Book II: Departure of Telemachus from Ithaca

Now when the Morning, child of Dawn, appeared,The dear son of Ulysses left his bedAnd put his garments on. His trenchant swordHe hung upon his shoulders, and made fastHis shapely sandals to his shining feet,And issued from his chamber like a god.At once he bade the clear-voiced heralds callThe long-haired Greeks to council. They obeyed,Quickly the chiefs assembled, and when allWere at the appointed place, TelemachusWent to the council, bearing in his handA brazen spear, yet went he not alone.Two swift dogs followed him, while Pallas shedA heavenly beauty over him, and allAdmired him as he came. He took the seatOf his great father, and the aged menMade way for him. And then Aegyptius spake—A hero bowed with age, who much had seenAnd known. His son, the warlike Antiphus,Went with the great Ulysses in his fleetTo courser-breeding Troy, and afterwardThe cruel Cyclops, in the vaulted cave,Slew him for his last meal. Three other sonsThere were, and one of these, Eurynomus,Was of the suitor train; the others tookCharge of their father’s acres. Never yetHad he forgotten his lost son or ceasedTo grieve for him, and as he spoke he wept

“Hear, men of Ithaca, what I shall say.No council, no assembly, have we heldSince great Ulysses in his roomy shipsDeparted from our isle. Who now is heThat summons us? On which of our young menOr elders presses this necessity?Is it belike that one of you has heardOf an approaching foe, and can declareThe tidings clearly? Or would he proposeAnd urge some other matter which concernsThe public weal? A just and generous mindI deem is his, and ’tis my hope that JoveWill bring to pass the good at which he aims.”

As thus he spake Ulysses’ son rejoicedIn his auspicious words, nor longer keptHis seat, but, yielding to an inward force,Rose midst them all to speak, while in his handPisenor, the sagacious counsellorAnd herald, placed the sceptre. Then he turnedTo the old man, Aegyptius, speaking thus:—

“O aged man, not far from thee is heWho called this council, as thou soon shalt knowMine chiefly is the trouble; I have broughtNo news of an approaching foe, which IWas first to hear, and would declare to all,Nor urge I other matters which concernThe public weal; my own necessity—The evil that has fallen on my house—Constrains me; it is twofold. First, that IHave lost an excellent father, who was kingAmong you, and ruled o’er you with a swayAs gentle as a father’s. Greater yetIs the next evil, and will soon o’erthrowMy house and waste my substance utterly.Suitors, the sons of those who, in our isle,Hold the chief rank, importunately pressRound my unwilling mother. They disdainTo ask her of Icarius, that the kingHer father may endow her, and bestowHis daughter on the man who best may gainHis favor, but with every day they comeInto our palace, sacrificing hereOxen and sheep and fatling goats, and holdHigh festival, and drink the purple wineUnstinted, with unbounded waste; for hereIs no man like Ulysses to repelThe mischief from my house. Not such are weAs he was, to resist the wrong. We passFor weaklings, immature in valor, yetIf I had but the power, assuredlyI would resist, for by these men are doneInsufferable things, nor does my housePerish with honor. Ye yourselves should feelShame at these doings; ye should dread reproachFrom those who dwell around us, and should fearThe offended gods, lest they repay these crimesWith vengeance. I beseech you, O my friends,Both by Olympian Jove, and her by whomCouncils of men are summoned and dissolved—The goddess Themis—that ye all refrain,And leave me to my grief alone, unlessUlysses, my great father, may have doneWrong in his anger to the gallant Greeks,Which ye, by prompting men to acts like these,Seek to avenge on me. Far better ’twere,Should ye yourselves destroy our goods and slayOur herds, since, were it so, there might in timeBe some requital. We, from street to street,Would plead continually for recompense,Till all should be restored. But now ye heapUpon me wrongs for which is no redress.”

Thus angrily he spake, and clashed to earthThe sceptre, shedding tears. The people feltCompassion; all were silent for a space,And there was none who dared with railing wordsAnswer Telemachus, save one alone,Antinoüs, who arose and thus replied:—

“Telemachus, thou youth of braggart speechAnd boundless in abuse, what hast thou saidTo our dishonor? Thou wouldst fix on usA brand of shame. The blame is not with us,The Achaian suitors; ’tis thy mother’s fault,Skilled as she is in crafty shifts. ’Tis nowAlready the third year, and soon will beThe fourth, since she began to cozen us.She gives us all to hope, and sends fair wordsTo each by message, yet in her own mindHas other purposes. This shrewd deviceShe planned; she laid upon the loom a web,Delicate, wide, and vast in length, and saidThus to us all: ‘Young princes, who are comeTo woo me, since Ulysses is no more—My noble husband—urge me not, I pray,To marriage, till I finish in the loom—That so my threads may not be spun in vain—A funeral vesture for the hero-chiefLaertes, when his fatal hour shall comeWith death’s long sleep. Else some Achaian dameMight blame me, should I leave without a shroudHim who in life possessed such ample wealth!’Such were her words, and easily they wroughtUpon our generous minds. So went she on,Weaving that ample web, and every nightUnravelled it by torchlight. Three full yearsShe practised thus, and by the fraud deceivedThe Grecian youths; but when the hours had broughtThe fourth year round, a woman who knew allRevealed the mystery, and we ourselvesSaw her unravelling the ample web.Thenceforth, constrained, and with unwilling hands,She finished it. Now let the suitors makeTheir answer to thy words, that thou mayst knowOur purpose fully, and the Achaians allMay know it likewise. Send thy mother hence,Requiring that she wed the suitor whomHer father chooses and herself prefers.But if she still go on to treat the sonsOf Greece with such despite, too confidentIn gifts which Pallas has bestowed on herSo richly, noble arts, and facultiesOf mind, and crafty shifts, beyond all thoseOf whom we ever heard that lived of yore,The bright-haired ladies of the Achaian race,Tyro, Alcmena, and Mycenè, famedFor glossy tresses, none of them endowedAs is Penelope, though this last shiftBe ill devised—so long will we consumeThy substance and estate as she shall holdHer present mood, the purpose which the godsHave planted in her breast. She to herselfGains great renown, but surely brings on theeLoss of much goods. And now we go not henceTo our affairs nor elsewhere, till she wedWhichever of the Greeks may please her most.”

And then rejoined discreet Telemachus:—“Antinoüs, grievous wrong it were to sendUnwilling from this palace her who boreAnd nursed me. Whether he be living yetOr dead, my father is in distant lands;And should I, of my own accord and will,Dismiss my mother, I must make perforceIcarius large amends, and that were hard.And he would do me mischief, and the godsWould send yet other evils on my head.For then my mother, going forth, would callOn the grim Furies, and the general curseOf all men would be on me. Think not IWill ever speak that word. But if ye bearA sense of injury for what is past,Go from these halls; provide for other feasts,Consuming what is yours, and visitingEach other’s homes in turn. But if it seemTo you the wiser and the better wayTo plunder one man’s goods, go on to wasteMy substance. I shall call the eternal godsTo aid me, and, if Jupiter allowFit retribution for your crimes, ye dieWithin this very palace unavenged.”

So spake Telemachus. The Thunderer, Jove,Sent flying from a lofty mountaintopTwo eagles. First they floated on the windClose to each other, and with wings outspread;But as they came to where the murmuring crowdWas gathered just beneath their flight, they turnedAnd clapped their heavy pinions, looking downWith deadly omen on the heads below,And with their talons tore each other’s cheeksAnd necks, and then they darted to the rightAway through Ithaca among its roofs.All who beheld the eagles were amazed,And wondered what event was near at hand.Among the rest an aged hero spake,Named Halitherses, Mastor’s son. He knewMore truly than the others of his age,To augur from the flight of birds, and readThe will of fate—and wisely thus he spake:—

“Hear, men of Ithaca, what I shall say.I speak of what most narrowly concernsThe suitors, over whom already hangsGreat peril, for Ulysses will not beLong at a distance from his home and friends.Even now he is not far, and meditatesSlaughter and death to all the suitor train;And evil will ensue to many moreOf us, who dwell in sunny Ithaca.Now let us think what measures may restrainThese men—or let them of their own accordDesist—the soonest were for them the best.For not as one untaught do I foretellEvents to come, but speak of what I know.All things that I predicted to our chief,What time the Argive troops embarked for Troy,And sage Ulysses with them, are fulfilled;I said that after many hardships borne,And all his comrades lost, the twentieth yearWould bring him back, a stranger to us all—And all that then I spake of comes to pass.”

Eurymachus, the son of Polybus,Answered the seer: “Go to thy house, old man,And to thy boys, and prophesy to them,Lest evil come upon them. I can act,In matters such as these, a prophet’s partBetter than thou. True, there are many birdsThat fly about in sunshine, but not allAre ominous. Ulysses far awayHas perished; well it would have been if thouHadst perished with him; then thou wouldst not prateIdly of things to come, nor wouldst thou stirTelemachus to anger, in the hopeOf bearing to thy house some gift from him.Now let me say, and be assured my wordsWill be fulfilled: experienced as thou art,If thou by treacherous speeches shalt inflameA younger man than thou to violent deeds,The sharper punishment shall first be his,But we will lay on thee a penalty,Old man, which thou shalt find it hard to bear,And bitterly wilt thou repent. And nowLet me persuade Telemachus to sendHis mother to her father. They will makeA marriage for her there, and give with herA liberal dowry, such as may becomeA favorite daughter on her wedding-day,Else never will the sons of Greece renounce,I think, the difficult suit. We do not fearTelemachus himself, though glib of speech,Nor care we for the empty oracleWhich thou, old man, dost utter, making theeOnly more hated. Still will his estateBe wasted, nor will order e’er returnWhile she defers her marriage with some princeOf the Achaians. We shall urge our suitFor that most excellent of womankindAs rivals, nor withdraw to seek the handOf others, whom we fitly might espouse.”

To this discreet Telemachus replied:—“Eurymachus, and ye, the illustrious trainOf suitors, I have nothing more to ask—No more to say—for now the gods and allThe Achaians know the truth. But let me haveA gallant barque, and twenty men to makeFrom coast to coast a voyage, visitingSparta and sandy Pylos, to inquireFor my long-absent father, and the chanceOf his return, if any of mankindCan tell me aught, or if some rumor comeFrom Jove, since thus are tidings often broughtTo human knowledge. Should I learn that yetHe lives and may return, I then would waitA twelvemonth, though impatient. Should I hearThat he no longer lives, I shall returnHomeward, and pile his monument on highWith funeral honors that become the dead,And give my mother to a second spouse.”

He spake and took his seat, and then aroseMentor, once comrade of the excellent chiefUlysses, who, departing with his fleet,Consigned his household to the aged man,That they should all obey him, and that heShould safely keep his charge. He rose amidThe assembly, and addressed them wisely thus:—

“Hear and attend, ye men of Ithaca,To what I say. Let never sceptred kingHenceforth be gracious, mild, and merciful,And righteous; rather be he deaf to prayerAnd prone to deeds of wrong, since no one nowRemembers the divine Ulysses more,Among the people over whom he ruledBenignly like a father. Yet I bearNo envy to the haughty suitors here,Moved as they are to deeds of violenceBy evil counsels, since, in pillagingThe substance of Ulysses, who they sayWill nevermore return, they risk their lives.But I am angry with the rest, with allOf you who sit here mute, nor even with wordsOf stern reproof restrain their violence,Though ye so many are and they so few.”

Leiocritus, Evenor’s son, rejoined:—“Malicious Mentor, foolish man! what talkIs this of holding us in check? ’Twere hardFor numbers even greater than our ownTo drive us from a feast. And should the princeOf Ithaca, Ulysses, come himself,Thinking to thrust the illustrious suitors forthThat banquet in these palace halls, his queenWould have no cause for joy at his return,Greatly as she desired it. He would drawSure death upon himself in strife with usWho are so many. Thou hast spoken ill.Now let the people who are gathered hereDisperse to their employments. We will leaveMentor and Halitherses, who were bothHis father’s early comrades, to provideFor the youth’s voyage. He will yet remainA long time here, I think, to ask for newsIn Ithaca, and never will set sail.”

Thus having said, he instantly dismissedThe people; they departed to their homes;The suitors sought the palace of the prince.

Then to the ocean-side, apart from all,Went forth Telemachus, and washed his handsIn the gray surf, and prayed to Pallas thus:—

“Hear me, thou deity who yesterday,In visiting our palace, didst commandThat I should traverse the black deep to learnNews of my absent father, and the chanceOf his return! The Greeks themselves withstand,My purpose; the proud suitors most of all.”

Such was his prayer, and straightway Pallas stood,In form and voice like Mentor, by his side,And thus accosted him with winged words:—

“Telemachus, thou henceforth shalt not lackValor or wisdom. If with thee abidesThy father’s gallant spirit, as he wasIn deed and word, thou wilt not vainly makeThis voyage. But if thou be not in truthThe son of him and of Penelope,Then I rely not on thee to performWhat thou dost meditate. Few sons are likeTheir fathers: most are worse, a very fewExcel their parents. Since thou wilt not lackValor and wisdom in the coming time,Nor is thy father’s shrewdness wanting quiteIn thee, great hope there is that happilyThis plan will be fulfilled. Regard not thenThe suitor train, their purposes and plots.Senseless are they, as little wise as just,And have no thought of the black doom of deathNow drawing near to sweep them in a dayTo their destruction. But thy enterpriseMust suffer no delay. So much am IThy father’s friend and thine, that I will causeA swift barque to be fitted out for sea,And will myself attend thee. Go now henceAmong the suitors, and make ready thereThe needful stores, and let them all be putIn vessels—wine in jars, and meal, the strengthOf man, in close thick skins—while I engage,Among the people here, a willing crew.Ships are there in our seagirt IthacaFull many, new and old, and I will chooseThe best of these, and see it well equipped.Then will we drag it down to the broad sea.”

Thus Pallas spake, the child of Jupiter.Telemachus obeyed the heavenly voice,And stayed not; home he hastened, where he sawSadly the arrogant suitors in the hall,Busily flaying goats and roasting swine.Antinoüs, laughing, came to meet the youth.And fastened on his hand, and thus he spake:—

“Telemachus, thou youth of lofty speechAnd boundless in abuse, let neither wordNor deed that may displease thee vex thy heart,But gayly eat and drink as thou wert wont.The Achaians generously will provideWhatever thou requirest, ship and men—All chosen rowers—that thou mayst arriveSooner at sacred Pylos, there to learnTidings of thy illustrious father’s fate.”

Then spake discreet Telemachus in turn:—“Antinoüs, never could I sit with you,Arrogant ones! in silence nor enjoyThe feast in quiet. Is it not enough,O suitors, that while I was yet a childYe wasted on your revelries my largeAnd rich possessions? Now that I am grown,And, when I hear the words of other men,Discern their meaning, now that every dayStrengthens my spirit, I will make the attemptTo bring the evil fates upon your heads,Whether I go to Pylos or remainAmong this people. I shall surely makeThis voyage, and it will not be in vain.Although I go a passenger on boardAnother’s ship—since neither ship have INor rowers—ye have judged that so were best.”

He spake, and quickly from the suitor’s handWithdrew his own. The others who preparedTheir banquet in the palace scoffed at him,And flung at him their bitter taunts, and oneAmong the insolent youths reviled him thus:—

“Telemachus is certainly resolvedTo butcher us. He goes to bring alliesFrom sandy Pylos or the Spartan coast,He is so bent on slaughter. Or perhapsHe visits the rich land of EphyrèIn search of deadly poisons to be thrownInto a cup and end us all at once.”

Then said another of the haughty youths:—“Who knows but, wandering in his hollow barque,He too may perish, far from all his friends,Just as Ulysses perished? This would bringIncrease of labor; it would cast on usThe trouble to divide his goods, and giveHis palace to his mother, and to himWho takes the woman as his wedded wife.”

So spake they, but Telemachus went downTo that high-vaulted room, his father’s, whereLay heaps of gold and brass, and garments storeIn chests, and fragrant oils. And there stood casksOf delicate old wine and pure, a drinkFor gods, in rows against the wall, to waitIf ever, after many hardships borne,Ulysses should return. Upon that roomClose-fitting double doors were shut, and thereWas one who night and day kept diligent watch,A woman, Eurycleia, child of Ops,Peisenor’s son. Telemachus went inAnd called her to him, and bespake her thus:—

“Nurse, let sweet wine be drawn into my jars,The finest next to that which thou dost keepExpecting our unhappy lord, if yetThe nobly born Ulysses shall escapeThe doom of death and come to us again.Fill twelve, and fit the covers close, and pourMeal into well-sewn skins, and let the taleBe twenty measures of the flour of wheat.This none but thou must know. Let all these thingsBe brought together; then, as night shuts in,When to her upper chamber, seeking rest,My mother shall withdraw, I come and takeWhat thou providest for me. I am boundFor Sparta and for Pylos in the sands,To gather news concerning the returnOf my dear father, if I haply may.”

So spake the youth, and his beloved nurseSobbed, wept aloud, and spake these winged words:—

“Why should there come, dear child, a thought like thisInto thy heart. Why wouldst thou wander forthTo distant regions—thou an only sonAnd dearly loved? Ulysses, nobly born,Has perished, from his native land afar,’Mid a strange race. These men, when thou art gone,At once will lay their plots to take thy life,And share thy wealth among them. Stay thou hereAmong thy people; need is none that thouShouldst suffer, roaming o’er the barren deep.”

Then spake discreet Telemachus again:—“Be of good cheer, O nurse, for my designIs not without the sanction of a god;But swear thou not to let my mother knowOf my intent until the eleventh dayOr twelfth shall pass, or till, in missing me,She learn of my departure, lest she weepAnd stain with tears the beauty of her face.”

He spake; the ancient woman solemnlySwore by the gods, and when the rite was o’erDrew wine into the jars, and poured the mealInto the well-sewn skins. TelemachusEntered the hall and joined the suitor train.

Then did the blue-eyed goddess turn her thoughtsTo other plans, and taking on herselfThe semblance of Telemachus, she rangedThe city, speaking to each man in turn,And bidding him at nightfall to repairTo where the good ship lay. That gallant shipShe begged of the renowned Noëmon, sonOf Phronius, who with cheerful grace complied.

The sun went down, the city streets lay allIn shadow. Then she drew the good ship downInto the sea, and brought and put on boardThe appointments every well-built galley needs,And moored her at the bottom of the port,Where, in a throng, obedient to the wordOf Pallas, round her came her gallant crew.

With yet a new device the blue-eyed maidWent to the palace of the godlike chiefUlysses, where she poured a gentle sleepOver the suitors. As they drank she madeTheir senses wander, and their hands let fallThe goblets. Now no longer at the boardThey sat, but sallied forth, and through the townWent to their slumbers, for the power of sleepHad fallen heavily upon their lids.Then blue-eyed Pallas from those sumptuous hallsSummoned Telemachus. She took the formAnd voice of Mentor, and bespake him thus:—

“Telemachus, already at their oarsSit thy well-armed companions and awaitThy coming; let us go without delay.”

Thus having spoken, Pallas led the wayWith rapid footsteps which he followed fast;Till having reached the galley and the seaThey found their long-haired comrades at the beach,And thus the gallant prince TelemachusBespake them: “Hither, comrades, let us bringThe sea-stores from the dwelling where they lie;My mother knows not of it, nor her maids;The secret has been told to one alone.”

He spake, and went before them. In his stepsThey followed. To the gallant barque they broughtThe stores, and, as the well-beloved sonOf King Ulysses bade, they laid them downWithin the hull. Telemachus went upThe vessel’s side, but Pallas first embarked,And at the stern sat down, while next to herTelemachus was seated. Then the crewCast loose the fastenings and went all on board,And took their places on the rowers’ seats,While blue-eyed Pallas sent a favoring breeze,A fresh wind from the west, that murmuring sweptThe dark-blue main. Telemachus gave forthThe word to wield the tackle; they obeyed,And raised the fir-tree mast, and, fitting itInto its socket, bound it fast with cords,And drew and spread with firmly twisted ropesThe shining sails on high. The steady windSwelled out the canvas in the midst; the shipMoved on, the dark sea roaring round her keel,As swiftly through the waves she cleft her way.And when the rigging of that swift black shipWas firmly in its place, they filled their cupsWith wine, and to the ever-living godsPoured out libations, most of all to one,Jove’s blue-eyed daughter. Thus through all that nightAnd all the ensuing morn they held their way.