when we were fighting before Troy.”
After taking leave of their fathers’ friends the two youths travelled rapidly until they reached Pylos. Then Telemachus said to Pisistratus: “I wish thou wouldst grant a request, good host. Drive me directly to my ship on the beach, so that the venerable Nestor may not detain me with his kindly hospitality; for I am in great haste.” Pisistratus agreed to this, and Telemachus’ companions were overjoyed to see him again and at once prepared for departure. When all was ready, Telemachus placed himself at the rudder and with a silent prayer poured a libation to Athene into the sea, and they rowed away into the silent night.
In the meanwhile the beggar Ulysses sat in the hut of good Eumæus partaking of his humble fare. “Listen, Eumæus,” he began. “I have been a burden to thee long enough, and intend to go into town early to-morrow morning. All I ask is that thou wilt give me a guide to show me the way to Ulysses’ palace. I desire to bring tidings to Penelope and to mix with the suitors and see whether they are inclined to treat me kindly.”
“What art thou thinking of, old man?” cried Eumæus angrily. “Thou wouldst fare ill shouldst thou fall among that company, whose high-handed manners are beyond belief. Thou art not in my way. Wait at least until Ulysses’ son comes back, and he will doubtless give thee a good cloak and coat and provide a vessel to take thee where thou wishest to go.”
“Excellent swineherd,” answered the crafty Ulysses, “may Jupiter love thee as I do for giving me rest and shelter in thy hut after all my sorrows. If I am to stay, then tell me somewhat of the mother of the famous Ulysses; also of his aged father.”
Upon this the old man began to talk of Laertes and the good mother, who had long ago succumbed to sorrow and been laid in the grave. The servants had long since betaken themselves to rest, and when midnight came the host said: “Now we too will sleep a little. But it is sweet to pour out one’s troubles, and thou art a sensible man to whom it is a pleasure to talk. There is always time enough for sleep.”
During this same night the ship which carried Telemachus had approached the island in safety, having escaped the vigilance of the spies, and landed on the northern coast. With the first rays of the rising sun Telemachus disembarked with his companions and offered sacrifice. The good youth little suspected how near his father was. He bound on the shining sandals and took the heavy lance, prepared to separate from his companions whom he ordered to row to the city. He appointed a meeting the next day in his father’s palace to offer them the journey’s meed—a stately banquet of meat and wine.
Telemachus had but one more care. In Pylos a soothsayer from Argos, Theoclymenus, had joined his company and requested passage in the ship. They had gladly brought him to Ithaca, but he wanted to go farther, and Telemachus was so afraid of the suitors that he scarcely dared bring a guest with him to his house. They therefore consulted together as to where the stranger should be entertained. Telemachus proposed Eurymachus, the most insolent of the suitors, as host, as he was the most important man on the island and could best entertain and send him on his way. “He is now, as my father is away,” he continued, “almost the supreme ruler here and is determined to marry my mother, so that he may acquire, together with the property of my family, also the title of king and the principal seat in the folks’ assembly, which of right belongs to our house. Now Jupiter only knows whether or not he will gain his ends.”
As he said this, behold, to their right a vulture, holding a dove in its talons, flew past. It was tearing the dove in its flight, so that its feathers fell to the earth between Telemachus and his ship. Then Theoclymenus took the youth quickly aside and said softly: “Friend, what thou hast just spoken shall never be fulfilled. This token of the gods tells me that rule over the princes of Ithaca shall always remain with thy house.”
The heart of Telemachus was filled with joy at this prophecy. He bade the stranger farewell, and one of his men conducted him to the dwelling of Eurymachus, while Telemachus went to the hut of the swineherd, as Athene had commanded him.
Chapter X
Arrival of Telemachus—Ulysses reveals himself to his Son
When Telemachus reached the enclosure of the chief herder, the sun was already high in the heavens. The shepherds had scattered with their flocks and herds in fields and forest, and the excellent Eumæus was lying with Ulysses before the blazing fire where they had just roasted a piece of meat for their breakfast. “Listen, I hear footsteps,” said Ulysses, “and the dogs do not bark. It must be one of thy comrades or acquaintances.”
Scarcely were the words spoken when Telemachus appeared in the gateway, the dogs leaping about him in joyful welcome. The swineherd was so astonished that he let fall his cup and hurried out to meet the new arrival. He threw his arms about him, wept over him, and gazed upon him in delight as though he had arisen from the dead. It was a long time before he could speak, and then he broke out tenderly: “Hast thou really come, Telemachus? Art thou here, my sweet life? I feared never to see thee again, when I heard that thou hadst sailed for Pylos. But enter, dear son, that I may delight in thee; for not often dost thou visit the shepherd, preferring to mingle with the swarm of suitors in the city.”
“How canst thou talk thus, old man?” interrupted the youth. “But never mind. I have come to thee to find out whether my mother has listened to one of the suitors and left my poor house.”
“No, indeed,” answered Eumæus. “She still sits and weeps away her days and nights in thy palace. Thou wilt find her as thou didst leave her.” The two now entered the hut, and the unknown beggar whose heart was beating with joy at the sight of his handsome son controlled himself with difficulty. With the deference of the poor he arose from his couch to give place to the stranger, but Telemachus prevented him, saying: “Sit still, stranger. I will find a seat somewhere.” Eumæus brought out the remains of the meal and they all sat down to eat and drink. At length Telemachus said: “Now, father Eumæus, do thou go to the city for me and bring the news secretly to Penelope that I am safely returned from Pylos. But take care that no suitor hears it, for many enemies are plotting against me.”
“Be it so,” said the herdsman, putting on his sandals and taking up his staff. Ulysses was still looking after him, when he saw through the half-opened gate the figure of a tall, slender maiden, beckoning to him. The dogs slunk into the corners, but Telemachus did not perceive the apparition. Ulysses divined that it was the goddess and went out to the gateway.
“Noble son of Laertes,” Athene addressed him, “the time has now come for thee to reveal thyself to thy son. Take counsel with him how ye may make an end of the suitors. I shall soon be with you.”
While speaking she touched him with her golden staff and instantly his beggar’s dress was transformed into a fine purple cloak and his wrinkled face into a fresh manly countenance and the bald head was covered with shining brown locks. He reëntered the hut, from which he had just issued in rags, looking like a king. Telemachus gazed at him in astonishment and said, uncertainly: “Stranger, how changed thou art. Ah, I feel that a god approaches. Be merciful to us, thou holy one. Gladly will we sacrifice to thee and bring thee gifts.”
“No,” cried Ulysses, “I am not a god. I am the father for whom thou hast mourned so long. I am Ulysses.” Joyfully he clasped his son in his arms and kissed him.
“Doubt no longer, dear son,” continued Ulysses. “It was not I who worked the miracle, but Athene, who is with me. The gods can do all things; they can glorify or disfigure a mortal according to their pleasure. Yes, it is I, Ulysses, who have been wandering afar for twenty years, and thou art my beloved son. I have found my greatest happiness in holding thee here in my arms.”
He could say no more for sobbing. Father and son wept for some time, closely clasping each other. Ever and anon they would gaze silently at each other, then break out in tears of joy and gratitude.
At length began tender questionings, but the answers had to be left for leisure days. Now they must discuss the great question. A long time was spent in consultation and Ulysses instructed his son how to proceed and how to receive him when he should arrive at the palace. In the meanwhile the vessel which had brought Telemachus had sailed round the island and entered the harbor near the city. The men beached the ship. One faithful youth took Telemachus’ gifts away with him, another ran to Ulysses’ palace to bring the queen news of her son’s return. But he was so imprudent as to cry out the news to her before all the suitors, who gnashed their teeth with rage over the failure of their schemes and stole away to concoct secretly new ones.
Soon afterward honest Eumæus also arrived with his secret message, but found he was too late, and at once set out again for his home, where he arrived in the evening. Athene had again clothed the king in his beggar’s rags, so that Eumæus had no idea of what had taken place during his absence. He quickly selected a year-old pig for the evening meal, waited upon his guests carefully, and they all retired early to rest and received the good gift of sleep.
Chapter XI
Ulysses and the Goatherd—the Dog Argos—Ulysses in the Hall among the Suitors
At daybreak Telemachus arose, put on his sandals, and took up his lance. “Now fare thee well, father,” he said to Eumæus. “I am going to the city, for my mother will not cease worrying until she sees me. I charge thee bring thy guest to my house, where he may try his luck, and help shall not fail him.”
“It is well,” said Ulysses. “In the city, where there are many rich people, a beggar can make his way better than in the country. The morning air is cold and my rags are thin, so let me warm myself a while at the fire and then I shall be ready.”
Telemachus walked quickly away. He reached town before the suitors had arrived at his house, placed his lance, according to custom, outside the door against a pillar, and entered the hall. There the old servant Euryclea was dusting and arranging the cushions. When she saw the youth she hastened to him weeping; the other maids also welcomed him and kissed his face and shoulders. Penelope also came and embraced her beloved son with tears. She held him for a long time in her arms and begged him to tell her what he had heard on his journey.
“Mother,” said he, “do not make me speak of new troubles, for I have scarce escaped death. But now bathe thyself and put on clean garments, then ascend to the housetop and vow a thank-offering to the gods if they will avenge the shame of our house. I am going to the market place to fetch the stranger who accompanied me on my return.”
He went, and his mother obeyed his behests. When Telemachus crossed the market place he found all the suitors assembled there. They greeted him pleasantly, but their hearts were full of mischief. He did not join them, but seated himself with the few older men who had remained true to his father, and answered their curious questions. As soon as he caught sight of the seer Theoclymenus, he arose and went to him and took him to his house, before the rough crowd had arrived. While Telemachus was entertaining his guest, Penelope came in with her women and sat down to spin and listen to the tale of her son’s adventures. He did not dare to betray the secret of his father’s arrival, so that Penelope’s longing remained unsatisfied until the cheering assurance came from the strange seer that unfailing signs portended the early return of her beloved husband.
In the midst of her joy over this the queen was disturbed by the hubbub of the brawling suitors, who had been amusing themselves by throwing quoits outside the palace and now burst into the hall to feast and drink as usual. She went straight to her chamber, and the stranger, too, left the hall. The servants began slaughtering the beeves, goats, swine, and sheep in the courtyard and preparing delicious dishes for the suitors.
Ulysses had remained until noon in the herdsman’s hut. The road to the city was long, and the circuitous mountain path led past a well where the maidens were accustomed to draw water. An altar had been erected on the height where passing travellers made offerings to the nymphs of the spring. At this well the goatherd Melantheus met with the two wayfarers. He was an impudent fellow, unfaithful to his master, and ready for any mischief that the suitors should devise. He was an arch enemy of the swineherd, as of all honest people. Hardly had he caught sight of him accompanied by a ragged beggar than he called out with coarse raillery: “It is a true saying that one beggar leads the other. How the gods do pair like with like. Where art thou going with the hungry one, thou ignoble swineherd? Shall he stand at the door of the palace in his hideous garb to disgust the gay guests, to rub his shoulders at the doorposts, and beg for crumbs? If thou wouldst give him to me, to sweep out the stalls and make beds for the young kids, he might get some flesh on his bones. But of course, beggars’ bread is easily gained. I tell thee, if thou bringest the nasty fellow to the palace, bones and joints in scores will fly at his head.”
With these insulting words he gave poor Ulysses a sharp kick. Ulysses reflected for a moment whether he should dash the wretch to the ground—an easy task for him—or pretend to be weak and fearful. He chose the latter course and took the insult humbly. But Eumæus defied the goatherd to his face and prayed to the holy nymphs of the well that they should cause Ulysses to return and punish the wretch. To avoid the fellow the two companions let him go ahead with his goats. “Thou dog,” he called back, “some day I shall pack thee aboard ship and sell thee as a slave.”
When Ulysses and the swineherd approached the royal palace, the beggar exclaimed with profound emotion: “Ah! one can see that this must be the stately dwelling of Ulysses. Inside, sounds of festivity, and outside the defiant battlements the impregnable wall. A rich and mighty king must live here.”
“Do thou enter first,” he said to Eumæus. “I will soon follow.” Thus they passed into the courtyard. Behold, in the corner on the dunghill lay a dog called Argos. He was thin and wasted and swarming with vermin. A year before his departure for Troy, Ulysses had trained this dog for the chase. He had often played with him as a puppy, but when he had gone, Argos had been neglected. Now he was too weak to crawl, but when he saw Ulysses near to him he raised himself painfully and wagged his tail. When he tried to run to his master his legs gave way and down he sank. Ulysses recognized the faithful animal and turned aside to brush away a tear. Then he said to Eumæus: “Tell me, Eumæus. The animal there on the dunghill is well built. Was he not fleet of foot?”
“Yes,” answered the swineherd; “he, too, misses his good master. Thou shouldst have seen him twenty years ago. He was his master’s favorite, for he had trained him, and no prey was so swift that Argos could not overtake it. But no one tends him now, and he has to pick up a miserable living in the courtyard. Servants are careless when the master is abroad.”
The swineherd entered the house and was spied by Telemachus, who called him to his side where he was served with bread and meat. But Ulysses remained a while without to watch the faithful dog draw his last breath. Then he, too, entered the house and seated himself near the door in the hall.
At first the feasters did not notice him, but Telemachus sent him food. He laid it down upon the dirty wallet and ate, while the minstrel sang sweet songs to the music of his harp. When the singer had finished, Ulysses went among the suitors to collect alms, that he might discover which ones were kindly disposed and which were hard and cruel. Many gave to him pityingly and asked one another in surprise who the old man was and whence he came. “The swineherd brought him here,” cried Melantheus. “Who he is I know not.”
“Swineherd,” grumbled Antinous, “why didst thou bring this fellow to the city? I thought there were plenty of us already to eat up the absent master’s substance, and we could do without beggars.”
“Not seemly is thy speech, Antinous, although thou art noble,” answered the swineherd. “Thou wert always hard on Ulysses’ servants, and especially on me. However, I take no notice so long as Penelope and Telemachus live in this palace.”
“Hush, Eumæus,” interrupted Telemachus. “Thou knowest Antinous. If that is thy only scruple, Antinous, that the alms which thou givest the poor come from my store, do not refrain from giving. Neither my mother nor I begrudge them. But that is not thy real meaning. Thou wouldst rather use it all thyself.”
“Thou insolent young cub,” interrupted Antinous. “If each of the suitors would send him what I do, he would not enter the house again in three months.” He accompanied these words with a motion toward a footstool under the table, and was just going to throw it at the beggar’s head when a neighbor seized his arm.
Ulysses desired to tempt the ungovernable man further. He went up to him and begged an alms, and even tried to touch his heart by relating his wanderings and hardships. But Antinous harshly bade him begone, and Ulysses retired with the words: “Truly, Antinous, thy body and thy mind are not in harmony.”
“Was there ever such an insolent beggar!” cried Antinous angrily. “Now truly, thou shalt not leave the hall unpunished,” and with all his might he threw the footstool, which struck Ulysses’ shoulder. He stood firm as a rock, only shaking his head in silence, then returned to the gate and sat down, opening his wallet.
Telemachus could hardly contain himself, and even Penelope, who could hear all from her balcony, pitied the stranger whom she could not see. She desired Eumæus to conduct the strange man to her, that she might talk with him and supply him with fine raiment.
But he replied: “I should like nothing better than to see the queen, for I have much to tell her, but I fear the cruel suitors. Bid the noble Penelope wait for me in her apartments until the sun is set. Then she may question me about her husband’s return.” And he remained quietly sitting on the doorstep, while his guests, having no idea that he was really their host, amused themselves, after the banquet was over, with singing and dancing. How he longed to have them go, that he might at last see his dear wife once more. But before he did so he was to have another strange adventure.
Chapter XII
Ulysses and Irus, the Beggar
A beggar called Irus entered the hall. He was tall and thin, in spite of being well fed, and was a favorite with the suitors; for he was useful to them in many ways. He was greatly astonished to find his place already occupied and looked at the old man angrily and disdainfully, and relying on his own size and the support of the suitors, he began, masterfully: “Get out of here or I will throw thee out! Up at once! In a hurry now! Listen, thou villain! If thou dost not move quickly there will be trouble between us!”
Ulysses greeted him with dark looks and began: “Miserable creature, what have I done to thee? I do not begrudge thee thy part, and there is room for both of us here. Do not talk of fighting between us, for old as I am I should probably spill thy blood and rid me of thee for a long time to come.”
“Ha,” cried Irus, angrily. “He talks like a washerwoman. I have a great mind to crack thy jaw. Come here and gird thyself, that all may see how I shall use thee!”
Thus far the suitors had paid no heed to the beggar’s quarrel, but now Antinous pricked up his ears and cried laughingly: “Here is an amusing comedy. The stranger there and Irus have challenged each other.” All sprang from their seats laughing and formed a circle about the two.
“Listen,” said Antinous. “Here is a delicious morsel of tripe for the victor, and in future he shall drink and eat with us and be the only beggar allowed to enter here henceforth.” This proposal met with universal approval.
Slowly Ulysses arose, pretending to be stiff in every joint. Said he: “It is hard that an old man weakened by want should be obliged to contend with a younger. But hunger forces me to try my luck. Only swear to me that no one shall assist Irus or mix in the fight.”
Ulysses made ready by tucking up his rags, revealing naked shoulders, arms, and legs—and how powerful they were! The suitors were astonished. Irus also had misgivings and would have been glad to recall his rash words. As he hesitated the servants led him forward, trembling. Antinous forced him to the fore and the fight began. Ulysses reflected whether he should break the wretch’s skull with his fist or only lay him low with a moderate blow. He wisely decided on the latter, so that the suitors should not become suspicious.
Irus let fly and struck his adversary’s shoulder. But immediately he received a fearful stroke on his jaw from below, so that blood streamed from his mouth. With a shriek he sank down, pressed both hands over his face, and drummed with his feet for pain. The suitors set up a shout of laughter, but Ulysses drew the conquered man out into the courtyard by his heels and laid him in a corner. He replaced his old rags, took up his wallet, and returned to his place on the threshold. They all came up laughing, to shake hands with him, and Antinous laid the roasted tripe on his wallet, while Amphinomus brought him bread and wine and drank to him with a hearty handshake and a toast for better times.
Before all this had come to pass Athene had inspired Penelope with the idea of appearing among the suitors and putting a stop to their plundering by means of cunning words. The goddess wished to give the unrecognized beggar the happiness of seeing his excellent wife in all her majesty and the pure light of her innocence and faithfulness. Invested with divine beauty by the goddess, Penelope descended clad in a charming robe, her face covered with a long veil and accompanied by two serving maids. As she entered the hall, all gazed at her admiringly, each wishing that she might choose him for her husband.
“By all the gods, noble Penelope,” cried Eurymachus, “if all the sons of Greece could see thee, thy palace would be even more full of suitors than it is now—thou art so far superior to all other women in beauty and in nobility of soul.”
“Alas, Eurymachus,” she answered, “the gods destroyed my beauty when my dear husband sailed against Troy. If only he were restored to me, I should lead a glorious life; but now I mourn in sorrow, anxiety, and solitude. When he gave me his hand for the last time he said: ‘Dear wife, I am going to a long war in a distant country. The gods alone know whether I shall return. Take care of the house and our property, consider my father and mother, and bring up our son carefully. When he has grown to manhood, if I have not returned, make room for him in the house and do thou wed with another.’ Alas, I did not think that it would ever be; but to my sorrow fate has decreed that the fatal day of my espousals draws near. And what manner of wooing is this? It is customary for the suitors of a rich man’s daughter themselves to bring the beeves and fatted calves for the feast and to invite the bride’s friends and to bring her rich gifts. But who has ever heard of their squandering the substance of the bride whom they are wooing?”
The suitors were ashamed and promised to bring the beautiful Penelope handsome presents next day, and she did indeed receive richer gifts than ever a bride before. When she had retired, the suitors continued their sport.
As night fell the maids appeared to light the lamps. That meant, in ancient times, to burn shavings in a brazier on high pedestals and then to renew the shavings when they had burned low. Ulysses said to them: “Go ye rather to the apartments of the amiable queen. Turn the spindle and comb the wool and bring her cheer. Leave the blazing torches to me.” They only laughed at him, but when he threatened to tell Telemachus, they ran hastily away and left him. He tended the lights, meanwhile observing carefully all that the suitors did and said.
Although he had seemed to gain their favor by his successful fight, still they could not long desist from teasing and mockery. “Look, friends,” laughingly cried Eurymachus, “this beggar must be some good. See the glow which surrounds his bald head. Such a halo belongs only to the immortals.”
The laughter of the crowd encouraged Eurymachus to continue his raillery. “Listen, old man. If thou wert not accustomed to a lazy, wandering life, I might have work for thee. How sayest thou? Wilt be my servant? Plough, plant trees, and carry leaves for bedding? I would pay thee well, give thee good raiment and sandals for thy feet. But doubtless thou wouldst rather idle about and fill thy hungry stomach at thy leisure.”
“O Eurymachus,” Ulysses proudly answered, “were we both ploughing or mowing in the field, working against each other, it were a question which would earn the prize. And truly were we to go into battle and were I armed with helmet and harness, with sword and shield in my hands, thou shouldst see me at the front. Because thou art the strongest among many weaklings, thou thinkest thyself great and powerful. But I believe if Ulysses should appear, both leaves of the door would be too narrow for thee.”
“Hear how saucy the fellow is getting,” cried Eurymachus. “I will teach thee then to defy me!” And he seized his footstool and cast it at Ulysses, who, however, quickly bent down and threw himself at Amphinomus’ feet. The stool flew over him and hit the arm of the servant, whose wine-jar fell from his hand, while he tumbled over backwards.
Angrily and noisily the suitors crowded forward, threatening the stranger. But Telemachus rose up and admonished them to be still and quietly leave the palace, as it was time for sleep. Biting their lips in anger, the suitors were astonished at the courage of the usually mild Telemachus. The gentle Amphinomus supported him and spoke conciliatingly, and so they all went to their homes, after making the final sacrifice to the gods.
Chapter XIII
Ulysses and Penelope
Ulysses remained behind, and as soon as the suitors had gone, he made a sign to Telemachus to assist him in carrying all the weapons to the upper rooms. And behold, as they carried the swords and shields up the stairs, the dark passageway was filled with a mysterious light. “It is from the gods. Athene is with us,” said the wise man. “Thus are the immortals wont to manifest themselves.”
When all the weapons had been disposed of, the father bade his son go to bed, while he betook himself to the hall to await Penelope. She came from her chamber like the goddess Aphrodite. Her maidens placed a seat for her by the hearth and mended the fire. When the bright flames shot up and they saw the old beggar still there, they began to scold, and one even to threaten him with a firebrand if he did not leave at once. But the queen reproved the maid as she deserved. At the same time she ordered a seat for the guest placed opposite her own by the fireside, and when he was seated, began to question him.
He was unwilling to deceive his dear wife, but she was so determined to learn his name and origin that he was obliged to spin the same web of lies with which he had deceived the swineherd. He also told how he had seen Ulysses, twenty years before, in Crete, when he had called for him and Idomeneus on the journey to Troy. At this point the crafty Penelope, wishing to test his veracity, asked: “Worthy guest, if thou hast entertained my husband in thy father’s house, tell me how he was apparelled and who was with him then.”
“I remember perfectly,” answered the beggar. “He wore a magnificent cloak of dark, shaggy wool, fastened with a golden bar across the breast. It bore a splendid embroidery of gold—a young roebuck seized by a dog—and most lifelike were the rigid dog and the struggling buck trying to free itself with its feet. A fine tunic of shining white wool peeped from under the purple mantle. He was a stately hero, and the women looked upon him with pleasure. I cannot remember all his attendants. Only the herald I remember, for he was a humpback, and I think they called him Eurybates. The hero loved him above all the others for his devotion.”
“Yes, he was very fond of him,” said Penelope, sobbing. During the whole recital her tears had been flowing. “Yes, stranger, thou hast spoken the truth. I wove those clothes myself and fastened that clasp on them for an ornament. Ah! how handsome my good lord looked in those garments. Alas, how I have hoped for his return, how I have wept for him, and what I have suffered daily from the suitors thou canst not imagine.”
Ulysses controlled himself with almost superhuman power. “Weep no more, most excellent of women. Let me rather finish my tale, for I still have much of comfort to tell thee. He for whom thou mournest will surely soon be here. I swear by Jove and by this hospitable hearth that I have told the truth and that all shall come to pass as I have said.”
“Come, ye maidens! Honor this man in my house. Prepare a bed and covers for him, that he may rest in quiet and comfort,” said Penelope. “To-morrow morning ye shall bathe and anoint him, that he may take his place worthily among the men and partake of the feast at Telemachus’ side. And woe to them who shall insult or mock at him!”
“Worthy lady,” answered Ulysses, “I have not been used to fine beds or soft covers since I left Crete; so let me remain here by the fire. And none of the maids shall touch me, unless it be that among thy household is some faithful old woman who hath suffered as much as I. Her I would allow to wash my feet.”
“Dear guest,” answered Penelope, “I have such a faithful soul. She nursed my dear husband and was his servant from childhood. She shall wash thy feet. Good Euryclea, come hither and perform the long-neglected task. Think that it might be thy dear master whom thou didst so love to serve.”
These memories caused the old nurse to shed bitter tears. “Alas,” she said, “the gods are my witnesses that I loved my noble master like a son. And now I will take good care of thee, as my mistress has commanded; and gladly too, for I must confess, stranger, from the first moment when I looked upon thee, it seemed to me that I had never seen a man so like Ulysses in voice and figure as thou art.”
“All who have known us both, good dame, say the same, and everywhere men have called me Ulysses, in sport,” answered the crafty one.
The old woman now brought the tub with warm water. Meanwhile the beggar had turned his back to the blaze, for he had suddenly bethought him that he was in danger of discovery. Since early youth he had had a deep scar above his right knee, where a furious boar had wounded him in the hunt. Euryclea knew this scar too well; therefore he placed himself in the shadow that she might not see it. But in spite of this she discovered it as soon as her hand touched it, and in joyful surprise she let fall his leg, overturning the tub of water. Fortunately Penelope had gone out for a moment and did not hear the old woman’s cry of joy. Ulysses sprang up quickly, putting his hand over her mouth and whispering hurriedly: “Foster mother, wilt thou ruin me? Be silent, if life is dear to thee, that no one in this palace may learn that Ulysses has returned.”