With a strange elation of spirits Telemachus returned to the hall, and
sat down among the suitors. Hitherto he had shown a certain weakness
and indecision of character, natural in a young lad, who had grown up
without the strong guiding hand of a father, and who, since the first
dawn of his manhood, had been surrounded by a host of subtle foes. But
the words of Athene have gone home, and he resolves that from this
hour he will take his proper place in the house as his mother's
guardian and the heir of a great prince.
There was an unwonted stillness among that lawless troop, and they sat
silent and attentive in the great, dimly lighted chamber. For the
minstrel was singing a sweet and solemn strain, which told of the
home-coming of the Greeks from Troy, and of all the disasters which
befell them on the way. Suddenly the singer paused in the midst of his
lay, for his fine ear had caught the sound of a sobbing sigh. Looking
round, he saw a tall and stately lady standing in the doorway which
led to the women's apartments at the back of the house. She was
closely veiled, but he instantly recognised the form of Penelope, his
beloved mistress.
"Phemius," said Penelope, in a tone of gentle reproach, "hast thou no
other lay to sing, but must needs recite this tale of woe, which fills
my soul with tears, by calling up the image of him for whom I sorrow
night and day?"
Phemius stood abashed, and ventured no reply; but Telemachus answered
for him. "Mother," he said, "blame not the sweet minstrel for his
song. The bard is not the author of the woes of which he sings, but
Zeus assigns to each his portion of good and ill; and thou must submit
to his ordinance, like many another lady who has lost her lord. Thou
hast thy province in the house, and I mine; thine is to govern thy
handmaids, and mine to take the lead where the men are gathered
together. And I say that the minstrel has chosen well."
There was a new note of command in the voice of Telemachus as he
uttered these words. Penelope heard it, and wondered what change had
come over her son; but a hundred bold eyes were gazing insolently at
her, and without another word she turned away, and ascended the steep
stairs which led to her bower. There she reclined on a couch, and her
tears flowed freely; for the song of Phemius had reopened the fountain
of her grief. Presently the sound of sobbing died away, and she drew
her breath gently in a sweet and placid sleep.
The sudden appearance of Penelope had excited the suitors, and they
began to brawl noisily among themselves. Presently Telemachus raised
his voice, commanding silence for the minstrel. "And I have something
else to say unto you," he added. "To-morrow at dawn I bid you come to
the place of assembly, that we may make an end of these wild doings in
my house. I will bear it no longer, but will publish your evil deeds
to the ears of gods and men."
Among the suitors there was a certain Antinous, a tall and stout
fellow, of commanding presence, who was looked up to by the others as
a sort of leader, being the boldest and most brutal in the band. And
now he answered for the rest "Heaven speed thy boasting, young
braggart!" he cried in rude and jeering tones. "It will be a happy day
for the men of Ithaca when they have thee for their king."
"I claim not the kingdom," answered Telemachus firmly, "but I am
resolved to be master in my own house."
By the side of Antinous sat Eurymachus, who was next to him in power
and rank. This was a smooth and subtle villain, not less dangerous
than Antinous, but glib and plausible of speech. And he too made
answer after his kind: "Telemachus, thou sayest well, and none can
dispute thy right. But with thy good leave I would ask thee concerning
the stranger. He seemed a goodly man; but why did he start up and
leave us so suddenly? Did he bring any tidings of thy father?"
"There can be no tidings of him," answered Telemachus sadly, "except
that we shall never see him again. And as to this stranger, it was
Mentes, a friend of my father's, and prince of the Taphians."
Night was now coming on, the suitors departed to their homes, and
Telemachus, who meditated an early start next day, retired early to
his chamber. The room where he slept stood in the courtyard, apart
from the house, and was reached by a stairway. He was attended by an
aged dame, Eurycleia, who had nursed him in his infancy. And all night
long he lay sleepless, pondering on the perils and the adventures
which awaited him.