The Goddess Pallas has already come down to Ithaca and stands among the
suitors. She has taken the form of Mentes, the King of a neighboring
tribe; she is in disguise as she usually is when she appears on earth.
Who will recognize her? Not the suitors; they can see no God in their
condition, least of all, the Goddess of Wisdom. "Telemachus was much
the first to observe her;" why just he? The fact is he was ready to see
her, and not only to see her, but to hear what she had to say. "For he
sat among the suitors grieved in heart, seeing his father in his mind's
eye," like Hamlet just before the latter saw the ghost. So careful is
the poet to prepare both sides--the divine epiphany, and the mortal who
is to behold it.
Furthermore, the young man saw his father "scattering the suitors and
himself obtaining honor and ruling his own house." This is just what
the Goddess is going to tell with a new sanction, and it is just what
is going to happen in the course of the poem. Truly Telemachus is
prepared internally; he has already everything within him which is to
come out of him. Throughout the whole interview the two main facts are
the example of the parent and the final revenge, both of which are
urged by the Goddess without and by the man within.
Still there is a difference. Telemachus is despondent; we might almost
say, he is getting to disbelieve in any divine order of the world. "The
Gods plot evil things" against the House of Ulysses, whose fate "they
make unknown above that of all men." Then they have sent upon me these
suitors who consume my heritage. The poor boy has had a hard time; he
has come to question providence in his misery, and discredits the
goodness of the Gods.
Here, now, is the special function of Pallas. She instills courage into
his heart. She gives strong hope of the return of his father, who "will
not long be absent from Ithaca;" she also hints the purpose of the
Gods, which is on the point of fulfillment. Be no longer a child;
follow the example of thy father; go and learn about him and emulate
his deeds. Therewith the Goddess furnishes to the doubting youth a plan
of immediate action--altogether the best thing for throwing off his
mental paralysis. He is to proceed at once to Pylos and to Sparta "to
learn of his father" with the final outlook toward the destruction of
the suitors. She is a veritable Goddess to the young striver, speaking
the word of hope and wisdom, and then turning him back upon himself.
Here again we must say that the Goddess was in the heart of Telemachus
uttering her spirit, yet she was external to him also. Her voice is the
voice of the time, of the reality; all things are fluid to the hand of
Telemachus, and ready to be moulded to his scheme. Still the Goddess is
in him just as well, is his thought, his wisdom, which has now become
one with the reason of the world. Both sides are brought together by
the Poet in the most emphatic manner; this is the supreme fact in his
procedure. The subjective and objective elements are one; the divine
order puts its seal on the thought of the man, unites with him, makes
his plan its plan. Thus the God and the Individual are in harmony, and
the great fulfillment becomes possible. But if the thought of
Telemachus were a mere scheme of his own, if it had not received the
stamp of divinity, then it could never become the deed, the heroic
deed, which stands forth in the world existent in its own right and
eternal.
The Goddess flits away, "like a bird," in speed and silence. Telemachus
now recognizes that the stranger was a divinity. For has he not the
proof in his own heart? He is indeed a new person or the beginning
thereof. But hark to this song! It is the bard singing "the sad return
of the Greeks"--the very song which the poet himself is now singing in
this Odyssey. For it is also a sad return, indeed many sad returns, as
we shall see hereafter. Homer has thus put himself into his poem
singing his poem. Who cannot feel that this touch is taken from life,
is an echo of his own experience in some princely hall?
But here she comes, the grand lady of the story, Penelope, the wife of
Ulysses, as it were in response to the music. A glorious appearance at
a happy moment; yet she is not happy: "Holding a veil before her face,
and shedding tears, she bespoke the bard: Phemius cease from this sad
song, it cuts me to the heart." It reminds her of her husband and his
sorrowful return, not yet accomplished; she cannot endure the anguish
and she begs the bard to sing another strain which may delight his
hearers.
This, then, is the sage Penelope whose character will be tested in many
ways, and move through many subtle turns to the end of the poem. In
this her first appearance we note that she proclaims in the presence of
the suitors her undying love for her husband. This trait we may fairly
consider to be the deepest of her nature. She thinks of him continually
and weeps at his absence. Still she has her problem which requires at
times all her female tact, yes, even dissimulation. Reckless suitors
are pressing for her hand, she has to employ all her arts to defer the
hateful marriage; otherwise she is helpless. She is the counterpart of
her husband, a female Ulysses, who has waited twenty years for his
return. She also has had a stormy time, with the full experience of
life; her adventures in her world rival his in his world. But
underneath all her cunning is the rock of eternal fidelity. She went
back to her room, and wept for her husband "till Pallas closed her
eye-lids in sweet sleep."
Nor can we pass over the answer of Telemachus, which he makes at this
point to his mother. It may be called a little Homeric treatise on
poetry. "Mother, let the poet sing as his spirit moves him;" he is not
to be constrained, but must give the great fact; "poets are not to
blame but Zeus," for the sad return of the Greeks; "men applaud the
song which is newest," novelty being already sought for in the
literature of Homer's time. But the son's harsh reproof of the mother,
with which his speech closes, bidding her look after her own affairs,
the loom and distaff and servants, is probably an interpolation. Such
is the judgment of Aristarchus, the greatest ancient commentator on
Homer; such is also the judgment of Professor Nitzsch, the greatest
modern commentator on the Odyssey.