against him, sweeping the slain before it, and in furious spate
seeking to destroy Achilles. But as its waves smote against his
shield, Achilles grasped a tall elm, and uprooting it, cast it into
the river to dam the torrent. For the moment only was the angry river
stayed. In fear did Achilles flee across the plain, but with a mighty
roar it pursued him, and caught him.
To the gods then cried Achilles, and to his aid came Athene, and close
to the walls of Troy again did Achilles chase the Trojan men.
From the city walls old Priam saw the dreadful things Achilles
wrought.
And when, his armor blazing like the brightest stars of the sky, he
drew near, and Hector would have gone to meet him, in grief did Priam
cry to his dearly loved son:
"Hector, beloved son, I pray thee go not alone to meet this man;
mightier far than thou is he."
But all eager for the fight was Hector. Of all the men of Troy he
alone still stood unafraid. Then did the mother of Hector beseech him
to hold back from what must surely mean death. Yet Hector held not
back, but on his shining shield leaned against a tower, awaiting the
coming of the great destroyer.
And at last they met, face to face, spear to spear. As a shooting-star
in the darkness so flashed the spear of Achilles as he hurled it home
to pierce the neck of Hector. Gods and men had deserted Hector, and
alone before the walls of Troy he fell and died.
Thus ended the fight.
For twelve days did the Greek host rejoice, and all through the days
Hector's body lay unburied. For at the heels of swift horses had the
Greeks dragged him to the ships, while from the battlements his mother
and his wife Andromache watched, wailing in agony, with hearts that
broke.
Then at length went old Priam to the camp of the Greeks. And before
Achilles he fell, beseeching him to have mercy and to give him back
the body of his son.
So was the heart of Achilles moved, and the body of Hector ransomed;
and with wailing of women did the people of Troy welcome home their
hero.
Over him lamented his old mother, for of all her sons was he to her
most dear, and over him wept, with burning tears, his wife Andromache.
And to his bier came Helen, and with breaking heart did she sob forth
her sorrow:
"Dearest of my brothers," she said, "from thee have I heard neither
reproach nor evil word. With kind words and gentle heart hast thou
ever stood by me. Lost, lost is my one true friend. No more in
Troyland is any left to pity me."
On lofty funeral pyre then laid they the dead Hector, and when the
flames had consumed his body his comrades placed his white bones in a
golden urn, and over it with great stones did they raise a mighty
mound that all might see where he rested.
Yet still was the warfare between Greeks and Trojans not ended.
To Achilles death came in a shaft from the bow of Paris. By a poisoned
arrow driven at venture and at dark midnight from the bow of an
outcast leper was fair Paris slain. While winter snow lay white on
Ida, in Helen's arms did his life ebb away.
Then came there a day when the Greeks burned their camp and sailed
homeward across the gray water.
Behind them they left a mighty horse of wood, and the men of Troy came
and drew it into the city as trophy and sign of victory over those who
had made it. But inside the horse were hidden many of the bravest
warriors of Greece, and at night, when the Trojans feasted, the Greeks
came out of their hiding-place and threw open the gates.
And up from the sea came the Greek host, and in fire and in blood fell
the city of Troy.
Yet did not Helen perish. Back to his own kingdom by the sea Menelaus
took her, to reign, in peace, a queen, she who had brought grief and
death to so many, and to the city of Troy unutterable woe.
THE ODYSSEY OF HOMER
ADAPTED BY JEANIE LANG
I
WHAT HAPPENED IN ITHACA WHILE ODYSSEUS WAS AWAY
While Odysseus was fighting far away in Troyland, his baby son grew to
be a big boy. And when years passed and Odysseus did not return, the
boy, Telemachus, grew to be a man.
Telemachus loved his beautiful mother, Penelope, but his heart always
longed for the hero father whom he could only dimly remember. As time
went on, he longed more and more, for evil things came to pass in the
kingdom of Odysseus.
The chiefs and lords of Ithaca admired Penelope for her beauty. They
also coveted her money and her lands, and when Odysseus did not
return, each one of these greedy and wicked men wished to marry her
and make his own all that had belonged to brave Odysseus.
"Odysseus is surely dead," they said, "and Telemachus is only a lad
and cannot harm us."
So they came to the palace where Penelope and Telemachus lived, and
there they stayed, year in, year out, feasting and drinking and
wasting the goods of Odysseus. Their roughness and greed troubled
Penelope, but still more did they each one daily torment her by rudely
asking: "Wilt thou marry me?"
At last she fell on a plan to stop them from talking to her of
marriage.
In the palace hall she set up a great web, beautiful and fine of woof.
Then she said, "When I have finished weaving this robe I shall give
you my answer."
Each day she worked at it, but each night, when the wooers slept, she
undid all that she had done during the day. So it seemed to the wooers
as if the robe would never be finished.
Penelope's heart was heavy, and heavy, too, was the heart of
Telemachus. For three weary years, while Odysseus was imprisoned on
the island of Calypso, the mother and son pined together.
One day Telemachus sat at the door of the palace sadly watching the
wooers as they drank and reveled. He was thinking of the brave father
that he feared was dead, when there walked up to the door of the
courtyard a stranger dressed like a warrior from another land.
The stranger was the goddess Athene. At the same time that she gained
leave from the gods to set Odysseus free, they had agreed that she
should go to Ithaca and help Telemachus. But she came dressed as a
warrior, and not as a beautiful, gray-eyed, golden-haired goddess with
golden sandals on her feet.
Telemachus rose up and shook her kindly by the hand, and led her into
the hall. He took from her the heavy bronze spear that she carried,
and made her sit down on one of the finest of the chairs, in a place
where the noise of the rough wooers should not disturb her.
"Welcome, stranger," he said. "When thou hast had food, then shalt
thou tell us in what way we can help thee."
He then made servants bring a silver basin and golden ewer that she
might wash her hands, and he fetched her food and wine of the best.
Soon the wooers entered, and noisily ate they and drank, and roughly
jested.
Telemachus watched them and listened with an angry heart. Then, in a
low voice, he said to Athene:
"These men greedily eat and drink, and waste my father's goods. They
think the bones of Odysseus bleach out in the rain in a far land, or
are tossed about by the sea. But did my father still live, and were he
to come home, the cowards would flee before him. Tell me, stranger,
hast thou come from a far-off country? Hast thou ever seen my father?"
Athene answered: "Odysseus still lives. He is a prisoner on a
sea-girt island, but it will not be long ere he escapes and comes
home. Thou art like Odysseus, my son. Thou hast a head like his, and
the same beautiful eyes."
When Athene spoke to him so kindly and so hopefully, Telemachus told
her all that was in his heart. And when the wickedness and greed of
the wooers was made known to her, Athene grew very angry.
"Thou art in sore need of Odysseus," she said. "If Odysseus were to
come to the door now with lance in hand, soon would he scatter those
shameless ones before him."
Then she told Telemachus what he must do.
"To-morrow," said she, "call thy lords to a council meeting, and tell
the wooers to return to their homes."
For himself, she told him to fit out a ship with twenty oars-men, that
he might sail to a land where he should get tidings of his father.
"Thou art tall and handsome, my friend," she said. "Be brave, that
even in days to come men may praise thy name."
"Thou speakest as a father to a son. I will never forget what thou
hast said," said Telemachus.
He begged Athene to stay longer, and wished to give her a costly gift.
But she would not stay, nor accept any present. To Telemachus she had
given a gift, though he did not know it. For into his heart she had
put strength and courage, so that when she flew away like a beautiful
bird across the sea she left behind her, not a frightened, unhappy
boy, but a strong, brave man.
The wooers took no notice of the comings and goings of the strange
warrior, so busy were they with their noisy feast. As they feasted a
minstrel played to them on his lyre, and sang a song of the return of
the warriors from Troyland when the fighting was over.
From her room above, Penelope heard the song, and came down. For a
little, standing by the door, she listened. Then she could bear it no
longer, and, weeping, she said to the minstrel:
"Sing some other song, and do not sing a song of return from Troyland
to me, whose husband never returned."
Then Telemachus, in a new and manly way that made her wonder, spoke to
his mother:
"Blame not the minstrel, dear mother," he said. "It is not his fault
that he sings sad songs, but the fault of the gods who allow sad
things to be. Thou art not the only one who hast lost a loved one in
Troyland. Go back to thy room, and let me order what shall be, for I
am now the head of the house."
In the same fearless, manly way he spoke to the wooers:
"Ye may feast to-night," he said; "only let there be no brawling.
To-morrow meet with me. For once and for all it must be decided if ye
are to go on wasting my goods, or if I am to be master of my own house
and king in mine own land."
The wooers bit their lips with rage, and some of them answered him
rudely; but Telemachus paid no heed, and when at last they returned to
their houses, he went upstairs to his own room. The old woman who had
nursed him when he was a child carried torches before him to show him
the way. When he sat down on his bed and took off his doublet, she
folded and smoothed it and hung it up. Then she shut the door with its
silver handle, and left Telemachus, wrapped in a soft fleece of wool,
thinking far into the night of all that Athene had said to him.
When day dawned he dressed and buckled on his sword, and told heralds
to call the lords to a council meeting. When all were assembled he
went into the hall. In his hand he carried a bronze spear, and two of
his hounds followed him, and when he went up to his father's seat and
sat down there, the oldest men gave place to him. For Athene had shed
on him such a wondrous grace that he looked like a young god.
"Never since brave Odysseus sailed away to Troyland have we had a
council meeting," said one old lord. "I think the man who hath called
this meeting is a true man--good luck go with him! May the gods give
him his heart's desire."
So good a beginning did this seem that Telemachus was glad, and,
burning to say all that had been in his heart for so long, he rose to
his feet and spoke.
Of the loss of his father he spoke sadly, and then, with burning
words, of the cowardly wooers, of their feastings and revelings and
wasting of his goods, and of their insolence to Penelope and himself.
When he had thus spoken in rage and grief, he burst into tears.
For a little there was silence, then one of the wooers said angrily:
"Penelope is to blame, and no other. For three years she has deceived
us. 'I will give you my answer when I have finished weaving this
robe,' she said, and so we waited and waited. But now that three years
have gone and a fourth has begun, it is told us by one of her maids
that each night she has undone all she has woven during the day. She
can deceive us no longer. She must now finish the robe, and tell us
whom she will marry. For we will not leave this place until she has
chosen a husband."
Then, once again, with pleading words, Telemachus tried to move the
hearts of the wooers.
"If ye will not go," at last he said, "I will ask the gods to reward
you for your wickedness."
As he spoke, two eagles flew, fleet as the wind, from the mountain
crest. Side by side they flew until they were above the place of the
council meeting. Then they wheeled about, darted with fury at each
other, and tore with their savage talons at each other's heads and
necks. Flapping their great wings, they then went swiftly away and
were lost in the far distance.
Said a wise old man: "It is an omen. Odysseus will return, and woe
will come upon the wooers. Let us make an end of these evil doings and
keep harm away from us."
"Go home, old man," angrily mocked the wooers. "Prophesy to thine own
children. Odysseus is dead. Would that thou hadst died with him. Then
thou couldst not have babbled nonsense, and tried to hound on
Telemachus in the hope that he may give thee a gift."
To Telemachus they said again:
"We will go on wasting thy goods until Penelope weds one of us."
Only one other beside the old man was brave enough to speak for
Telemachus. Fearlessly and nobly did his friend Mentor blame the
wooers for their shamelessness. But they jeered at him, and laughed
aloud when Telemachus told them he was going to take a ship and go to
look for his father.
"He will never come back," said one, "and even were Odysseus himself
to return, we should slay him when he came."
Then the council meeting broke up, and the wooers went again to revel
in the palace of Odysseus.
Down to the seashore went Telemachus and knelt where the gray water
broke in little white wavelets on the sand.
"Hear me," he cried, "thou who didst speak with me yesterday. I know
now that thou art a god. Tell me, I pray thee? how shall I find a ship
to sail across the misty sea and find my father? For there is none to
help me."
Swiftly, in answer to his cry, came Athene.
"Be brave. Be thy father's son," she said. "Go back to thy house and
get ready corn and wine for the voyage. I will choose the best of all
the ships in Ithaca for thee, and have her launched, and manned by a
crew, all of them willing men."
Then Telemachus returned to the palace. In the courtyard the wooers
were slaying goats and singeing swine and making ready a great feast.
"Here comes Telemachus, who is planning to destroy us," they mocked.
"Telemachus, who speaks so proudly--- angry Telemachus."
Said one youth:
"Who knows but what if he goes on a voyage he will be like Odysseus,
and never return. Then will we have all his riches to divide among
ourselves, and his house will belong to the man who weds Penelope."
Telemachus shook off the jeering crowd, and went down to the vaulted
chamber where his father's treasures were kept. Gold and bronze lay
there in piles, and there were great boxes of splendid clothes, and
casks of wine. The heavy folding doors of the treasure chamber were
shut day and night, and the old nurse was the keeper of the treasures.
Telemachus bade her get ready corn and wine for the voyage.
"When my mother has gone to rest I will take them away," he said, "for
this night I go to seek my father across the sea."
At this the old nurse began to cry.
"Do not go, dear child," she wailed. "Thou art our only one, and we
love thee so well. Odysseus is dead, and what canst thou do, sailing
far away across the deep sea? As soon as thou art gone, those wicked
men will begin to plot evil against thee. Do not go. Do not go. There
is no need for thee to risk thy life on the sea and go wandering far
from home."
"Take heart, nurse," said Telemachus. "The goddess Athene has told me
to go, so all will be well. But promise me not to tell my dear mother
that I am gone until she misses me. For I do not wish to mar her fair
face with tears."
The nurse promised, and began to make ready all that Telemachus
wished.
Meantime Athene, in the likeness of Telemachus, found a swift-sailing
ship, and men to sail it. When darkness fell, she sent sleep on the
wooers and led Telemachus down to the shore where his men sat by their
oars.
To the palace, where every one slept and all was still and quiet,
Telemachus brought his men. None but the old nurse knew he was going
away, but they found the food and wine that she had got ready and
carried it down to the ship. Then Athene went on board, and Telemachus
sat beside her. A fresh west wind filled the sails and went singing
over the waves. The dark water surged up at the bow as the ship cut
through it. And all night long and till the dawn, the ship sailed
happily on her way.
At sunrise they came to land, and Athene and Telemachus went on shore.
The rulers of the country welcomed them and treated them well, but
could tell nothing of Odysseus after the siege of Troy was over.
Athene gave Telemachus into their care, then, turning herself into a
sea-eagle, she flew swiftly away, leaving them amazed because they
knew she must be one of the gods.
While Telemachus sought for news of his father in this kingdom, and
the kingdoms near it, the wooers began to miss him at their feasts.
They fancied he was away hunting, until, one day, as they played games
in front of the palace, the man whose ship Athene had borrowed came to
them.
"When will Telemachus return with my ship?" he asked.
"I need it that I may cross over to where I keep my horses. I wish to
catch one and break him in."
When the wooers heard from him that Telemachus had sailed away with
twenty brave youths, in the swiftest ship in Ithaca, they were filled
with rage.
At once they got a ship and sailed to where they might meet Telemachus
in a strait between Ithaca and another rocky island.
"We will slay him there," said they. "We will give him a woful end to
his voyage in search of his father."
When Penelope heard this, and knew that her son was perhaps sailing to
his doom, her heart well-nigh broke. She wept bitterly, and reproached
her maidens with not having told her that Telemachus had gone.
"Slay me if thou wilt," said the old nurse, "but I alone knew it.
Telemachus made me promise not to tell thee, that thy fair face might
not be marred by weeping. Do not fear, the goddess Athene will take
care of him."
Thus she comforted her mistress, and although she lay long awake that
night, Penelope fell asleep at last. In her dreams Athene came to her
and told her that Telemachus would come safely home, and so Penelope's
sad heart was cheered.
While she slept the wooers sailed away in a swift, black ship, with
spears in their hands and murder in their hearts. On a little rocky
isle they landed until the ship of Telemachus should pass, and there
they waited, that they might slay him when he came.
II
HOW ODYSSEUS CAME HOME
While yet Telemachus sought news of his father, Odysseus was well-nigh
home. On that misty morning when he found himself in Ithaca, and did
not know it, because the gray fog made everything seem strange and
unfriendly, Odysseus was very sad as he sat beside the moaning sea.
Then came Athene, and drove the mist before her, and Odysseus saw
again the land that he loved, and knew that his wanderings were past.
She told him the tale of the wooers, and of the unhappiness of
Penelope and Telemachus, and the heart of Odysseus grew hot within
him.
"Stand by me!" he said to the goddess. "If thou of thy grace wilt help
me, I myself will fight three hundred men."
"Truly I will stand by thee," said Athene, "and many of the greedy
wooers shall stain the earth with their blood."
She then told Odysseus how the wooers were to be destroyed, and
Odysseus gladly agreed to her plans. First she made him hide far in
the darkness of the cave, under the olive-tree, all the gold and
bronze ornaments and beautiful clothes that had been given to him in
the land of Nausicaa.
Then she touched him with her golden wand. In a moment his yellow hair
fell off his head; his bright eyes were dim; his skin was withered and
wrinkled, and he had a stooping back and tottering legs like a feeble
old man. His clothes of purple and silver she changed into torn and
filthy old rags, and over his shoulders she threw the old skin of a
stag with the hair worn off.
"Go now," said Athene, "to where thy faithful swineherd sits on the
hill, watching his swine as they grub among the acorns and drink of
the clear spring. He has always been true to thee and to thy wife and
son. Stay with him and hear all that he has to tell, and I will go and
fetch home Telemachus."
"When thou didst know all, why didst thou not tell Telemachus?" asked
Odysseus. "Is he, too, to go wandering over stormy seas, far from his
own land?"
"Telemachus will be a braver man for what he has gone through," said
Athene. "No harm shall come to him, although the wooers in their black
ship wait to slay him."
Then Athene flew across the sea, and Odysseus climbed up a rough track
through the woods to where the swineherd had built himself a hut. The
hut was made of stones and thorn-branches, and beside it were sties
for the swine made in the same way. The wooers had eaten many swine at
their daily feasts, but thousands remained. These the swineherd
tended, with three men and four fierce dogs to help him.
At an open space on the hill, from whence he could look down at the
woods and the sea, Odysseus found the swineherd sitting at the door of
his hut making himself a pair of sandals out of brown ox-hide.
When the swineherd's dogs saw a dirty, bent old man toiling up the
hill, they rushed at him, barking furiously. Up they leapt on him and
would have torn him to pieces if their master had not cast away his
ox-hide, dashed after them, scolded them and beaten them, and then
driven them off with showers of stones.
"If my dogs had killed thee I should have been for ever ashamed," he
said to Odysseus, "and without that I have enough sorrow. For while my
noble master may be wandering in a strange land and lacking food, I
have to feed his fat swine for others to eat."
So speaking, he led Odysseus to his hut. He laid some brushwood on the
floor, spread over it the soft, shaggy skin of a wild goat, and bade
Odysseus be seated. Then he went out to the sties, killed two sucking
pigs, and roasted them daintily. When they were ready he cut off the
choicest bits and gave them to Odysseus, with a bowl of honey-sweet
wine.
While Odysseus ate and drank, the swineherd talked to him of the greed
and wastefulness of the wooers, and in silence Odysseus listened,
planning in his heart how he might punish them.
"Tell me thy master's name," he said at length. "I have traveled in
many lands. Perchance I may have seen him, and may give thee news of
him."
But the swineherd answered:
"Each vagrant who comes straying to the land of Ithaca goes to my
mistress with lying tales of how he has seen or heard of my master.
She receives them all kindly, and asks many questions, while tears run
down her cheeks. You, too, old man, would quickly make up a story if
any one would give thee some new clothes. My master is surely dead,
and wherever I may go I shall never again find a lord so gentle."
Then said Odysseus:
"My friend, I swear to thee that Odysseus shall return. In this year,
as the old moon wanes and the new is born, he shall return to his
home."
When the other herds returned that evening they found Odysseus and
their master still deep in talk. At night the swineherd made a feast
of the best that he had, and still they talked, almost until dawn. The
night was black and stormy, and a drenching rain blotted out the moon,
but the swineherd, leaving Odysseus lying in the bed he had made for
him, with his own thick mantle spread over him, went outside and lay
under a rock that sheltered him from the storm, keeping guard on the
white-tusked boars that slept around him. And Odysseus knew that he
had still at least one servant who was faithful and true.
While Odysseus dwelt with the swineherd, Athene sought Telemachus and
bade him hasten home. Speedily Telemachus went back to his ship and
his men. The hawsers were loosed, the white sail hauled up, and Athene
sent a fresh breeze that made the ship cut through the water like a
white-winged bird. It was night when they passed the island where the
wooers awaited their coming, and in the darkness none saw them go by.
By daybreak they reached Ithaca, and Telemachus, as Athene had bidden
him, sent on the men to the harbor with the ship, but made them put
him ashore on the woody coast near the swineherd's dwelling.