Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Tell me, Muse, of the man of many turns, who wandered far and wide after he sacked the sacred citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many men and came to know their minds, and on the sea he suffered many pains within his heart, struggling to save his own life and bring his comrades home. Yet not even so did he save his comrades, though he longed to — they were destroyed by their own recklessness, the fools, who ate the cattle of Helios, the sun above, and so he took away the day of their return. Of these things, goddess, daughter of Zeus, tell us too, beginning wherever you please.
By then all the others who had escaped sheer destruction were home, safe from war and sea alike. But Odysseus alone, longing for his homecoming and his wife, was held back by the queenly nymph Calypso, shining among goddesses, in her hollow caves, wanting him for her husband. But when, as the years rolled on, the season came that the gods had spun for him to return home to Ithaca, not even there was he free of trials, even among his own people. All the gods pitied him, except Poseidon, who raged on without ceasing against godlike Odysseus until he reached his own land.
But Poseidon had gone off to visit the Ethiopians, who live far away and are split into two peoples, the most remote of men, some where the sun goes down and some where it rises, to receive a sacrifice of bulls and rams. There he sat enjoying the feast, while the other gods were gathered together in the halls of Olympian Zeus. Among them the father of gods and men was first to speak, for in his heart he remembered noble Aegisthus, whom far-famed Orestes, son of Agamemnon, had killed.
Thinking of him, he spoke these words to the immortals: "How strange it is that mortals blame the gods! They say their troubles come from us, yet it is through their own recklessness that they suffer pain beyond what is fated. So it is now with Aegisthus, who beyond his portion married the wife of Atreus's son and killed that man on his return, though he knew it meant sheer ruin — for we ourselves had warned him, sending Hermes, the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus, to tell him not to kill the man nor court his wife, since vengeance for Atreus's son would come through Orestes, once he grew up and longed for his own land. So Hermes told him, but for all his good will he could not persuade the mind of Aegisthus. Now he has paid for everything at once."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Our father, son of Cronus, highest of the powers, that man indeed lies in a death he deserved — so may anyone else die who does such things. But my heart aches for wise Odysseus, that unlucky man, who has long suffered pains far from his loved ones, on an island washed by the sea, where the sea has its very navel.
It is a wooded island, and a goddess lives there in her halls, the daughter of grim-minded Atlas, who knows the depths of every sea and himself holds up the tall pillars that keep earth and sky apart. His daughter holds that unhappy, grieving man there, and forever with soft and coaxing words she works to make him forget Ithaca. But Odysseus, longing to see even the smoke rising from his own land, wishes only to die. Yet your heart does not turn to pity him, Olympian. Did Odysseus not please you with sacrifices beside the ships of the Argives, in the wide land of Troy? Why then, Zeus, do you rage at him so?"
Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, answered her: "My child, what a word has escaped the fence of your teeth! How could I ever forget godlike Odysseus, who surpasses all mortals in wisdom and has given the most offerings to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven? No — it is Poseidon, the earth-holder, who nurses an unrelenting grudge because of the Cyclops whose eye Odysseus blinded, godlike Polyphemus, the strongest of all the Cyclopes,
whose mother was the nymph Thoosa, daughter of Phorcys, lord of the barren sea, who lay with Poseidon in her hollow caves. Ever since then Poseidon, the shaker of the earth, does not kill Odysseus outright, but drives him wandering far from his own country. Come then, let all of us here plan his homecoming, how he may return; and Poseidon will let go of his anger, for he cannot fight alone against the will of all the immortal gods."
Then the goddess, grey-eyed Athena, answered him: "Our father, son of Cronus, highest of the powers, if indeed this is now pleasing to the blessed gods, that wise Odysseus return to his own home, then let us send Hermes, the guide, the slayer of Argus, to the island of Ogygia, so that at once he may tell the nymph with the lovely braids our firm decision — the homecoming of steadfast Odysseus — that he may set out. And I myself will go to Ithaca, to rouse his son the more and put courage in his heart, to call the long-haired Achaeans to assembly
and speak out against all the suitors, who keep slaughtering his crowding sheep and his shambling, curved-horned cattle. I will send him also to Sparta and sandy Pylos to ask after his dear father's homecoming, in case he hears something, and so that good fame may follow him among men."
So she spoke, and bound beneath her feet the beautiful sandals, immortal, golden, that carried her over water and over the boundless earth swift as the blowing wind. She took up her mighty spear, tipped with sharp bronze, heavy, huge, and strong, with which she beats down the ranks of warriors, of any hero at whom the daughter of a mighty father is angry. Down she darted from the peaks of Olympus and came to stand in the land of Ithaca, at the outer gate of Odysseus's court, on the threshold of the yard, holding the bronze spear in her hand, disguised as a stranger, Mentes, leader of the Taphians.
There she found the overbearing suitors. They were amusing themselves at that moment with games of draughts before the doors, sitting on the hides of cattle they themselves had slaughtered, while heralds and busy attendants mixed wine and water for them in bowls, and others wiped down the tables with porous sponges and set them out, and still others carved great quantities of meat and served it round.
Godlike Telemachus was by far the first to see her, for he sat among the suitors with a heavy heart, picturing in his mind his noble father — how he might come from somewhere and scatter the suitors through the house, and win back his own honor, and rule over his own household. Thinking of these things as he sat among the suitors, he caught sight of Athena. He went straight to the gate, ashamed in his heart that a stranger should stand so long at the doors, and coming close
he took her right hand and received the bronze spear from her, and spoke to her, saying, "Welcome, stranger — you will be treated kindly here. And afterward, once you have had your fill of dinner, you can tell us what you need."
So saying, he led the way, and Pallas Athena followed. When they had come inside the lofty house, he set the spear he carried against a tall pillar, inside the polished spear-rack where many other spears of steadfast Odysseus stood, and led her to a chair and seated her, spreading a fine cloth beneath her,
a beautiful, ornate chair, with a footstool beneath it. He placed his own inlaid seat nearby, apart from the suitors, so that his guest, troubled by their uproar, should not lose his appetite for the meal among such overbearing men, and so that he could ask him about his absent father. A servant girl brought water for washing in a fine golden pitcher and poured it out over a silver basin, and drew up a polished table beside them. A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it out, adding many good things, generous with what she had.
A carver lifted platters of every kind of meat and set them before the guests, and placed golden cups beside them, while a herald kept coming round to pour them wine. Then in came the overbearing suitors, and they took their seats in order on chairs and benches. Heralds poured water over their hands, the maidservants heaped bread beside them in baskets, and the young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine. They reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them, and when they had put away their desire for food and drink,
the suitors turned their minds to other things they cared for — song and dance, the crowning glories of a feast. A herald placed a beautiful lyre in the hands of Phemius, who sang for the suitors under compulsion, and he struck up a fine song as he played. Meanwhile Telemachus spoke to grey-eyed Athena, leaning his head close so the others would not hear: "Dear stranger, will you be angry with me for what I say? These men care only for such things, the lyre and song, and easily so, since they devour another man's wealth without paying for it —
a man whose white bones, I imagine, rot in the rain somewhere on the mainland, or roll in the waves of the sea. If they should ever see him come back to Ithaca, all of them would pray to be swifter on their feet rather than richer in gold and clothing. But now he has died some wretched death, and there is no comfort for us, even if some man on earth says he will return — the day of his homecoming is lost forever. But come, tell me this and speak the plain truth: who are you, and where are you from? Where is your city, who are your parents?
What kind of ship did you come on? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaca? Who did they claim to be? For I do not imagine you came here on foot. And tell me this truly, so that I may know well — are you visiting for the first time, or are you a guest-friend of my father's house from before? For many other men used to come to our home as well, since he too traveled much among men."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Very well, I will tell you all this quite truthfully. I am Mentes, son of wise Anchialus, and I am lord over the oar-loving Taphians.
Now I have put in here with my ship and crew, sailing over the wine-dark sea to men of a foreign tongue, bound for Temese after bronze, and I carry gleaming iron. My ship lies out near the fields, away from the city, in the harbor of Rheithron, under wooded Neion. We claim to be guest-friends of one another from our fathers' time, from long ago, as you may learn if you go and ask the old hero Laertes, who they say no longer comes to the city
but stays apart, out on his farm, suffering hardship, with an old serving-woman who gives him food and drink whenever weariness overtakes his limbs as he crawls along the slope of his vineyard terrace. I have come now because they told me your father was at home; but it seems the gods are hindering his journey. For godlike Odysseus has not yet died on the earth — he is still alive somewhere, held back on the wide sea, on some sea-washed island, kept there by hard, savage men who no doubt hold him against his will.
Now I will make you a prophecy, as the immortals put it in my heart and as I think it will be accomplished, though I am no seer and know nothing sure of birds. He will not be away much longer from his own dear country, not even if bonds of iron hold him — he will find a way to return, for he is endlessly resourceful. But come, tell me this and speak truly: are you really, grown so tall, the son of Odysseus himself? You are wonderfully like him about the head and the fine eyes, since we used to meet with each other often,
before he embarked for Troy, where the other best of the Argives also went in their hollow ships. Since that time I have not seen Odysseus, nor has he seen me."
Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Very well, stranger, I will tell you quite truthfully. My mother says I am his son, but I myself do not know it — no man ever really knows his own father for certain. How I wish instead I had been born the son of some fortunate man whom old age overtook among his own possessions! But as it is, the most ill-fated of mortal men is said to be my father, since you ask me this."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "The gods have not made your line nameless in time to come, since Penelope bore a son such as you. But come, tell me this and speak truly: what is this feast, this crowd here? What need calls for it? A banquet, or a wedding? For it is clearly no potluck where each brings his share — so overbearingly, it seems to me, do these men feast throughout the house. Any sensible man who came upon such shameful behavior would be angry to see it."
Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Stranger, since you ask me this and question me closely — this house was once destined to be rich and beyond reproach, while that man was still at home. But now the gods have willed otherwise, in their malice, and have made him vanish from all men's sight more completely than anyone. I would not grieve so much even for his death, if he had fallen among his comrades in the land of Troy, or died in the arms of his loved ones once he had wound up the war. Then the whole body of Achaeans would have built him a grave mound, and he would have won great glory for his son as well, for all time to come.
But as it is, the storm-spirits have snatched him away without fame. He is gone, unseen, unheard of, and has left me only grief and lamentation. Nor is it for him alone that I weep and grieve — the gods have made other troubles for me too. For all the chief men who hold power in the islands, in Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus, and all who lord it over rocky Ithaca, all of them court my mother and waste away our household. She neither refuses the hateful marriage nor is able to end the matter, while they consume and devour
my house — and soon they will destroy me too."
Deeply moved, Pallas Athena spoke to him: "How terrible — you truly need Odysseus, gone as he is, to lay his hands on these shameless suitors. If only he would come now and stand at the outer gate of his house, wearing helmet, shield, and two spears, such as he was when I first saw him in our own house, drinking and taking his ease, on his way back from Ephyra, from Ilus son of Mermerus —
for Odysseus had gone there too, in his swift ship, seeking a deadly poison to smear on his bronze-tipped arrows. Ilus would not give it to him, out of respect for the gods who live forever, but my father gave it to him instead, for he loved him greatly. If Odysseus, as he was then, could come face to face with these suitors, they would all find a swift death and a bitter wedding. But truly these things lie on the knees of the gods, whether he will return and take vengeance in his own halls, or whether he will not. As for you, I urge you to consider now how you yourself may drive the suitors from your house.
Come now, listen carefully and take my words to heart. Tomorrow call the Achaean lords to assembly, and speak your mind to all of them, with the gods as your witnesses. Order the suitors to scatter, each to his own home; and as for your mother, if her heart is set on marrying again, let her go back to the house of her mighty father, and her family will arrange her marriage and provide the many gifts that should go with a beloved daughter. To you myself I will give careful advice, if you will take it: fit out the best ship you have with twenty oarsmen,
and go to learn of your father, gone so long, in case some mortal can tell you, or you hear a rumor sent by Zeus, which most often carries word to men. Go first to Pylos and question noble Nestor, and from there to Sparta, to fair-haired Menelaus, who was the last of the bronze-armored Achaeans to reach home. If you hear that your father is alive and on his way back, then, worn as you are, you could bear to wait one more year. But if you hear that he is dead and gone,
then return to your own dear country, raise him a grave mound, and offer him all the funeral honors that are fitting, and give your mother to a husband. And once you have finished and done all this, then turn your mind and heart to how you might kill the suitors in your halls, whether by trick or in the open. You should no longer cling to childish ways — you are not a boy any longer. Have you not heard what fame noble Orestes won among all men, when he killed the man who murdered his father,
cunning Aegisthus, who had slain his glorious father?
"And you, my friend — I look at you and see someone handsome and tall — be brave, so that men not yet born will speak well of you. As for me, I will go down now to my swift ship and my crew, who must be growing impatient waiting for me. Look to these things yourself, and take my words to heart."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered her: "Stranger, you have spoken all this out of true kindness, the way a father speaks to his son, and I will never forget it. But come, stay a while longer, eager as you are to be on your way, so that you may first bathe and refresh your heart,
and then go to your ship carrying a gift, a fine and precious thing, which will be yours to keep as a token from me — the kind of gift that host-friends give to host-friends."
But the grey-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "Do not hold me back any longer, eager as I am to be gone. Whatever gift your heart moves you to give me, give it when I come again, to carry home — choose something truly fine, and it will earn you as much in return."
So spoke the grey-eyed Athena, and she was gone — she flew up and out like a bird, straight into the air. But in Telemachus's heart she had planted courage and daring, and had made him think of his father
even more than before. And he, turning it over in his mind, felt wonder in his heart, for he sensed that a god had been with him. At once, godlike, he went to join the suitors.
The famous singer was singing for them, and they sat in silence listening; he sang of the Achaeans' bitter homecoming from Troy, the one Pallas Athena had laid upon them. And from her room above, Penelope, wise daughter of Icarius, caught the inspired song in her heart,
and came down the tall staircase from her chamber — not alone, for two handmaids went with her. And when this shining woman reached the suitors, she stood by the doorpost of the well-built hall,
holding a shining veil before her cheeks, and a faithful handmaid stood on either side of her. Then, in tears, she spoke to the godlike singer:
"Phemius, you know many other things to charm the heart, deeds of men and gods, which singers make famous. Sing them one of those, sitting among them, and let them drink their wine in silence — but stop this song,
this bitter one, which always wears at the heart in my breast, since a grief beyond bearing has come upon me above all others. For it is such a head I long for, remembering it always — a man whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered her: "Mother, why do you begrudge the good singer his pleasure in singing as his mind moves him? It is not the singers who are to blame, but Zeus, surely, who gives to men who live by their labor whatever he wishes, to each as he chooses. There is no cause to be angry with this man for singing the grim fate of the Danaans —
for people praise more highly whatever song is newest to reach their ears. Let your heart and spirit steel themselves to listen; for Odysseus was not the only one to lose his day of homecoming at Troy — many other men perished there as well. Go back into the house, and take up your own work, the loom and the spindle, and tell your handmaids to get on with their tasks. Talk is men's business,
all men's, but mine above all, for the authority in this house is mine."
She went back to her room in wonder, for she had taken her son's wise words to heart. She climbed up to her upper chamber with her handmaids about her, and wept there for Odysseus, her beloved husband, until grey-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids.
The suitors broke into uproar throughout the shadowed hall, and every one of them prayed to lie beside her in bed. Then wise Telemachus began to speak among them:
"Suitors of my mother, you who wear such overweening insolence — for now, let us feast and take our pleasure, and let there be no shouting, since it is a fine thing to listen to a singer
such as this one, whose voice is like the gods'. At daybreak let us all go and take our seats in the assembly, so that I may speak my mind to you plainly and tell you to clear out of this hall. Go feast elsewhere, eating your own goods, taking turns from house to house.
But if it seems to you a better and finer thing that one man's livelihood should be destroyed without payment, then go on wasting it — but I will call upon the gods who live forever, in hope that Zeus may somehow grant that these deeds be repaid in kind: then you would perish inside this house, and no one would pay for it."
So he spoke, and all of them bit their lips, marveling at Telemachus, that he spoke with such boldness. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: "Telemachus, surely the gods themselves are teaching you to talk big and speak with such daring. May the son of Cronus never make you king in seagirt Ithaca, though it is yours by birthright."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered him: "Antinous, will you be angry with me for what I am about to say? I would be glad to take that very thing, if Zeus should grant it.
Or do you claim this is the worst fate that can befall a man? No, there is nothing bad about being king — a man's house grows rich at once, and he himself is held in greater honor. But there are, in fact, other kings of the Achaeans, many of them, in seagirt Ithaca, young and old alike;
let one of them have the title, now that great Odysseus is dead. But I will be lord of my own house and of the slaves that great Odysseus won for me."
Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him in turn: "Telemachus, this indeed lies on the knees of the gods —
which of the Achaeans will be king in seagirt Ithaca. But keep your own possessions and be master in your own house; may no man ever come who would tear your goods from you by force against your will, while Ithaca is still standing. But I want to ask you, best of men, about the stranger —
where this man comes from, what land he claims for his own, where his family and his native soil lie. Does he bring some news of your father's coming, or has he come here on some business of his own? How suddenly he sprang up and was gone — he did not wait
to be known, and yet he did not look like a common man by his face."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered him: "Eurymachus, surely my father's homecoming is lost for good. I no longer put faith in any news, wherever it may come from, nor do I heed any prophecy my mother may draw from a seer she calls into the hall. That stranger is a family friend of ours from Taphos;
he claims to be Mentes, son of wise Anchialus, and he rules over the oar-loving Taphians." So Telemachus spoke, but in his heart he knew it had been an immortal goddess.
The suitors turned to dancing and to the pleasures of song, and made merry, waiting for evening to come on. And while they made merry, the dark evening came upon them; then at last each man went off to sleep in his own house.
Telemachus went to the room where his own high chamber had been built, in a spot with a clear view, within the beautiful courtyard, and there he went to his bed, turning many things over in his mind. Beside him, carrying blazing torches, walked Eurycleia, wise in good counsel, daughter of Ops son of Peisenor,
whom Laertes had once bought with his own wealth,
while she was still in the first bloom of youth, paying the price of twenty oxen; and he honored her in his household as much as his own faithful wife, but he never took her to his bed, for he wished to avoid his wife's anger. She it was who now carried the blazing torches beside Telemachus, and she loved him best
of all the household slaves, for she had nursed him when he was small. He opened the doors of his well-built chamber and sat down on the bed, and pulled off his soft tunic, and put it into the careful old woman's hands.
She folded the tunic and smoothed it neatly, and hung it on a peg beside the jointed bedstead,
then went out of the chamber, drawing the door shut by its silver handle, and slid the bolt home by its strap. There, all night long, wrapped in a fleece of wool, he lay pondering in his heart the journey Athena had shown him.