Chapter II

Telemachus visits Nestor and Menelaus—The Suitors prepare an Ambush

At sunrise the travellers saw Pylos before them, a little town on the western coast of Peloponnesus, or the present peninsula of Morea. It was the home of the venerable Nestor, who lived amongst his subjects like a father with his children. His descendants were numerous and all the people reverenced his opinion, and loved him for his kindness and benignity, and the recital of his adventures whiled away many an hour for the eager youths who hung upon his words.

On the morning when Telemachus and his companions were nearing Pylos, Nestor had summoned his people to the shore to offer up a great sacrifice to Poseidon. These thousands of festive people, ranged in nine columns each composed of five hundred men, made a wonderful picture. Each column had contributed nine bulls which, having been offered up, were now smouldering on the altars, while the people were feasting upon the residue.

Athene and young Telemachus disembarked, and, leaving the ship in the care of the rowers, set out on foot toward the scene of festivity. The divine guide encouraged the timid youth to address the old man boldly and instructed him what to say and how to conduct himself.

Scarcely had the men of Pylos caught sight of them when a group of youths hastened forward to welcome them, holding out their hands in friendly greeting, according to the hospitable custom of ancient times. Pisistratus, Nestor’s youngest son, was the most cordial of them all. He took both strangers by the hand and led them to soft seats upon sheepskins beside his father and his brother, Thrasymedes, bringing meat and wine to refresh the weary guests. He then filled a golden goblet, quaffed it in Athene’s honor, and spoke to her as follows: “Dear guest, join us, I pray thee, in our joyful sacrifice; it is offered to Poseidon, ruler of the sea. Pour out this wine to the mighty god and pray to him for our welfare! No man can do without the gods! And when thou hast offered sacrifice and drunk of the wine, then give thy friend the goblet that he also may pray for us. Thou art the older, therefore I have offered the cup first to thee.”

Athene was pleased with these modest and courteous words. She took the cup, poured a few drops on the ground, and prayed: “Hear me, Poseidon; deign to prosper every good work which we shall undertake. Crown Nestor and his sons with honor and graciously reward the men of Pylos for the holy sacrifice which they have offered before thee to-day. And graciously prosper my friend and me in the enterprise which has brought us hither!” Thus she prayed, and while still speaking, by reason of her divine power, she secretly granted the prayer. Then Telemachus received the cup from her hand and drank, also offering sacrifice and prayer for the feasting people.

Not until the guests had partaken of food did the venerable Nestor consider it proper to inquire the name and business of the strangers. Telemachus told him the object of their journey and conjured the old man to tell him all he knew about his noble father, urging him not to conceal anything, however terrible, that would give him certainty as to his fate. Then Nestor began, with the garrulity of old age, to relate the adventures of the heroes and the story of his own return. But Telemachus could draw no comfort from these tales, for what he most wished to learn was what Nestor knew no better than himself. The old man advised him to go to Menelaus at Sparta, who of all the heroes had been longest on the way, and having only lately reached home, would certainly be able to give him news of Ulysses’ fate. Mentor approved of this proposal, and the journey to Sparta was determined upon. As by this time night was beginning to fall, the goddess reminded her young friend that it was time to set out. The sons of Nestor filled the cups once more and the customary offerings were made to Poseidon and the immortal gods. Then Mentor and Telemachus arose to go down to their vessel.

“The gods forbid!” cried Nestor, when he saw them about to depart. “Shall my guests spend the day with me and go away to pass the night in a musty vessel, as though I were a poor man, who had no cloaks nor warm covers in my house? No, my friends, I have plenty of soft cushions and fine garments, and the son of my old friend Ulysses shall not thus depart so long as I live! And even when I am gone, there will always be sons to pay honor to the stranger within my gates.”

“Well said,” answered Mentor. “Telemachus must accept thy hospitality. Let him go with thee to lodge in thy palace, but I must hasten to the shore to pass the night with the young sailors and look after their welfare. Very early in the morning I must pay a visit to the valiant Cauconians to settle an old debt. In the meanwhile do thou send Telemachus with thy sons to Sparta and provide him with a chariot and fleet horses for the journey.”

With these words Mentor turned and in the shape of an eagle swung himself up into the air. All were amazed, but Nestor immediately recognized the goddess; for he knew how many times in the past she had aided Ulysses. “Take courage,” he said to Telemachus, “for thou seest that the gods are with thee. And thou, divine Athene, have mercy upon us all and crown us with fame and renown! Behold! I vow to thee each year a bull, broad of forehead and without blemish, which has never been under the yoke.”

The people dispersed, and Nestor returned to his dwelling with his sons and their guest. On their arrival wine was again offered up and drunk, and then Pisistratus conducted Telemachus to a couch beside his own in the pillared hall. The other sons, being married, had their quarters in the interior of the house.

As soon as morning dawned the sons and their venerable father arose and assembled on the stone seats before the portal to discuss the proposed journey. Nestor presently sent some of his sons to select the offering which he had promised Athene. One was sent to the vessel to fetch all of Telemachus’ rowers except two, another to order a goldsmith to gild the horns of the victim, a third to command the shepherd to seek out and bring up an ox of the promised quality, and another finally to notify the maidens to prepare a banquet.

It was not long before the goldsmith appeared, also the rowers, and the shepherd soon brought the desired animal. When the goldsmith had finished gilding the horns of the ox, two of the sons led it into the circle. Nestor, having sprinkled himself with water, cut off the animal’s forelock and cast it with prayer on the flaming altar, strewing consecrated barley upon the ground. And now the mighty Thrasymedes advanced and struck a heavy blow with a sharp axe, which sundered the tendons of the animal’s neck and it fell stunned to the ground. Perseus caught the gushing blood in a vessel, while Pisistratus completed the slaughter of the victim. The others now came up to carve the beef. They cut off the shanks, wrapped them well in strips of fat, and laid them on the altar fire to send up delicious odors to the goddess, sprinkled wine upon and roasted the other pieces for the offering, turning them upon spits. Other youths cut up the remainder and roasted it carefully for the feast.

When all was prepared Telemachus appeared in the midst of the company beautiful as a god. He had bathed, anointed himself with oil, and wrapped himself in a rich mantle. The company sat down in a circle to enjoy the magnificent feast, and when they had eaten their fill, Nestor reminded his sons that it was time to depart. They quickly harnessed two horses to a chariot, while a servant stowed away bread, wine, and meat for the journey. Telemachus took his place on the seat with Pisistratus beside him holding the reins and whip. They travelled rapidly all day and at eve reached Pheræ, the dwelling of the good Diodes, who hospitably entertained them. On the second day they arrived at the castle of Menelaus in Lacedæmon, having recognized his dominions by the broad fields of wheat. Pisistratus drew up his prancing steeds before the gateway of the castle, and the two strangers sprang hurriedly out.

They heard sounds of revelry within. The voice of a singer was accompanied by the sweet tones of a stringed instrument, and through the open gateway they saw a crowd of guests in the centre of which two dancers were moving in time to the music. This was a great day in Menelaus’ palace. The old hero was celebrating the marriage of two of his children. There was so much noise and confusion within that the clatter of the chariot had not been noticed. A servant by chance saw the strangers at the gate. “Two strange youths of kingly mien are without. Shall I unharness their horses,” he asked, “or shall I bid them drive on to seek hospitality elsewhere?”

“What!” cried Menelaus angrily, “how canst thou ask such childish questions. Have we not ourselves received many gifts and been kindly entertained amongst strangers? Go quickly, take out the horses, and bring the men in to the feast!”

The servant obeyed, and Telemachus and Pisistratus were conducted into the hall. They were astonished at the splendor of the palace, for Menelaus had returned with great possessions. Maid servants conducted them to the bath, and when they had anointed themselves, they donned their tunics and cloaks and took their places on raised seats beside the host. Servants appeared at once with small tables and food. One poured water over their hands from a golden ewer into a silver basin, while another brought wine, meat, and bread. “Now eat and drink with us,” cried Menelaus; “afterward shall you tell me who you are, for I perceive that ye are no common men.” With these words he placed a fine fat piece of roast, his own special portion, upon their plates, and the youths found it a delicious morsel.

Menelaus gazed at them intently. He remarked with satisfaction that they were astonished at the magnificence of his hall and of the utensils, and he saw how they called each other’s attention secretly to new objects. This induced him to speak of his travels, of the perils to which he had been exposed for eight years after the Trojan war, and of the persons he had met who had presented him with the costly objects by which he was now surrounded. In his recital he often referred to the hardships of the Trojan war, while the mention of the ignominious death of his brother, Agamemnon, caused him to shed bitter tears. “But,” he continued, “I would bear all this with patience if only I might have kept my friend, dearer to me than all the rest, the noble Ulysses, with whom I have shared good and evil days! Or if I but knew that he was safe and could have him near me! I would endow him with a city that we might live side by side and commune with each other daily until death should part us. But the gods alone know whether he is alive or dead. Perhaps his old father, his chaste wife, and his son Telemachus are even now mourning him as dead!”

Telemachus hid his tears behind his cloak. Menelaus saw this and was uncertain whether to question him or to leave him to his grief. Just then his spouse, the once beautiful Helen, entered the hall accompanied by her maidens, one of whom brought her a chair, another carried the soft woollen carpet for her feet, a third her silver work basket. She seated herself near the strangers, observed them attentively, and then said to her husband: “Hast thou inquired the names of our guests? I should say that two people were never more alike than this youth is unto the noble Ulysses.”

“Indeed it is true,” answered the hero. “He has the hands, the feet, the eyes, and hair of Ulysses. And just now while I was speaking of our old friend, the hot tears sprang from the youth’s lids and he hid his face in the folds of his purple mantle.”

“Thou art quite right, Menelaus, godlike ruler,” interrupted Pisistratus. “This is truly the son of Ulysses, but he is a modest youth and did not wish to make himself known at once with boastful speech. My father, Nestor, hath sent me with him thither that thou mightest give him tidings of his noble father and advice, for he is sore beset at home and there is none among the people to rise up and avert disaster from him.”

Menelaus would now have rejoiced over the youth had not sad memories of his lost friend overwhelmed him. He wept, Helen also, and Telemachus still sobbed, while young Pisistratus was much moved. For a while they gave themselves up to their grief until Menelaus proposed that they should talk the matter over on the morrow and should now banish these sorrowful thoughts and return to the feast. This sensible advice was approved by all. A servant at once laved the hands of the guests, and they began once more to eat and drink. Helen, who was an adept at various arts, secretly poured a magic powder into the wine. It was a wonderful spice given her by an Egyptian princess, which had the property of deadening every discomfort or sorrow and cheering the soul, even though a father and mother, brother or sister, or even one’s own son had been killed before one’s eyes. They all drank of it and became gay. Helen told many amusing tales of the craftiness of Ulysses which she had herself experienced. For while she was still in Ilium he had come into the city in disguise to spy out the plans of the Trojans. No one recognized him, and only to Helen did he discover himself and confide the plans of the Greeks. Menelaus also told how they had been concealed within the wooden horse and would scarcely have withstood Helen’s call had Ulysses not restrained them. While the evening was thus being passed in confidential talk, Helen had a couch prepared in the hall with cushions and soft covers for the guests and a herald conducted them thither with a torch. Menelaus and his spouse, however, slept in the interior of the palace.

Not until morning did the host ask his guests their business. Telemachus told him the story of the insolent suitors, and begged Menelaus for some news of his father. “Ah!” cried the hero when he had heard the tale, “it shall be as though the doe had left her young in the lion’s cave and had gone away to graze upon the hills. When the lion returns and finds the strange brood, he destroys them. Thus will Ulysses return to his house and make a terrible end of those trespassers! Could they but see him in the majesty of his power as he once threw Philomelides in Lesbos, then truly they would have little stomach for courting. But, dear youth, as thou hast asked me, I will tell thee what the old prophet Proteus in Egypt once told me of him. On my return voyage angry gods detained me for twenty days on an island at the mouth of the Nile, for I had carelessly forgotten to make the customary offering of atonement. Our food was nearly gone, my companions lost courage, and I should perhaps have perished with them had a goddess not taken pity on me. Idothea, the lovely daughter of Proteus, looked upon us with compassion, and once when I had wandered far from the others, she came and spoke to me. Then I told her my plight, and begged her to tell me some means of gaining the favor of the heavenly powers to discern which of the gods was hindering my journey and how I might reach home through the endless leagues of ocean.

“‘Gladly, oh stranger,’ said she, ‘will I tell thee of an unfailing means. Thou knowest that my father, the old sea god, Proteus, is omniscient, and if thou canst surprise him by some cunning scheme he might easily tell thee all that thou wishest to know.’ ‘Good,’ said I; ‘but tell me what means I can employ to ensnare him.’ ‘Listen,’ answered the goddess; ‘every day when the sun is at the zenith the god rises from the sea, and comes on shore to sleep in the cool grottoes. With him come also the seals to sun themselves upon the shore. Therefore, if thou wouldst approach him unseen thou must conceal thyself in the skin of a seal and take thy place amongst the others. I will help thee. Come here early to-morrow morning with three picked companions, and I will furnish you all with glossy skins. When my father comes up, the first thing he does is to count his seals as a shepherd counts his sheep; then he lies down amongst them. As soon as thou seest that he has fallen asleep it is time to use force. You must all seize him and hold him fast, not letting go, no matter how he struggles to free himself. He will use all his arts of transformation to get away, now as fire, now as water, and now as some rapacious animal. But ye must not cease to contend with him until he shall have reassumed his proper form. Then loose the bonds, and let him tell thee what thou wishest to know.’

“As soon as Idothea had said this she disappeared into the depths of the sea. I went to my ship and spent the night in anxious vigil, and in the morning I picked out three men of proven strength and bravery to accompany me in this wonderful adventure. We went to the appointed place, and behold! the nymph kept her word. She arose out of the sea with four fresh sealskins, enveloped us each in one of them, and showed us where to lie down. Friends, you cannot imagine our plight. The oily smell of the skins would certainly have overcome us had not Idothea rubbed sweet-smelling ambrosia upon them to smother the horrible odors. Thus unpleasantly masquerading we passed the whole morning, until at last, in the heat of the noonday, the troop of seals rose out of the water, and after them came the gray god of the sea. He looked about, examined and counted his seals, ourselves with the rest, and then laid himself down in their midst. Very soon we sprang up with loud cries and held him down with all our strength. Everything transpired as his daughter had warned us. He suddenly transformed himself into a lion to frighten us, but we were not to be thus outwitted and only held the tighter. Then he became a panther, then a dragon, and finally, a bristly boar. While we thought we were grasping the bristles he tried to escape us as water, and scarcely had we dammed up the water when he rose into the air in the form of a tree. At last the old magician became weary of these changes, resumed his true shape, and said: ‘Son of Atreus, what mortal has discovered to thee the art of holding me—and what dost thou want of me?’

“I told him my perplexities. He bade me return to Egypt and there propitiate the offended gods with rich offerings. He promised that my return voyage should be successful. I asked one last question of the god: What had become of my friends, and had they all reached home safely? He then began a long story which caused me to weep bitter tears. He spoke of Ajax and his sad fate. He told me of my dear brother Agamemnon’s horrible death. My heart was broken; I no longer wished to live. But the venerable god comforted me and commanded me to hasten home to avenge this wrong. Finally I asked the fate of my dear friend Ulysses and whether he still lived. Proteus answered: ‘Ulysses lives, but is held a prisoner far from here on an island, by the nymph Calypso. He weeps tears of home-sickness and longing, and would gladly intrust himself to the unknown waters, but he has no ship and no men, and the nymph who loves him will never let him go.’ Thus Proteus prophesied to me, then suddenly sank into the sea. I followed Proteus’ commands and arrived safely at home. Now thou knowest all that I can tell thee. Remain thou with me for a while, then I will send thee home with worthy gifts,—three splendid horses and a cunningly carved chariot,—and in addition I will present thee with a beautiful goblet in which thou canst make offerings to the gods, so that thou shalt always remember me.”

Telemachus declined the invitation, for he could not desert his companions whom he had left in Pylos, anxiously awaiting his return. In the morning the king had prepared for the two youths a bountiful farewell repast of freshly killed goats and lambs. Telemachus would scarcely have enjoyed this early meal if he had known what the wicked suitors at home were preparing for him. They learned with deep concern that Telemachus had really had the courage to undertake the journey. Who could tell but he might return with help from Nestor or Menelaus and put them all to death? Until now no one had given the boy credit for much courage, but now—was it not as though the father’s spirit had been awakened in the son? Antinous, the most insolent of them all, cried: “No! we must not allow the youth to defy us! He must be crushed before he can harm us. Give me a ship and man it with twenty brave warriors. I will row out to meet him and waylay him in the straits between Ithaca and Samos. If I meet him he will never see this house again alive, and then all will be ours.”

All applauded the wicked Antinous and conferred as to how they might most surely destroy the youth, and when all was arranged the ship rowed away to the appointed place to await Telemachus. Medon the herald had overheard the plot, and hastened to acquaint Penelope with the sad news. Her heart was already heavy with anxiety, and at this fresh misfortune her knees began to tremble and she sank unconscious on the threshold of her chamber. Her maidens wept over her, and at last tears sprang to the eyes of the beautiful queen. She moaned aloud and could not compose herself. At first she thought of sending for her father-in-law, Laertes; but the old man was as powerless as she. Then she considered other succor, but all was useless. At last to her oppressed heart came the comforting inspiration of calling upon a god for protection. She prayed fervently to Athene, and when she had finished she felt renewed strength and composure. She sank down upon her couch in a deep sleep.

Athene heard her prayer, and desiring not to leave the good lady comfortless, sent her a pleasant dream. Penelope’s sister appeared to the sleeper, and asked the cause of her grief. Penelope was comforted in telling her woes, and the dream figure put courage into her soul with the consoling words: “Be comforted, sister, and pluck these cowardly fears from thy heart. Thy son will return. He has a guide and companion such as many a one might wish for. Pallas Athene herself is with him, and she has compassion on him and on thee and has also sent me to tell thee this.” Penelope wished to ask other things, but the dream figure vanished. She then awoke, was comforted, and no longer bemoaned the fate of the two loved ones whom she had thought were lost.