Ulysses of Ithaca · Karl Friedrich Becker
Chapter X Arrival of Telemachus—Ulysses reveals himself to his Son
When Telemachus reached the enclosure of the chief herder, the sun was already high in the heavens. The shepherds had scattered with their flocks and herds in fields and forest, and the excellent Eumæus was lying with Ulysses before the blazing fire where they had just roasted a piece of meat for their breakfast. “Listen, I hear footsteps,” said Ulysses, “and the dogs do not bark. It must be one of thy comrades or acquaintances.” Scarcely were the words spoken when Telemachus appeared in the gateway, the dogs leaping about him in joyful welcome. The swineherd was so astonished that he let fall his cup and hurried out to meet the new arrival. He threw his arms about him, wept over him, and gazed upon him in delight as though he had arisen from the dead. It was a long time before he could speak, and then he broke out tenderly: “Hast thou really come, Telemachus? Art thou here, my sweet life? I feared never to see thee again, when I heard that thou hadst sailed for Pylos. But enter, dear son, that I may delight in thee; for not often dost thou visit the shepherd, preferring to mingle with the swarm of suitors in the city.” “How canst thou talk thus, old man?” interrupted the youth. “But never mind. I have come to thee to find out whether my mother has listened to one of the suitors and left my poor house.”
“No, indeed,” answered Eumæus. “She still sits and weeps away her days and nights in thy palace. Thou wilt find her as thou didst leave her.” The two now entered the hut, and the unknown beggar whose heart was beating with joy at the sight of his handsome son controlled himself with difficulty. With the deference of the poor he arose from his couch to give place to the stranger, but Telemachus prevented him, saying: “Sit still, stranger. I will find a seat somewhere.” Eumæus brought out the remains of the meal and they all sat down to eat and drink. At length Telemachus said: “Now, father Eumæus, do thou go to the city for me and bring the news secretly to Penelope that I am safely returned from Pylos. But take care that no suitor hears it, for many enemies are plotting against me.” “Be it so,” said the herdsman, putting on his sandals and taking up his staff. Ulysses was still looking after him, when he saw through the half-opened gate the figure of a tall, slender maiden, beckoning to him. The dogs slunk into the corners, but Telemachus did not perceive the apparition. Ulysses divined that it was the goddess and went out to the gateway. “Noble son of Laertes,” Athene addressed him, “the time has now come for thee to reveal thyself to thy son. Take counsel with him how ye may make an end of the suitors. I shall soon be with you.”
While speaking she touched him with her golden staff and instantly his beggar’s dress was transformed into a fine purple cloak and his wrinkled face into a fresh manly countenance and the bald head was covered with shining brown locks. He reëntered the hut, from which he had just issued in rags, looking like a king. Telemachus gazed at him in astonishment and said, uncertainly: “Stranger, how changed thou art. Ah, I feel that a god approaches. Be merciful to us, thou holy one. Gladly will we sacrifice to thee and bring thee gifts.” “No,” cried Ulysses, “I am not a god. I am the father for whom thou hast mourned so long. I am Ulysses.” Joyfully he clasped his son in his arms and kissed him. “Doubt no longer, dear son,” continued Ulysses. “It was not I who worked the miracle, but Athene, who is with me. The gods can do all things; they can glorify or disfigure a mortal according to their pleasure. Yes, it is I, Ulysses, who have been wandering afar for twenty years, and thou art my beloved son. I have found my greatest happiness in holding thee here in my arms.” He could say no more for sobbing. Father and son wept for some time, closely clasping each other. Ever and anon they would gaze silently at each other, then break out in tears of joy and gratitude.
At daybreak Telemachus arose, put on his sandals, and took up his lance. “Now fare thee well, father,” he said to Eumæus. “I am going to the city, for my mother will not cease worrying until she sees me. I charge thee bring thy guest to my house, where he may try his luck, and help shall not fail him.” “It is well,” said Ulysses. “In the city, where there are many rich people, a beggar can make his way better than in the country. The morning air is cold and my rags are thin, so let me warm myself a while at the fire and then I shall be ready.” Telemachus walked quickly away. He reached town before the suitors had arrived at his house, placed his lance, according to custom, outside the door against a pillar, and entered the hall. There the old servant Euryclea was dusting and arranging the cushions. When she saw the youth she hastened to him weeping; the other maids also welcomed him and kissed his face and shoulders. Penelope also came and embraced her beloved son with tears. She held him for a long time in her arms and begged him to tell her what he had heard on his journey. “Mother,” said he, “do not make me speak of new troubles, for I have scarce escaped death. But now bathe thyself and put on clean garments, then ascend to the housetop and vow a thank-offering to the gods if they will avenge the shame of our house. I am going to the market place to fetch the stranger who accompanied me on my return.”
He went, and his mother obeyed his behests. When Telemachus crossed the market place he found all the suitors assembled there. They greeted him pleasantly, but their hearts were full of mischief. He did not join them, but seated himself with the few older men who had remained true to his father, and answered their curious questions. As soon as he caught sight of the seer Theoclymenus, he arose and went to him and took him to his house, before the rough crowd had arrived. While Telemachus was entertaining his guest, Penelope came in with her women and sat down to spin and listen to the tale of her son’s adventures. He did not dare to betray the secret of his father’s arrival, so that Penelope’s longing remained unsatisfied until the cheering assurance came from the strange seer that unfailing signs portended the early return of her beloved husband. In the midst of her joy over this the queen was disturbed by the hubbub of the brawling suitors, who had been amusing themselves by throwing quoits outside the palace and now burst into the hall to feast and drink as usual. She went straight to her chamber, and the stranger, too, left the hall. The servants began slaughtering the beeves, goats, swine, and sheep in the courtyard and preparing delicious dishes for the suitors.
Ulysses had remained until noon in the herdsman’s hut. The road to the city was long, and the circuitous mountain path led past a well where the maidens were accustomed to draw water. An altar had been erected on the height where passing travellers made offerings to the nymphs of the spring. At this well the goatherd Melantheus met with the two wayfarers. He was an impudent fellow, unfaithful to his master, and ready for any mischief that the suitors should devise. He was an arch enemy of the swineherd, as of all honest people. Hardly had he caught sight of him accompanied by a ragged beggar than he called out with coarse raillery: “It is a true saying that one beggar leads the other. How the gods do pair like with like. Where art thou going with the hungry one, thou ignoble swineherd? Shall he stand at the door of the palace in his hideous garb to disgust the gay guests, to rub his shoulders at the doorposts, and beg for crumbs? If thou wouldst give him to me, to sweep out the stalls and make beds for the young kids, he might get some flesh on his bones. But of course, beggars’ bread is easily gained. I tell thee, if thou bringest the nasty fellow to the palace, bones and joints in scores will fly at his head.”
With these insulting words he gave poor Ulysses a sharp kick. Ulysses reflected for a moment whether he should dash the wretch to the ground—an easy task for him—or pretend to be weak and fearful. He chose the latter course and took the insult humbly. But Eumæus defied the goatherd to his face and prayed to the holy nymphs of the well that they should cause Ulysses to return and punish the wretch. To avoid the fellow the two companions let him go ahead with his goats. “Thou dog,” he called back, “some day I shall pack thee aboard ship and sell thee as a slave.” When Ulysses and the swineherd approached the royal palace, the beggar exclaimed with profound emotion: “Ah! one can see that this must be the stately dwelling of Ulysses. Inside, sounds of festivity, and outside the defiant battlements the impregnable wall. A rich and mighty king must live here.” “Do thou enter first,” he said to Eumæus. “I will soon follow.” Thus they passed into the courtyard. Behold, in the corner on the dunghill lay a dog called Argos. He was thin and wasted and swarming with vermin. A year before his departure for Troy, Ulysses had trained this dog for the chase. He had often played with him as a puppy, but when he had gone, Argos had been neglected. Now he was too weak to crawl, but when he saw Ulysses near to him he raised himself painfully and wagged his tail. When he tried to run to his master his legs gave way and down he sank. Ulysses recognized the faithful animal and turned aside to brush away a tear. Then he said to Eumæus: “Tell me, Eumæus. The animal there on the dunghill is well built. Was he not fleet of foot?”
“Yes,” answered the swineherd; “he, too, misses his good master. Thou shouldst have seen him twenty years ago. He was his master’s favorite, for he had trained him, and no prey was so swift that Argos could not overtake it. But no one tends him now, and he has to pick up a miserable living in the courtyard. Servants are careless when the master is abroad.” The swineherd entered the house and was spied by Telemachus, who called him to his side where he was served with bread and meat. But Ulysses remained a while without to watch the faithful dog draw his last breath. Then he, too, entered the house and seated himself near the door in the hall. At first the feasters did not notice him, but Telemachus sent him food. He laid it down upon the dirty wallet and ate, while the minstrel sang sweet songs to the music of his harp. When the singer had finished, Ulysses went among the suitors to collect alms, that he might discover which ones were kindly disposed and which were hard and cruel. Many gave to him pityingly and asked one another in surprise who the old man was and whence he came. “The swineherd brought him here,” cried Melantheus. “Who he is I know not.” “Swineherd,” grumbled Antinous, “why didst thou bring this fellow to the city? I thought there were plenty of us already to eat up the absent master’s substance, and we could do without beggars.”
“Not seemly is thy speech, Antinous, although thou art noble,” answered the swineherd. “Thou wert always hard on Ulysses’ servants, and especially on me. However, I take no notice so long as Penelope and Telemachus live in this palace.” “Hush, Eumæus,” interrupted Telemachus. “Thou knowest Antinous. If that is thy only scruple, Antinous, that the alms which thou givest the poor come from my store, do not refrain from giving. Neither my mother nor I begrudge them. But that is not thy real meaning. Thou wouldst rather use it all thyself.” “Thou insolent young cub,” interrupted Antinous. “If each of the suitors would send him what I do, he would not enter the house again in three months.” He accompanied these words with a motion toward a footstool under the table, and was just going to throw it at the beggar’s head when a neighbor seized his arm. Ulysses desired to tempt the ungovernable man further. He went up to him and begged an alms, and even tried to touch his heart by relating his wanderings and hardships. But Antinous harshly bade him begone, and Ulysses retired with the words: “Truly, Antinous, thy body and thy mind are not in harmony.” “Was there ever such an insolent beggar!” cried Antinous angrily. “Now truly, thou shalt not leave the hall unpunished,” and with all his might he threw the footstool, which struck Ulysses’ shoulder. He stood firm as a rock, only shaking his head in silence, then returned to the gate and sat down, opening his wallet.
Telemachus could hardly contain himself, and even Penelope, who could hear all from her balcony, pitied the stranger whom she could not see. She desired Eumæus to conduct the strange man to her, that she might talk with him and supply him with fine raiment. But he replied: “I should like nothing better than to see the queen, for I have much to tell her, but I fear the cruel suitors. Bid the noble Penelope wait for me in her apartments until the sun is set. Then she may question me about her husband’s return.” And he remained quietly sitting on the doorstep, while his guests, having no idea that he was really their host, amused themselves, after the banquet was over, with singing and dancing. How he longed to have them go, that he might at last see his dear wife once more. But before he did so he was to have another strange adventure.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.