I
Menelaus was keeping the double marriage feast of his son and
daughter, and his house was thronged with wedding guests. All sat
silent and attentive, listening to the strains of a harper, and
watching the gambols of a pair of tumblers, who were whirling in giddy
reels round the hall. Presently voices were heard at the entrance, and
one of the squires of Menelaus came and informed his master that two
strangers of noble mien were standing without, craving hospitality.
"Shall I bring them in," asked the squire, "or send them on to another
house?"
"Hast thou lost thy wits?" answered Menelaus in some heat, being
touched in his most sensitive point. "Shall we, who owe so much to the
kindness of strangers, in the long years of our wanderings, send any
man from our doors? Unyoke the horses, and bid our new guests enter."
Four or five servants hastened to do his bidding. The horses, covered
with sweat from their hard journey, were unyoked and led into the
stable, and Telemachus, with his companion, was ushered with all
courtesy into the great hall of Menelaus. The palace was one of the
wealthiest and most splendid in Greece; and Telemachus, accustomed to
a much humbler style of dwelling, stood amazed at the glories which
met his eyes. After bathing and changing their raiment they returned
to the hall, and were assigned places close to the chair of Menelaus.
The prince greeted them kindly, and said: "Welcome to our halls, young
sirs. Ye are, as I see, of no mean descent, for Zeus has set his stamp
on your faces,[1] and none can mistake the signs of kingly birth. When
ye have eaten, we will inquire of you further."
[Footnote 1: In Homer, all kings and their families are supposed to be
descended from Zeus.]
A plentiful and delicate meal was promptly set before the young
travellers, and they ate and drank with keen appetite. When they had
finished, Telemachus said to Pisistratus, speaking low, that he might
not be overheard: "Dear son of Nestor, is not this a brave place! Hast
thou ever seen such lavish ornament of silver, and gold, and ivory?
Surely such is the dwelling of Olympian Zeus; more magnificent it can
hardly be."
The quick ear of Menelaus caught his last words, and he answered,
smiling: "Nay, my friend, no mortal may vie with the everlasting
glories of Zeus. But whether any man can equal me in riches, I know
not. For indeed I wandered far and long to gather all this treasure,
to Cyprus, and Phoenicia, and Egypt, to Æthiopia, and Sidon, and the
Afric shore, a land unmatched in its countless multitudes of sheep.
There the ewes bring forth young three times a year, and the poorest
shepherd has abundance of cheese, and flesh, and milk. From all these
lands I gathered many a costly freight, and now I dwell in the midst
of plenty. Nevertheless my heart is sad, when I think of all that I
have lost. Had I returned home straight from Troy, I should have come
back a poor man, for my house had gone to waste in my absence; but I
should not have had to mourn for the death of my brother, struck down,
as doubtless ye have heard, by a murderer's hand. And then the thought
lies heavy upon me of all those who fell in my cause at Troy, and
especially of one who was dear to me above all, Odysseus, ever the
foremost in every toil and adventure. His image haunts me by day and
by night, marring my slumbers, and making my food taste bitter in my
mouth. He was a man of many woes, and sorrowful is the lot of his wife
Penelope and Telemachus his son."
At this mention of his father Telemachus could not control his tears,
but covered his face with his mantle, and wept without restraint.
Menelaus saw his emotion, and began to suspect who he was; but for the
present he said nothing.
A slight stir was now heard at the back of the hall, and a low murmur
went round among the guests, who whispered to each other: "The Queen!
The Queen!" And in she came softly, with slow and stately step, Helen,
the daughter of Tyndareus, and wife of Menelaus, fairest among all the
high-born dames of Greece. Her wondrous beauty was now ripened into
matronly perfection, but now and then a shadow seemed to pass over her
face, like the ghost of an old sin, long repented and forgiven. A
handmaid set a chair for her, throwing over it a soft rug, and brought
a footstool for her feet, while another bare a silver basket, with
rims of gold, and placed it ready, filled with purple yarn. When Helen
was seated, she gazed long and earnestly at Telemachus, and then,
turning to her husband, she said; "Menelaus, shall I utter the thought
which is in my heart? Nay, speak I must. Ne'er saw I such a likeness,
either in man or woman, as is the likeness of this fair youth to
Odysseus. Surely this is Telemachus, whom he left an infant in Ithaca
when the host was summoned to Troy to fight in a worthless woman's
cause."
"I have marked it too," answered Menelaus. "Such were his very hands
and feet, and the carriage of his head, and the glance of his eye.
Moreover, when I made mention of Odysseus he covered his face, and
wept full sore."
Telemachus was still too much distressed to speak, and Pisistratus had
to answer for him: "Thou sayest truly, my lord; it is Telemachus
himself. Nestor sent me with him to inquire of thee, and crave counsel
of thy wisdom. He is left like an orphan in his home, with none to aid
him, and take his father's place."
Then Menelaus drew near to Telemachus, and taking his hand kindly
said: "Welcome again, and thrice welcome to these halls, thou son of
my trustiest friend and helper! It was the dream of my life to bring
Odysseus and all his household from Ithaca, and give him a home and a
city in this land, that we might grow old together in friendship and
loving-kindness, never to be parted until death. But envious heaven
has blighted my hopes and hindered his return."
At these sad words every eye was moist, and all sat silent, absorbed
in sorrowful memories. Pisistratus was the first to speak, and his
words roused the rest from their melancholy mood. "Son of Atreus," he
said, "my father has often spoken of thy wisdom, and perchance it has
taught thee that sorrow is an ill guest at a banquet. The dead,
indeed, claim their due, and he would be hard-hearted who would grudge
them the poor tribute of a tear. But we cannot mourn for ever, even
for such a one as my brother Antilochus, whom I never saw, but thou
knewest him well, stout in battle, and swift in the pursuit."
"'Tis well said," replied Menelaus. "Thou art wise beyond thy years,
and a true son of Nestor. Happy is he, beyond the common lot of men,
and smooth and fair runs the thread of his Destiny. He dwells in a
green old age in his father's house, and sees his sons growing up
around him, true heirs of his valour and prudence. Now let us banish
care, and get to our supper, for the day is far spent, and we have
matter for talk which will last us all the morrow."
When they had finished eating, and the cups were about to be
replenished, Helen rose from her seat, and, whispering a few words to
the cupbearer, left the hall. In a few minutes she returned, carrying
in her hand a small phial, whose contents she poured into the great
mixing-bowl from which the cups were filled. "Now, drink," she said,
"and fear not that black care will pay us a second visit to-night. I
have poured into the wine a drug of wondrous potency and virtue, which
was given me in Egypt by Polydamna, the wife of Thon. Many such drugs
the soil of Egypt bears, some baneful and some good. And the Egyptians
are skilled in such craft beyond all mankind. He who drinks of this
drug will be armed for that day against all the assaults of sorrow,
and will not shed one tear, though his father and mother were to die,
no, not though he saw his brother or his son slain before his eyes. So
mighty is the virtue of this drug." And when they had drunk of the
magic potion Helen began again: "'Tis now the witching hour, when all
hearts are opened, and the burden of life presses lightest on men's
shoulders. Come, let me tell you a story, one among many, of the deeds
and the hardihood of Odysseus. It was in the days of the siege, and
the Trojans were kept close prisoners in their city by the leaguer of
the Greeks. Then he disguised himself as a beggar, clothed himself in
filthy rags, and marred his goodly person with cruel stripes. In such
fashion he entered the foemen's walls, as if he were a slave flying
from a hard master.[1] And I alone in all the city knew who he was. So
I brought him to my house, and began to question him; but he made as
if he understood not. But when I entertained him as an honoured guest,
and swore a solemn oath not to betray him, he trusted me, and declared
all the purpose of the Greeks. At dead of night he stole out into the
town, and, having slain many of the Trojans with the edge of the
sword, he went back to the camp, and brought much information to his
friends.
[Footnote 1: Compare the stratagem of Zopyrus, in "Stories from Greek
History."]
"When morning came, the voice of wailing rose high in the streets of
Troy; but my heart rejoiced, for I was filled with longing for my
home, and my eyes were opened to the folly which I had wrought by the
beguilement of Aphrodite, when I left my fatherland and broke faith
with my lord."
"Tis a good story, and thou hast told it well, fair wife," said
Menelaus. "Now hear my tale. It was the time when I and the other
champions were shut up in the wooden horse; and Odysseus was with us.
Then thou camest thither, led, I suppose, by some god, hostile to
Greece, who wished to work our ruin; and Deiphobus followed thee.
Three times thou didst pace around our hollow ambush, feeling it with
thy hands, and calling aloud to the princes of Greece by name; and thy
voice was like the voice of all their wives. There we sat, I, and
Diomede, and the rest, and heard thee calling. Now I and Diomede were
minded to answer thee, or to go forth and confer with thee; but
Odysseus suffered it not, and when one of our number was about to lift
up his voice he pressed his hands on that foolish mouth, and
restrained him by force until thou hadst left the place. And so he
saved all our lives."
"Yes," said Telemachus, "he had a heart of iron. But what has it
availed him? It could not save him from ruin. Howbeit, no more of
this; 'tis time to go to rest and forget our cares in sleep."