and so helpful to the shepherds around Mount Ida, that they called him
Alexandras, or the helper of men; but his foster-father named him Paris.
And as he tended his sheep in the mountain dells, he met OEnone, the
fairest of the river-maidens, guileless and pure as the waters of the
stream by whose banks she loved to wander. Day after day he sat with
her in the shadow of her woodland home, and talked of innocence and
beauty, and of a life of sweet contentment, and of love; and the maiden
listened to him with wide-open eyes and a heart full of trustfulness and
faith. Then, by and by, Paris and OEnone were wedded; and their little
cottage in the mountain glen was the fairest and happiest spot in Ilios.
The days sped swiftly by, and neither of them dreamed that any sorrow
was in store for them; and to OEnone her shepherd-husband was all the
world, because he was so noble and brave and handsome and gentle.
"One warm summer afternoon, Paris sat in the shade of a tree at the foot
of Mount Ida, while his flocks were pasturing upon the hillside before
him. The bees were humming lazily among the flowers; the cicadas were
chirping among the leaves above his head; and now and then a bird
twittered softly among the bushes behind him. All else was still, as if
enjoying to the full the delicious calm of that pleasant day. Paris was
fashioning a slender reed into a shepherd's flute; while OEnone, sitting
in the deeper shadows of some clustering vines, was busy with some
simple piece of needle-work. A sound as of sweet music caused the young
shepherd to raise his eyes. Before him stood the four immortals, Here,
Athene, Aphrodite, and Hermes the messenger; their faces shone with a
dazzling radiance, and they were fairer than any tongue can describe.
At their feet rare flowers sprang up, crocuses and asphodels and white
lilies; and the air was filled with the odor of orange blossoms. Paris,
scarce knowing what he did, arose to greet them. No handsomer youth
ever stood in the presence of beauty. Straight as a mountain pine was
he; a leopard skin hung carelessly upon his shoulders; his head was
bare, but his locks clustered round his temples in sunny curls, and
formed fit framework for his fair brows.
"Then Hermes spoke first: 'Paris, we have come to seek thy help; there
is strife among the folk who dwell on Mount Olympus. Here are Here,
Athene, and Aphrodite, each claiming to be the fairest, and each
clamoring for this prize, this golden apple. Now we pray that you will
judge this matter, and give the apple to the one whom you may deem most
beautiful.'
"Then Here began her plea at once: 'I know that I am the fairest,' she
said, 'for I am queen, and mine it is to rule among gods and men. Give
me the prize, and you shall have wealth, and a kingdom, and great glory;
and men in after-times shall sing your praises.'
"And Paris was half tempted to give the apple, without further ado, to
Here the proud queen. But gray-eyed Athene spoke: 'There is that, fair
youth, which is better than riches or honor or great glory. Listen to
me, and I will give thee wisdom and a pure heart; and thy life shall be
crowned with peace, and sweetened with love, and made strong by
knowledge. And though men may not sing of thee in after-times, thou
shalt find lasting happiness in the answer of a good conscience towards
all things.'
"Then OEnone whispered from her place among the leaves, 'Give the prize
to Athene; she is the fairest.' And Paris would have placed the golden
apple in her hand, had not Aphrodite stepped quickly forward, and in the
sweetest, merriest tones, addressed him.
"'You may look at my face, and judge for yourself as to whether I am
fair,' said she, laughing, and tossing her curls. 'All I shall say is
this: Give me the prize, and you shall have for your wife the most
beautiful woman in the world.'
"The heart of OEnone stood still as Paris placed the apple in
Aphrodite's hand; and a nameless dread came over her, as if the earth
were sinking beneath her feet. But the next moment the blood came back
to her cheeks, and she breathed free and strong again; for she heard
Paris say, 'I have a wife, OEnone, who to me is the loveliest of
mortals, and I care not for your offer; yet I give to you the apple, for
I know that you are the fairest among the deathless ones who live on
high Olympus.'
"On the very next day it happened that King Priam sat thoughtfully in
his palace, and all his boys and girls--nearly fifty in number--were
about him. His mind turned sadly to the little babe whom he had sent
away, many years ago, to die alone on wooded Ida. And he said to
himself, 'The child has been long dead, and yet no feast has been given
to the gods that they may make his little spirit glad in the shadowy
land of Hades. This must not be neglected longer. Within three days a
feast must be made, and we will hold games in his honor.'
"Then he called his servants, and bade them go to the pastures on Mount
Ida, and choose from the herds that were there the fattest and
handsomest bull, to be given as a prize to the winner in the games. And
he proclaimed through all Ilios, that on the third day there would be a
great feast in Troy, and games would be held in honor of the little babe
who had died twenty years before. Now, when the servants came to Mount
Ida, they chose a bull for which Paris had long cared, and which he
loved more than any other. And he would not let the beast be driven from
the pasture until it was agreed that he might go to the city with it and
contend in the games for the prize. But OEnone, the river nymph, wept
and prayed him not to go.
"'Leave not the pleasant pasture lands of Ida, even for a day,' said
she; 'for my heart tells me that you will not return.'
"'Think not so, my fair one,' said Paris. 'Did not Aphrodite promise
that the most beautiful woman in the world shall be my wife? And who is
more beautiful than my own OEnone? Dry now your tears; for when I have
won the prizes in the games I will come back to you, and never leave you
again.'
"Then the grief of OEnone waxed still greater. 'If you will go,' she
cried, 'then hear my warning! Long years shall pass ere you shall come
again to wooded Ida, and the hearts which now are young shall grow old
and feeble by reason of much sorrow. Cruel war and many dire disasters
shall overtake you, and death shall be nigh unto you; and then OEnone,
although long forgotten by you, will hasten to your side, to help and to
heal and to forgive, that so the old love may live again. Farewell!'
"But Paris kissed his wife, and hastened, light of heart, to Troy. How
could it be otherwise but that, in the games which followed, the
handsome young shepherd should carry off all the prizes?
"'Who are you?' asked the king.
"'My name is Paris,' answered the shepherd, 'and I feed the flocks and
herds on wooded Ida.'
"Then Hector, full of wrath because of his own failure to win a prize,
came forward to dispute with Paris.
"'Stand there, Hector,' cried old Priam; 'stand close to the young
shepherd, and let us look at you!' Then turning to the queen, he asked,
'Did you ever see two so nearly alike? The shepherd is fairer and of
slighter build, it is true; but they have the same eye, the same frown,
the same smile, the same motion of the shoulders, the same walk. Ah,
what if the young babe did not die after all?'
"Then Priam's daughter Cassandra, who has the gift of prophecy, cried
out, 'Oh, blind of eye and heart, that you cannot see in this young
shepherd the child whom you sent to sleep the sleep of death on Ida's
wooded slopes!'
"And so it came about, that Paris was taken into his father's house, and
given the place of honor which was his by right. And he forgot OEnone
his fair young wife, and left her to pine in loneliness among the woods
and in the narrow dells of sunny Ida."[1]
[1] See Note 8 at the end of this volume.
By this time the fire had burned low upon the hearth, and Cheiron the
master would fain have ended his talk. But Odysseus was anxious to hear
more.
"To-morrow," said he, "we must go back to Iolcos, for perchance the
ships of Peleus may then be ready to sail. So tell us, I pray you, yet
more about that strange wedding feast in the cavern halls of Pelion."
"There is little more to tell," said the master. "After the feast, King
Peleus went down with his bride into Phthia; and there his Myrmidons,
who had waited so long for his coming, rallied around him, ready to help
him in any undertaking. And they marched upon Iolcos, and entered the
gates, carrying all before them; and they slew King Acastus, and set
Peleus on his throne. Thus ended this hero's days of exile; and now for
seven years he has ruled Iolcos and Phthia both wisely and well; yet,
though you have found him at this season of the year in Iolcos, he loves
best his old home of Phthia, where dwell his Myrmidons."
"Please tell me about his son, fair young Achilles, who is here in your
hall," said Odysseus.
Cheiron answered briefly by telling him how the young lad's mother, the
sea nymph Thetis, had longed to make her son immortal; and how it was
said that she each night threw him into the fire to purge away whatever
mortal stains might cling to him; and how each day she anointed him with
ambrosia, and sang him to sleep with sweet lullabies of the sea.
"But one night," added Cheiron, "King Peleus happened to see the babe
lying in the fire; and in his fright he cried out, and snatched him from
the coals. Then Thetis sorrowfully gave up her plan; and the boy was
sent to me, that I might train him in all that goes to the making of a
man. There are those who say that I feed the lad on the hearts of
lions, and the marrow of bears and wild boars; and those may believe the
story who wish to do so. But I have lived long enough to know that
there are other and better ways of training up heroes and fitting them
for the strife of battle."
And thus the long talk with Cheiron, the wise master, ended; and
Odysseus retired to his couch, and was soon dreaming of far-away Ithaca
and of his anxious mother, who was even then hoping for his return.
The next morning the lad and his tutor went down the mountain; and,
following the pathway which Jason had taken when he went to claim his
birthright of Pelias, they came, in good time, back to Iolcos by the
sea. There they found that a ship was just making ready to sail for
Corinth; and bidding a hasty farewell to King Peleus, and to bold
Echion, who still tarried there, they embarked, and were soon well on
their way. The voyage was a long and hard one; but kind Athene favored
them, and Poseidon gave them smooth waters and many pleasant days upon
the sea. Nor were they delayed at Corinth; for they found waiting there
a ship, which Laertes had sent out on purpose to meet them and bring
them home. And so, before the autumn had closed, Odysseus, much wiser
and stronger than he was when he departed, gazed with glad eyes once
more upon the shores of sea-girt Ithaca.
_*ADVENTURE IX.*_
*THE SWINEHERD.*
When Odysseus stepped ashore upon the sandy beach of Ithaca, the good
people of the town, both young and old, had gathered there to welcome
him; and they sang a song of greeting like that with which they were
wont to meet their returning heroes. He staid only a moment to speak
with them. With winged feet he hastened to the hall where his queenly
mother waited for his coming. She threw her arms about him, and in the
fulness of her joy wept aloud; and she kissed his head and his eyes and
both his hands, and welcomed him as one saved from death.
"Thou hast come at last, Odysseus," she said. "The light is not more
sweet to me. I feared that I should never see thee more, when I heard
that thou hadst gone from Parnassus to distant Pelion. Come now, and
sit before me as of yore, and let me look into those eyes which have
been so long time away."
And Laertes, too, folded the boy in his arms, and kissed him, and plied
him with a thousand questions which he could not answer. Then, in the
halls of the king, a feast was made ready, and the day was given over to
music and merry-making; and all the people joined in offering thanks to
Pallas Athene, who had brought the wanderer safe home to his friends and
his kindred.
When the evening had come, and the guests had gone to their own homes,
Odysseus sat upon a low stool at his mother's feet, while she asked him
many questions about her aged sire Autolycus, and about the dear home of
her girlhood on the farther side of Mount Parnassus. And he told her of
all that she asked him, and of the wonderful things that he had seen and
heard in far-away lands and seas.
"But were you not afraid that evil would befall you, and that your eyes
would never more behold fair Ithaca?" asked his mother, tenderly
stroking his yellow hair.
"Nightly I prayed to Pallas Athene," answered the lad, "and she watched
kindly over me every hour. Who would be afraid when shielded and led by
so great a friend? Then, too, good Phemius questioned the Pythian
oracle about me; and the answer was such as to make me sure of safety.
It was this:--
'To home and kindred he shall safe return ere long,
With scars well-won, and greeted with triumphal song.'"
"Well," said Laertes, "the oracle doubtless spoke the truth. We know
that you have returned to your home, and that you have been greeted with
songs, but I fear you have yet to gain the scars."
"Not so, father," answered Odysseus. And then he showed them the great
white scar which the tusk of the wild boar had made upon his knee; and
he told them of the famous hunt in the woods of Parnassus, and of the
days of pain and enforced quiet which he had afterward spent on an
invalid's couch. And all those who listened to his story were struck
with the wisdom of his thoughts; and they wondered at the choice beauty
of the words which fell from his lips, soft and persuasive like the
flakes of snow on a quiet day in winter.
After this, many pleasant days came and passed. The simple-hearted folk
of Ithaca went about their tasks as of yore,--some tending their flocks
in the mountain pastures, some gathering the autumn fruits from the
overladen trees, and some twirling the spindle or plying the loom in
their humble homes. King Laertes himself worked early and late in his
vineyards or in his well-tilled orchard grounds; and Odysseus was often
with him, as busy as he, tending his own trees and vines. For, long
time before, when he was but a little child, the boy had walked through
these grounds with his father, and had asked the names of the trees. And
Laertes had not only answered the prattler, but had given him a whole
small orchard for his own: of pear trees, thirteen; of apple trees, ten;
of fig trees, forty; and he promised to give him fifty rows of vines,
each of which ripened at a different time, with all manner of clusters
on their boughs.
Sometimes Odysseus went out with other boys of his age, to ramble among
the hills and on the wooded mountain slopes. Sometimes they played at
ball in the open field, or loitered around the flowing spring whence the
people of the town drew water. This well had been digged and walled by
Ithacus and Neritus, the first settlers of the island; and close by it
was a thicket of reeds and alders, growing green and rank from the boggy
soil; while, on the rock from beneath which the ice-cold water gushed,
an altar had been built, where all wayfarers laid some offering for the
nymphs. This was a lovely spot; and in the heat of the day, the boys
would often sit in the cool shade of the trees, and play a quiet game
with pebbles, or talk about the noble deeds of the heroes.
Once they wandered far over the hills to the sheltered woodland where
the swine of Laertes were kept. There, near the rock called Corax, was
the spring of Arethusa, around which grew many great oak trees, yielding
abundance of acorns. There the slave Eumaeus lived in a humble lodge of
his own building, and fed and tended his master's swine, far from the
homes of other men.
When the swineherd saw Odysseus, and knew that he was the master's son,
he ran to welcome him and his comrades to his lowly home. He led them
to the lodge, and took them in, and strewed fragrant leaves upon the
floor, and stirred the blazing fire upon the hearth. Then he hastened to
the sties where the fattest young pigs were penned. Two of these he
killed and dressed; and when he had cut them in pieces, he roasted the
choicest parts on spits before the fire. Then he set the smoking food
upon a table before Odysseus and his comrades, and sprinkled it all over
with white barley-meal. After this, he mixed honey-sweet wine with
water in a wooden bowl, and sat down to the feast with them. Right
heartily did they eat and drink, and many were the pleasant jests that
were passed among them. When they had finished, Odysseus said,--
"Swineherd Eumaeus, you have fed us right nobly, and there is nothing
more welcome to tired and hungry boys than plenty of well-seasoned food.
Surely one who can serve so royally as you have done was not born a
slave?"
"Nor indeed was I," answered Eumaeus. "In my childhood I was a prince,
noble as yourself. But the Fates bring strange fortunes to some men,
and strangely have I been tossed about in the world."
"Do tell us," said Odysseus, "how this great change was made in your
life. Was the goodly town in which your father and your lady mother
dwelt, laid waste by an enemy? Or did unfriendly men find you in the
fields alone, and sell you to him who would pay the goodliest price?"
[Illustration: THE SWINEHERD TELLING HIS STORY TO ODYSSEUS.]
"Since you ask me for my story, young master," said Eumaeus, "I will
tell it you. But sit you here upon this couch of goat skins while you
listen, for I know that your long walk has wearied you.
"Far out in the sea there is an island called Syria, above which the sun
turns in its course. It is not very thickly peopled, but it is rich in
vineyards and wheatfields, and in pastures where thousands of cattle
graze. There no one ever goes hungry for lack of food, and sickness
never comes; but when men grow old, then silver-bowed Apollo, and
Artemis his huntress sister, strike them with their noiseless arrows,
and they cease to live. In that island stand two cities, fair and rich;
and over them both my father is sole lord and king. There, in his white
halls where care never enters, my infancy was passed; and never did I
dream of the hard lot which the pitiless Fates had decreed for me.
"One day there came to our island some Phoenician merchants, shrewd
seafaring men, intent on trade and profit. In their ship they brought
countless trinkets to barter with our folk for corn and wine; and they
moored their vessel in the harbor close to the shore. In my father's
house there dwelt a Phoenician slave-woman, tall and fair, and skilled
in needlework. And when the merchants knew that she spoke their
language, they asked her who she was and from whence she came.
"'In Sidon I was born,' she answered, 'and Arybas my father was one of
the wealthiest of Sidonian merchants. Once as I was walking on the
shore, a band of Taphian sea-robbers seized me unawares, and carried me
in their dark-hulled ship across the sea. They brought me to this
far-distant island, and sold me, for much gold, to the man who lives in
yonder palace.' And she pointed to my father's lofty dwelling.
"Then the merchants asked her if she would return with them to Sidon,
where she might again behold her father and mother, and the sweet home
of her girlhood. And she consented, only asking that they pledge
themselves to take her safely home.
"'Now say no more,' she said; 'and should any of you meet me on the road
or by the well, hold your tongues, and let no word be spoken between us.
But when you have sold your goods, and have filled your ship with corn
and wine, send some one to the house who shall tell me secretly. Then I
will hie me to your swift-sailing vessel, bringing gold wherewith to pay
my fare, and, if fortune favor, even more than gold. For I am nurse to
the little son of my master, a cunning prattler whom I often take with
me in my walks. I will bring him on board your ship, and when you have
reached some rich foreign land you can sell him for a goodly price.'
"And thus having settled upon a plan, the Phoenician woman went back to
my father's halls; and the merchants staid a whole year in our harbor,
and filled their ship with grain. But when at last they were ready to
sail, they sent a messenger to tell the woman. He came to our house with
many trinkets, bracelets, and golden necklaces, which pleased the eyes
of my lady mother and her maidens. And while they were looking, and
asking the price, he signed to my Phoenician nurse, and straightway
gathered up his goods, and hastened back to his fellows. When the sun
went down, the woman took my hand, and led me from the house as she had
often done before. Thoughtlessly I followed her to the shore where the
fast-sailing ship was moored. The Phoenicians took us both on board;
they hoisted the broad sail, and a brisk wind quickly carried us far
away from my home and friends. On the seventh day, Artemis the archer
queen smote the woman with her silent arrows, and her eyes saw no more
the sweet light of heaven. Then the crew cast her forth into the sea,
to be food for fishes and the sea calves; and I was left alone and
stricken with grief and fear. But the swift ship brought us ere long to
Ithaca, and there those who had stolen me bartered me to Laertes for a
goodly price. And that is why I am your father's thrall, and dwell here
lonely underneath these sheltering oaks."[1]
[1] See Note 9 at the end of this volume.
Such was the tale which the swineherd told Odysseus and his young
companions as they sat together in the lodge.
"I pity thee, Eumaeus," said the lad. "Thy story is indeed a sad one;
and, could I do so, I would gladly send thee back to far-off Syria where
thy mother sorrows even yet for thee."
"Alas!" answered the swineherd. "There is no hope. No ship will ever
sail through the unknown sea-ways which lead to my boyhood's home. My
life must be spent in this spot; yet I am happy in knowing that my
master is the kindest of men, and that I shall be well provided for.
Even a slave may find enjoyment if his heart be right; for it is the
mind, and not the force of outward things, that makes us rich and free."
_*ADVENTURE X.*_
*THE SEA ROBBERS OF MESSENE.*
Five years passed quietly by, and brought few changes to Ithaca. The
flocks still grazed in their mountain pastures; the orchard trees still
bent under their loads of ripening fruit; the vines still yielded their
treasures of purple and red. The simple-hearted islanders arose each
day with the coming of the dawn; they went about their tasks with
cheerfulness; they sang, and danced, and ate their accustomed meals, and
then with the coming of night they lay down to sleep: to them, all days
were alike, and life was but one pleasant round of duties. But King
Laertes, as he grew older, sought more and more the quiet of his farm
and garden; and, for the most part, he allowed his little kingdom to
take care of itself, and his subjects to do as they pleased.
And in these five years young Odysseus had become a man. He had grown
not so much in stature as in wisdom, nor yet so much in size of limb and
body as in strength of bone and muscle. There was nothing in his face
or figure that could be called handsome, and yet he was the pride of
Ithaca. For, in all the deeds and feats most worthy of men, he was
without a peer. In wrestling and leaping, in rowing and swimming, in
shooting with the bow, and in handling the heavy spear, there was no one
that could equal him. He was a very master of words; and when his
speech warmed into earnestness, the dullest hearer was spell-bound by
his eloquence. Even to the Achaian mainland and among the islands of
the sea, he was famed for his far-reaching shrewdness. Indeed, his
craftiness oftentimes outweighed his sense of honor; for, in that early
day, to outwit one's fellows even by fraud was thought to be
praiseworthy.
One evening in summer, four strange ships, with long black hulls, sailed
into the harbor at Ithaca, and were moored in the deep water close to
the shore. They were found to be manned by crews of seafarers from the
low-lying shores of Messene; and their captain brought greetings from
Orsilochus their king, and offered to barter silver and merchandise for
Ithacan wool and long-horned sheep. Laertes welcomed the strangers
warmly; and as the night was near, he advised that early on the morrow
they should bring their wares ashore, and allow his people to bargain
for what they needed most. And soon darkness covered all the ways, and
Ithaca was wrapped in slumber.