ARGUS THE HOUND DIES
Athene knew that if Odysseus went to the palace, the princes would
pretend that he was not the king, and would perhaps even slay him. So
she bade him go, not to the palace, but to the hut of his swineherd
Eumaeus, who had remained loyal to him and to his house.
That no one, not even the swineherd, might recognise the king, Athene
changed him into an old beggar man, with dirty, tattered garments.
In this miserable guise Odysseus reached the hut of Eumaeus. Now
Eumaeus believed that strangers were sent by Zeus, so he welcomed the
beggar and gave him food.
As he ate, the swineherd sat beside him, bewailing the absence of his
king, who had never returned from the Trojan War.
‘His name,’ said Eumaeus, ‘even though he is not here, it shameth me to
speak, for he loved me exceedingly, and cared for me at heart; nay, I
call him “worshipful,” albeit he is far from hence.’
Much, too, did the swineherd tell of Penelope, of Telemachus, and of
how the insolent suitors lived at the palace and wasted the king’s
goods. As Odysseus listened, he longed to go at once to the palace to
avenge his wrongs.
That night the king spent in the hut of his swineherd, lying before the
fire, while over him the swineherd flung a covering of goatskins. But
Eumaeus did not sleep. He cast over his shoulders a rough mantle, and
taking with him a sharp sword he went out to guard his herd of swine.
And the king was glad when he saw how well the swineherd cared for the
flocks of his absent lord.
In the morning, as Eumaeus kindled a fire and prepared breakfast for
the stranger, footsteps were heard without. Telemachus had returned to
Ithaca, having sought for his father in vain.
Eumaeus hastened to welcome his master’s son and ‘kissed him all over
as one escaped from death.’ Then he set before the prince the best that
his hut could provide.
When Telemachus had eaten and had drunk sweet wine out of a wooden
goblet, he bade Eumaeus hasten to the palace to tell his mother that he
had come safely home. So the swineherd took his sandals, bound them on
his feet and set out for the city. Odysseus and Telemachus were left
alone.
Then Athene came to the hut unseen, and changed Odysseus into his own
goodly form, bidding him tell Telemachus who he was.
At first the prince could not believe that this stranger, so strong, so
fair, was Odysseus. But when at length he knew that it was indeed his
father he embraced him, while tears of joy fell down his cheeks.
Then Athene bade them determine how the king should make himself known
to Penelope, and how the greedy and insolent suitors should be punished.
The father and son talked long together and they agreed that on the
morrow Telemachus should go to the palace, but to none, no, not even to
Penelope, was he to tell that Odysseus had returned.
The arms that hung in the hall of the palace the prince was to hide in
his own room, so that when the time for the king’s revenge should come
the suitors might find neither sword nor shield with which to defend
themselves. Odysseus was to follow his son to the palace when a few
hours had passed, disguised once more as a beggar.
So, on the morrow, Telemachus set out for the palace. As he entered the
hall the first to see him was his father’s old nurse Eurycleia. She
was busy spreading the skins upon the oaken chairs, but she left her
work and ran to greet the prince, ‘kissing him lovingly on the head and
shoulders.’
Penelope, too, coming from her chamber, saw him, and cast her arms
about her dear son and fell a-weeping, and kissed his face and both his
beautiful eyes. ‘Thou art come, Telemachus,’ she said, ‘a sweet light
in the dark. Methought I should never see thee again.’
While Telemachus was still telling his lady-mother all that had
befallen him in his search for his father, the beggar, with Eumaeus by
his side, entered the court of the palace.
In the court lay Argus, the great hound that Odysseus himself had
trained ere he went to Troy. Old was he now and despised, for no longer
could he run in the hunt, swift as the wind. The princes had banished
him from the hall, while by the servants he was spurned.
As the beggar drew near, Argus raised his head, looked at the stranger,
and began to wag his tail to show his joy. For rags could not hide his
master from the faithful hound.
Odysseus turned his head away, that Eumaeus might not see his tears.
‘Surely a hound so noble as this should not lie thus neglected in the
yard,’ he said to the swineherd.
‘In very truth,’ answered Eumaeus, ‘this is the dog of a man that has
died in a far land. If he were what once he was in limb and in the
feats of the chase, when Odysseus left him to go to Troy, soon wouldst
thou marvel at the sight of his swiftness and his strength. There was
no beast that could flee from him in the deep places of the wood when
he was in pursuit of prey.’
As the king and the swineherd passed on into the palace, Argus fell
back content to die, for after watching and waiting for twenty years he
had seen his master once again.