Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
When Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, young Telemachus, the son of godlike Odysseus, bound the fine sandals on his feet and took up his sturdy spear, the one that fit his grip so well. Eager to reach the city, he spoke to the swineherd.
"Old friend, I'm off to town, so my mother can see me with her own eyes. I don't think she'll ever stop her grim weeping and mournful tears until she looks on me herself. But here's what I want you to do: take this poor stranger into the city, so he can beg his meals there. Whoever wants to will give him a crust of bread and a cup of something to drink. I can't be expected to carry the weight of every man alive — I have troubles enough of my own. And if the stranger takes offense at that, so much the worse for him. I'd rather speak plainly."
Odysseus, the man of many wiles, answered him, "Friend, I've no wish to be kept here myself either. It's better for a beggar to beg his bread in the town than out in the fields — whoever wants to give will give. I'm not so young anymore that I can stay at a farmstead and take every order a foreman gives. Go on ahead — this man here will guide me, once I've warmed myself by the fire and the morning chill has passed. My clothes are wretched, as you can see, and I'm afraid the frost at dawn will get the better of me. And they say the city is a fair distance off."
So he spoke, and Telemachus strode out through the farmyard, walking briskly, sowing trouble for the suitors as he went. When he reached the well-built house, he set his spear against a tall pillar and went in himself, stepping over the stone threshold.
His old nurse Eurycleia was the very first to see him, spreading fleeces on the carved chairs. She burst into tears and came straight to him, and the other serving-women of steadfast Odysseus gathered round as well, kissing his head and shoulders in welcome. And wise Penelope came out from her chamber, looking like Artemis or golden Aphrodite, and threw her arms around her dear son, weeping, and kissed his head and both his lovely eyes, and said through her tears, her words taking wing,
"You've come back, Telemachus, sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I'd see you again, once you sailed off to Pylos in secret, against my wishes, to seek news of your dear father. Come, tell me what you learned."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her, "Mother, don't stir me to tears, don't wring my heart, now that I've just escaped a sheer disaster. No — go and bathe, put on clean clothes, go up to your room with your women, and vow to all the gods that you'll offer full sacrifices if only Zeus grants that these wrongs be paid back in full. As for me, I'm going to the assembly, to fetch the stranger who came here with me from Pylos. I sent him ahead with my godlike companions and told Piraeus to take him home and treat him well and with honor until I could come myself."
So he spoke, and his words went unchallenged. She bathed, put on clean clothes, and vowed to all the gods that she would offer full sacrifices if only Zeus would grant that these wrongs be paid back in full.
Telemachus then went out through the hall, spear in hand, and two sleek hounds went with him. Athena poured a marvelous grace over him, and all the people stared as he passed. The proud suitors crowded around him, speaking him fair while plotting evil in their hearts underneath. He slipped away from that mob of them and went instead to sit where Mentor was, and Antiphus, and Halitherses — men who had been his father's friends from the start. He sat down among them, and they questioned him closely about everything.
Then Piraeus, famous with the spear, came up to them, leading the stranger through the city to the assembly place. Telemachus did not stay far from his guest for long, but came and stood beside him. Piraeus spoke first.
"Telemachus, quickly send some of your women to my house, so I can send along the gifts Menelaus gave you."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him, "Piraeus, we don't yet know how things will turn out. If the proud suitors kill me in secret in my own hall and carve up my father's estate between them, I'd rather you kept the gifts and enjoyed them yourself than any of them. But if I manage to sow death and doom among them, then bring the gifts to my house, and glad will I be to receive them, and glad will you be to bring them."
With that he led the travel-worn stranger toward the house. When they reached the well-built halls, they laid their cloaks down on the couches and chairs, went to the polished baths, and washed. Once the maidservants had bathed them and rubbed them with oil, and thrown warm cloaks and tunics around them, they came out of the baths and sat down on couches. A serving-woman brought water in a fine golden pitcher and poured it out over a silver basin for them to rinse their hands, and drew up a polished table beside them. The stately housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, adding many good things from her stores, generous with what she had. Telemachus's mother sat opposite, by the pillar of the hall, reclining on a couch, spinning fine thread on her distaff. And they reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them.
When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, wise Penelope spoke first among them.
"Telemachus, I think I'll go upstairs and lie down on that bed of mine, which has become nothing but a place of grief, always wet with my tears, ever since Odysseus went off to Troy with the sons of Atreus. You never had the heart to tell me plainly, before the proud suitors came into this house, whether you'd heard any news of your father's return."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her, "Very well, Mother, I'll tell you the whole truth. We went to Pylos, to Nestor, shepherd of his people, and he received me in his lofty house and treated me as kindly as a father treats a son who has come home unexpectedly after a long absence — that's how warmly he and his fine sons cared for me. But he told me he'd heard nothing from any man on earth about steadfast Odysseus, whether he was alive or dead. Instead he sent me on, with horses and a well-built chariot, to the son of Atreus, Menelaus famed for his spear. There I saw Helen of Argos, for whose sake the Argives and the Trojans suffered so much by the will of the gods. And warlike Menelaus asked me at once what business had brought me to holy Sparta, and I told him the whole truth. Then he answered me and said,
'Well now! So cowards wanted to lie in the bed of a man of iron courage, weaklings that they are! Just as when a deer beds her newborn fawns, still suckling, in a lion's own thicket, and goes off to graze the mountain slopes and grassy hollows, and then the lion comes back to his own lair and deals both fawns a grim death — that is exactly the grim death Odysseus will deal these men. Oh, Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only Odysseus would come among the suitors as strong as he was that day in well-built Lesbos, when he rose up and wrestled Philomeleides on a challenge, and threw him down hard, and all the Achaeans cheered! If Odysseus came against the suitors like that, they'd all meet a quick end and a bitter wedding. But as for the news you're asking and begging me for, I won't turn aside from it or deceive you — I'll tell you exactly what the Old Man of the Sea, who never lies, told me, hiding nothing, keeping nothing back. He said he had seen Odysseus on an island, in bitter pain, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who holds him there against his will, and he cannot reach his own native land, for he has no ships with oars, no companions to send him across the sea's broad back.'
"So spoke Menelaus, son of Atreus, famed for his spear. Once he had finished, I set out for home, and the immortals gave me a fair wind and sent me swiftly back to my own country."
So he spoke, and stirred the heart deep in her breast.
Then godlike Theoclymenus spoke among them. "Honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes — Menelaus does not know the full truth. Listen instead to what I tell you, for I will prophesy to you plainly and hide nothing. Let Zeus, first among the gods, be my witness, and this table of hospitality, and this hearth of blameless Odysseus which I have come to — Odysseus is already in his own native land, sitting still or moving about, and learning of these wicked deeds, and he is sowing ruin for all the suitors. That is the omen I marked while sitting on the well-benched ship, and I declared it to Telemachus."
Wise Penelope answered him, "If only your words would come true, stranger! Then you would soon know my friendship and many gifts from me, so that anyone who met you would call you a fortunate man."
So they talked together of such things. Meanwhile the suitors, out in front of the hall of Odysseus, amused themselves throwing discus and javelin on the level, well-worn ground, just as insolently as before. But when it came time for dinner, and the flocks arrived from every direction, driven in by the men who always brought them, Medon spoke up — he was the herald the suitors liked best, and always attended their feasts.
"Young men, now that you've all had your fill of sport, come inside so we can get the meal ready. There's nothing wrong with taking dinner at the proper hour."
So he spoke, and they rose and went in, obeying him. When they reached the well-built house, they laid their cloaks down on the couches and chairs, and set about slaughtering great sheep and fat goats, killing fattened hogs too and a cow from the herd, making the feast ready. Meanwhile Odysseus and the noble swineherd were setting out from the country toward the city. The swineherd, leader of men, spoke first.
"Stranger, since you're so eager to go into the city today, just as my master ordered — though truly I'd rather leave you here to watch the farmstead, but I respect him and fear him, in case he blames me later, for a master's rebukes are hard to bear — come, let's go now. The day is already well along, and toward evening it will turn colder."
Odysseus, the man of many wiles, answered him, "I understand, I take your point — you're telling me just what I was already thinking. Let's go, then, and you lead the way the whole distance. But give me a staff to lean on, if you have one cut somewhere, since you say the road is treacherous underfoot."
With that he slung his wretched bag over his shoulders, patched all over, with a twisted cord for a strap, and Eumaeus gave him a staff that suited him well. The two of them set out, leaving the dogs and the herdsmen behind to guard the farmstead. Eumaeus led his master toward the city, looking for all the world like a miserable old beggar, leaning on his staff, dressed in shabby rags.
As they made their way down the rugged path and drew near the city, they came to a fountain, finely built, with clear-running water, from which the townspeople drew their supply. Ithacus and Neritus and Polyctor had built it. Around it stood a grove of poplars fed by the water, growing in a full circle, and cold water ran down from the rock above. Above it stood an altar to the nymphs, where every traveler used to offer sacrifice.
There Melanthius, son of Dolius, came upon them, driving goats — the pick of all his herds — for the suitors' dinner, with two herdsmen following. When he saw the pair he taunted them, spitting out cruel and abusive words that stirred the heart of Odysseus.
"Well now, isn't this a fine sight — one wretch leading another! God always brings like to like, they say. Where are you taking that miserable scavenger, you sorry excuse for a swineherd, that tiresome beggar who ruins every feast? He'll stand rubbing his shoulders against every doorpost, begging for scraps, not for swords or cauldrons. If you handed him over to me to watch my farmstead, to sweep out the pens and carry fodder to the kids, he might drink whey and put some muscle on his thighs. But no — since he's only learned bad habits, he won't want honest work; he'd rather go skulking through the country begging, to feed that bottomless belly of his. I tell you this, and it will come true: if he ever goes near the house of godlike Odysseus, plenty of footstools flung from men's hands will bruise his ribs as he's pelted clean out of the hall."
So he spoke, and as he passed he kicked out at Odysseus's hip, a senseless, reckless thing to do — yet he did not budge Odysseus from the path; he stood firm. Odysseus weighed in his mind whether to rush at him and beat the life out of him with his staff, or to lift him by the head and dash him to the ground. But he steeled himself and held back. The swineherd, though, looked the goatherd in the face and rebuked him, and lifting his hands he prayed aloud.
"Nymphs of the spring, daughters of Zeus, if ever Odysseus burned the thighbones of lambs and kids for you, wrapped in rich fat, grant me this wish — that man might come home, and some god bring him back! Then he would soon scatter all this swagger you wear now, as you go strutting through the town while worthless herdsmen let the flocks go to ruin."
Melanthius the goatherd answered him, "Well, listen to that! The dog knows how to talk mischief, does he. One day I'll load him on a black, well-benched ship and haul him far from Ithaca, where he'll fetch me a good price. If only Apollo of the silver bow would strike Telemachus down today in his own hall, or the suitors finish him off, as surely as the day of Odysseus's homecoming has been lost far away!"
With that he left them there, walking on slowly, while he himself went ahead and quickly reached the house of the king. He went straight in and sat down among the suitors, opposite Eurymachus, whom he favored most of all. The carving men set a portion before him, and the stately housekeeper brought him bread to eat. Meanwhile Odysseus and the noble swineherd came up and stopped outside, and the sound of a hollow lyre drifted around them, for Phemius was striking up a song for the company. Odysseus took the swineherd's hand and said,
"Eumaeus, this must surely be the fine house of Odysseus — easy enough to recognize even among many others. Building rises upon building, the courtyard is well fenced with wall and coping, and the double doors are strongly made — no man could force his way through them. And I can tell that many men are feasting inside, for the smell of roasting meat rises up, and there's a lyre sounding too, which the gods have made the feast's companion."
Eumaeus the swineherd answered him, "You've got it at once — no wonder, since you're no fool in other matters either. But come, let's think how this should go. Either you go in first, into the well-built house, and mix with the suitors while I stay out here a while, or, if you'd rather, you wait here and I'll go in ahead. Only don't linger long, or someone outside may spot you and hit you or drive you off — think carefully on that."
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him, "I understand, I take your point — that's just what I was thinking too. Go on ahead, and I'll stay behind here a while. I'm no stranger to blows and things thrown at me — my spirit can take it, since I've suffered so much already, on the waves and in war; let this be added to the rest. But there's no hiding a demanding belly, cursed thing that it is, that brings men so much trouble — it's for its sake that well-built ships are fitted out to cross the barren sea, bringing hardship to men's enemies."
So they talked back and forth, saying such things to one another. And meanwhile the dog lying there lifted his head and pricked up his ears — Argos, the hound of steadfast Odysseus, whom he himself had raised, though he got no good of him, for before that he had gone off to sacred Troy. In earlier days the young men used to take the dog out after wild goats, deer, and hares, but now, with his master gone, he lay neglected on the heap of dung that had piled up before the gates, dung from the mules and cattle, waiting there until Odysseus's slaves should cart it off to manure the great estate. There lay the dog Argos, covered with ticks.
But now, when he sensed Odysseus standing near, he wagged his tail and dropped both his ears, but he no longer had the strength to drag himself closer to his master. Odysseus glanced away and wiped off a tear, hiding it easily from Eumaeus, and at once asked him:
"Eumaeus, this is a strange thing — that dog lying there in the dung. He has a fine build, but I can't tell for certain whether he had speed to match his looks, or whether he's simply one of those table-dogs that men keep around, the kind masters raise only to show off."
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him: "Indeed, this is the dog of a man who died far away. If he had the same build and the same skill now that he had when Odysseus left him behind on his way to Troy, you would be amazed to see his speed and his strength. No wild creature he chased through the deep woods could get away from him — he was that good at tracking a scent too. But now he's fallen on hard times. His master has perished far from his own country, and the careless women don't look after him anymore. Slaves, once their masters no longer hold them in check, no longer want to do their proper work — for wide-seeing Zeus takes away half a man's worth on the day that slavery comes down on him."
With these words he went into the well-built house, walking straight through the hall to join the proud suitors. But death's dark hand took hold of Argos the moment he saw Odysseus again — in the twentieth year.
Telemachus, godlike in form, was the first by far to notice the swineherd coming through the hall, and he quickly nodded and called him over. Eumaeus looked around and picked up the stool that stood there, the one the carver used when he served out generous portions of meat to the suitors feasting in the hall. He carried it over and set it down by Telemachus's table, facing him, and sat down there himself. Then the herald brought him his share and set it before him, lifting bread from the basket.
Close behind him Odysseus came into the house, looking like a wretched old beggar, leaning on a staff, with shabby rags wrapped around his body. He sat down on the ash threshold just inside the doors, leaning against a post of cypress wood that a carpenter had once skillfully planed and set straight to the line.
Telemachus called the swineherd over to him, took a whole loaf from the beautiful basket, and as much meat as his hands could hold, and said:
"Take this to the stranger and give it to him, and tell him to go around and beg from all the suitors in turn. Shame is no fit companion for a man in need."
So he spoke, and the swineherd went, once he had heard these words, and standing close by he said in winged words:
"Stranger, Telemachus gives you this, and he tells you to go around and beg from all the suitors in turn. He says shame is no good thing in a beggar."
And resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Lord Zeus, grant that Telemachus be blessed among men, and that he get everything his heart desires."
With that he took the food in both hands and set it down before his feet, on his shabby bag, and ate while the singer sang in the hall. He had just finished his meal as the godlike singer finished his song. The suitors set up a clamor through the hall. Then Athena came close and stood beside Odysseus, son of Laertes, and urged him to go around gathering crusts from the suitors, so he could learn which of them were decent men and which were lawless — though even so she meant to spare not one of them from ruin.
So he went, begging from each man in turn, moving to the right, holding out his hand on every side, as if he had long been a beggar. They pitied him and gave, and marveled at him, and asked one another who he was and where he had come from. Then Melanthius the goatherd spoke up among them:
"Listen to me, suitors of the famous queen, about this stranger — I have seen him before. The swineherd led him here, but I don't know for certain where he claims his people are from."
So he spoke, and Antinous turned on the swineherd with harsh words: "You notorious swineherd, why did you bring this fellow to town? Don't we have enough vagrants already, tiresome beggars who spoil a feast? Or do you think it's a small thing that men gather here to eat up your master's living, and now you've invited this one too?"
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him: "Antinous, that's an ugly thing to say, good as you are otherwise. Who goes out of his way to invite a stranger from abroad, unless he's someone skilled in a craft the people need — a seer, a healer of sickness, a builder of ships, or even a singer with a god-given gift to delight us? Such men are welcomed the world over. But no one would invite a beggar just to wear out his own house. You're always the harshest of all the suitors toward the slaves of Odysseus, and toward me most of all — yet I don't mind, so long as sensible Penelope lives in this hall, and godlike Telemachus."
But Telemachus, thoughtful as he was, spoke to him in turn: "Say no more — don't waste more words answering him. Antinous always likes to provoke with harsh talk, and he stirs up the others too."
Then he turned to Antinous and spoke winged words: "Antinous, truly you look after me the way a father looks after his son, when you tell this stranger to be driven from the hall by force. God forbid it should ever come to that. Give him something — take it and give it, I don't begrudge it, I myself urge it. Don't hold back on my mother's account, or on account of any other slave in the house of godlike Odysseus. But that's not really what's in your heart — you'd rather eat it all yourself than give any to another."
Then Antinous answered him: "Telemachus, big talker, temper unchecked, what have you just said? If every suitor gave him as much as I might, this house would be rid of him for a good three months."
So he spoke, and reaching under the table he pulled out the stool on which he had been resting his sleek feet at the feast.
All the other suitors gave something, and filled the beggar's bag with bread and meat, and Odysseus was on the point of going back to the threshold to taste what the Achaeans owed him freely. But he stopped by Antinous and spoke to him:
"Give me something, friend. You don't look to me like the worst of the Achaeans — quite the opposite, the best, since you carry yourself like a king. That means you ought to give me even more bread than the others, and I'll spread your fame across the wide earth. I too once had a house among men, and lived in wealth, and often gave to a wanderer, whoever he was and whatever he needed. I had countless slaves and everything else that makes men live well and be called rich. But Zeus, son of Cronus, brought me low — such must have been his will — for he sent me off with a band of roving pirates to sail to Egypt, a long voyage, so that I would be destroyed.
I anchored my curved ships in the river of Egypt. There I told my loyal companions to stay by the ships and guard them, and I sent scouts out to the high ground to look around. But my men gave way to their own recklessness, following their own violent impulse, and quickly began plundering the beautiful fields of the Egyptians, carrying off the women and little children, and killing the men. The outcry soon reached the city. Hearing the shouting, the Egyptians came out at dawn, and the whole plain filled with foot soldiers and horses and the flash of bronze. Zeus who delights in thunder threw my men into a shameful panic, and not one of them dared stand his ground, for ruin closed in on every side. There many of us were killed by the sharp bronze, and others were taken alive to be forced into labor. As for me, they gave me to a stranger who happened to be there, to be taken to Cyprus — Dmetor, son of Iasus, who ruled Cyprus by force. From there I have now come here, suffering hardship all the way."
Then Antinous answered him: "What god brought this nuisance here to spoil our feast? Stand off there in the middle, away from my table, or you'll soon find a bitter Egypt and Cyprus right here. What a bold, shameless beggar you are. You go from one man to the next, and they give recklessly — no one holds back or feels pity when it costs them nothing of their own, since each man here has plenty to spare."
Odysseus stepped back and answered him: "Well, well — so your looks don't match your mind at all. You wouldn't give even a grain of salt from your own stores to someone who came asking, you who now sit at another man's table and can't bring yourself to hand me a scrap of bread from all this abundance in front of you."
So he spoke, and Antinous grew still angrier at heart, and glaring at him he spoke winged words: "Now I think you won't be leaving this hall in one piece after that insult."
So he spoke, and snatching up the stool he hurled it, striking Odysseus on the right shoulder, at the base of the back. But he stood firm as a rock, and Antinous's throw did not stagger him. He only shook his head in silence, brooding on evil in his heart. Then he went back to the threshold and sat down, set his well-filled bag beside him, and said to the suitors:
"Listen to me, suitors of the famous queen, while I say what my heart bids me say. There's no pain, no real grief, when a man is struck defending his own property — his cattle, say, or his white sheep. But Antinous struck me over my wretched belly, that cursed thing that brings men so much misery. Still, if there are gods and avenging spirits watching over beggars, may death overtake Antinous before his wedding day."
Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: "Sit there and eat in peace, stranger, or go somewhere else, or the young men will drag you through the hall by a foot or a hand for talk like that, and strip the skin right off you."
So he spoke, and all the others were furiously indignant at him. And one of the young, arrogant suitors would say something like this:
"Antinous, that was no fine thing, to strike a wretched wanderer — a curse on you, if he should happen to be some god from heaven. The gods do take the form of strangers from far-off lands, appearing in every guise, and walk through cities watching over the arrogance and the justice of men."
So the suitors said, but Antinous paid their words no heed. Telemachus, though, felt a great grief swelling in his heart at seeing the man struck, yet he let no tear fall to the ground from his eyes — he only shook his head in silence, brooding on evil in his heart.
When circumspect Penelope heard that the stranger had been struck in the hall, she said among her maids: "If only Apollo of the silver bow would strike you down just like that, Antinous."
And the housekeeper Eurynome answered her: "If only our prayers could come true — not one of these men would live to see the dawn on her golden throne."
And circumspect Penelope said to her in turn: "Nurse, they are all hateful, for they scheme nothing but harm, but Antinous is most like black death itself. Some poor stranger wanders through the house begging from the men, driven by need, and while all the others filled his bag and gave to him, this one struck him on the right shoulder with a stool."
So she spoke among her serving women, sitting there in her room, while noble Odysseus was eating his meal. Then she called for the noble swineherd and said to him: "Go, good Eumaeus, and tell the stranger to come to me, so that I may greet him and ask him whether he has heard anything of steadfast Odysseus, or seen him with his own eyes — for he seems like a man who has wandered far and wide."
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered her: "If only the Achaeans would keep quiet, my queen — the things he tells could charm your very heart. I kept him three nights and held him three days in my hut, for he came to me first after slipping away from his ship, but he hasn't yet finished the whole tale of his misfortunes. Just as men gaze at a singer who has learned from the gods to sing songs that stir the heart of mortals, and they long to hear him without end whenever he sings — that's how he charmed me as he sat beside me in my hut. He says he is an old friend of Odysseus's family, a native of Crete, where the line of Minos rules. From there he has now come here, after enduring many hardships, tumbling from one trouble to the next. He swears he has heard news of Odysseus close by, alive, among the rich land of the Thesprotians, and that he is bringing home a great store of treasure."
And circumspect Penelope said to him in turn: "Go, call him here, so he may tell me himself, face to face. As for these men, let them sit at the doors and amuse themselves, or here in the house, since their hearts are content enough. Their own stores lie untouched at home — bread and sweet wine — while their own servants eat them, and these men come flocking to our house day after day, slaughtering our cattle and our sheep and our fat goats, feasting and drinking our glowing wine without a thought, recklessly, while our wealth is squandered. For there's no man now, such as Odysseus was, to keep ruin away from this house. But if Odysseus should come back, should reach his own native land, he and his son together would soon make these men pay for their violence."
As she spoke, Telemachus sneezed loudly, and the sound rang through the house. Penelope laughed, and at once spoke winged words to Eumaeus:
"Go and call the stranger here to me, just as he is. Don't you see how my son sneezed at everything I said? That means death is coming for the suitors, every one of them, complete and certain — none of them will escape their fate. And I'll tell you something else — keep it in your heart. If I find that he tells me the whole truth without deceit, I will dress him in a cloak and tunic, fine clothes."
So she spoke, and the swineherd went, once he had heard these words, and standing close to Odysseus he spoke winged words:
"Father stranger, circumspect Penelope calls for you, the mother of Telemachus. Her heart urges her to ask you something about her husband, grieved as she has been. And if she finds that you tell her the whole truth, she'll dress you in a cloak and tunic, the very things you need most. And you can still fill your belly begging bread through the town — whoever wants to will give to you."
Then long-suffering, noble Odysseus answered him: "Eumaeus, I would gladly tell the whole truth without deceit to Icarius's daughter, circumspect Penelope, for I know a great deal about him, and we have shared the same hard fortune. But I fear the crowd of harsh suitors, whose arrogance and violence reach up to the iron sky. Even now, when this man struck me as I walked through the house, doing him no harm, and gave me pain for nothing, neither Telemachus stepped in to help nor anyone else. So tell Penelope, however eager she is, to wait in the hall until the sun goes down. Then let her ask me about her husband's day of homecoming, seated closer to me by the fire — for the clothes I have are wretched, as you know yourself, since I came to you first as a suppliant."
So he spoke, and the swineherd went, once he had heard these words. And as he stepped over the threshold, Penelope said to him:
"You haven't brought him, Eumaeus? What is the wanderer thinking? Is he afraid of something out of the ordinary, or is he simply too ashamed to come into the house? A beggar who is too proud is a poor sort of beggar."
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered her: "He speaks reasonably, just as anyone else might expect, wanting to avoid the insults of these arrogant men. But he asks you to wait until the sun goes down. And truly it's better this way for you too, my queen — to speak with the stranger alone, and hear him without others listening."
And circumspect Penelope answered him in turn: "The stranger is no fool. He sees clearly how things stand. For surely no other mortal men anywhere plot such reckless outrages as these."
So she spoke, and the noble swineherd went off to rejoin the crowd of suitors, once he had explained everything. At once he spoke winged words to Telemachus, bringing his head close so the others would not hear:
"Friend, I'm off now, to look after the pigs and everything there, your living and mine. You must see to things here. First and foremost, look after your own safety, and be careful nothing happens to you — many of the Achaeans wish us harm. May Zeus destroy them before they can bring ruin down on us."
But thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "So it will be, old friend. Go now, once you've had your evening meal, and come back at dawn, bringing fine animals for sacrifice.
"But all that will be my concern, and the gods' too."
So he spoke, and the swineherd sat back down on his polished chair. When he had filled himself with food and drink, he set off to rejoin his pigs, leaving the courtyard and the hall crowded with feasters, who took their pleasure in dancing and song, for the evening hour had now come on.