BULFINCH’S MYTHOLOGY

THE AGE OF FABLE

OR STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES

by Thomas Bulfinch

[1855]

CHAPTER XXX

THE PHAEACIANS – FATE OF THE SUITORS

THE PHAEACIANS

ULYSSES clung to the raft while any of its timbers kept together,
and when it no longer yielded him support, binding the girdle around
him, he swam. Minerva smoothed the billows before him and sent him a
wind that rolled the waves towards the shore. The surf beat high on
the rocks and seemed to forbid approach; but at length finding calm
water at the mouth of a gentle stream, he landed, spent with toil,
breathless and speechless and almost dead. After some time,
reviving, he kissed the soil, rejoicing, yet at a loss what course
to take. At a short distance he perceived a wood to which he turned
his steps. There, finding a covert sheltered by intermingling branches
alike from the sun and the rain, he collected a pile of leaves and
formed a bed, on which he stretched himself, and heaping the leaves
over him, fell asleep.

The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the
Phaeacians. These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopses; but
being oppressed by that savage race, they migrated to the isle of
Scheria, under the conduct of Nausithous, their king. They were, the
poet tells us, a people akin to the gods, who appeared manifestly
and feasted among them when they offered sacrifices and did not
conceal themselves from solitary wayfarers when they met them. They
had abundance of wealth and lived in the enjoyment of it undisturbed
by the alarms of war, for as they dwelt remote from gain-seeking
men, no enemy ever approached their shores, and they did not even
require to make use of bows and quivers. Their chief employment was
navigation. Their ships, which went with the velocity of birds, were
endued with intelligence; they knew every port and needed no pilot.
Alcinous, the son of Nausithous, was now their king, a wise and just
sovereign, beloved by his people.

Now it happened that the very night on which Ulysses was cast ashore
on the Phaeacian island, and while he lay sleeping on his bed of
leaves, Nausicaa, the daughter of the king, had a dream sent by
Minerva, reminding her that her wedding-day was not far distant, and
that it would be but a prudent preparation for that event to have a
general washing of the clothes of the family. This was no slight
affair, for the fountains were at some distance, and the garments must
be carried thither. On awaking, the princess hastened to her parents
to tell them what was on her mind; not alluding to her wedding-day,
but finding other reasons equally good. Her father readily assented
and ordered the grooms to furnish forth a wagon for the purpose. The
clothes were put therein, and the queen mother placed in the wagon,
likewise, an abundant supply of food and wine. The princess took her
seat and plied the lash, her attendant virgins following her on
foot. Arrived at the river side, they turned out the mules to graze,
and unlading the carriage, bore the garments down to the water, and
working with cheerfulness and alacrity, soon despatched their
labour. Then having spread the garments on the shore to dry, and
having themselves bathed, they sat down to enjoy their meal; after
which they rose and amused themselves with a game of ball, the
princess singing to them while they played. But when they had refolded
the apparel and were about to resume their way to the town, Minerva
caused the ball thrown by the princess to fall into the water, whereat
they all screamed and Ulysses awaked at the sound.

Now we must picture to ourselves Ulysses, a shipwrecked mariner, but
a few hours escaped from the waves, and utterly destitute of clothing,
awaking and discovering that only a few bushes were interposed between
him and a group of young maidens whom, by their deportment and attire,
he discovered to be not mere peasant girls, but of a higher class.
Sadly needing help, how could he yet venture, naked as he was, to
discover himself and make his wants known? It certainly was a case
worthy of the interposition of his patron goddess Minerva, who never
failed him at a crisis. Breaking off a leafy branch from a tree, he
held it before him and stepped out from the thicket. The virgins at
sight of him fled in all directions, Nausicaa alone excepted, for
her Minerva aided and endowed with courage and discernment. Ulysses,
standing respectfully aloof, told his sad case, and besought the
fair object (whether queen or goddess he professed he knew not) for
food and clothing. The princess replied courteously, promising present
relief and her father’s hospitality when he should become acquainted
with the facts. She called back her scattered maidens, chiding their
alarm, and reminding them that the Phaeacians had no enemies to
fear. This man, she told them, was an unhappy wanderer, whom it was
a duty to cherish, for the poor and stranger are from Jove. She bade
them bring food and clothing, for some of her brothers’ garments
were among the contents of the wagon. When this was done, and Ulysses,
retiring to a sheltered place, had washed his body free from the
sea-foam, clothed and refreshed himself with food, Pallas dilated
his form and diffused grace over his ample chest and manly brows.

The princess, seeing him, was filled with admiration, and scrupled
not to say to her damsels that she wished the gods would send her such
a husband. To Ulysses she recommended that he should repair to the
city, following herself and train so far as the way lay through the
fields; but when they should approach the city she desired that he
would no longer be seen in her company, for she feared the remarks
which rude and vulgar people might make on seeing her return
accompanied by such a gallant stranger. To avoid which she directed
him to stop at a grove adjoining the city, in which were a farm and
garden belonging to the king. After allowing time for the princess and
her companions to reach the city, he was then to pursue his way
thither, and would be easily guided by any he might meet to the
royal abode.

Ulysses obeyed the directions and in due time proceeded to the city,
on approaching which he met a young woman bearing a pitcher forth
for water. It was Minerva, who had assumed that form. Ulysses accosted
her and desired to be directed to the palace of Alcinous the king. The
maiden replied respectfully, offering to be his guide; for the palace,
she informed him, stood near her father’s dwelling. Under the guidance
of the goddess, and by her power enveloped in a cloud which shielded
him from observation, Ulysses passed among the busy crowd, and with
wonder observed their harbour, their ships, their forum (the resort of
heroes), and their battlements, till they came to the palace, where
the goddess, having first given him some information of the country,
king, and people he was about to meet, left him. Ulysses, before
entering the courtyard of the palace, stood and surveyed the scene.
Its splendour astonished him. Brazen walls stretched from the entrance
to the interior house, of which the doors were gold, the doorposts
silver, the lintels silver ornamented with gold. On either side were
figures of mastiffs wrought in gold and silver, standing in rows as if
to guard the approach. Along the walls were seats spread through all
their length with mantles of finest texture, the work of Phaeacian
maidens. On these seats the princes sat and feasted, while golden
statues of graceful youths held in their hands lighted torches which
shed radiance over the scene. Full fifty female menials served in
household offices, some employed to grind the corn, others to wind off
the purple wool or ply the loom. For the Phaeacian women as far
exceeded all other women in household arts as the mariners of that
country did the rest of mankind in the management of ships. Without
the court a spacious garden lay, four acres in extent. In it grew many
a lofty tree, pomegranate, pear, apple, fig, and olive. Neither
winter’s cold nor summer’s drought arrested their growth, but they
flourished in constant succession, some budding while others were
maturing. The vineyard was equally prolific. In one quarter you
might see the vines, some in blossom, some loaded with ripe grapes,
and in another observe the vintagers treading the wine press. On the
garden’s borders flowers of all hues bloomed all the year round,
arranged with neatest art. In the midst two fountains poured forth
their waters, one flowing by artificial channels over all the
garden, the other conducted through the courtyard of the palace,
whence every citizen might draw his supplies.

Ulysses stood gazing in admiration, unobserved himself, for the
cloud which Minerva spread around him still shielded him. At length,
having sufficiently observed the scene, he advanced with rapid step
into the hall where the chiefs and senators were assembled, pouring
libation to Mercury, whose worship followed the evening meal. Just
then Minerva dissolved the cloud and disclosed him to the assembled
chiefs. Advancing to the place where the queen sat, he knelt at her
feet and implored her favour and assistance to enable him to return to
his native country. Then withdrawing, he seated himself in the
manner of suppliants, at the hearth side.

For a time none spoke. At last an aged statesman, addressing the
king, said, “It is not fit that a stranger who asks our hospitality
should be kept waiting in suppliant guise, none welcoming him. Let him
therefore be led to a seat among us and supplied with food and
wine.” At these words the king rising gave his hand to Ulysses and led
him to a seat, displacing thence his own son to make room for the
stranger. Food and wine were set before him and he ate and refreshed
himself.

The king then dismissed his guests, notifying them that the next day
he would call them to council to consider what had best be done for
the stranger.

When the guests had departed and Ulysses was left alone with the
king and queen, the queen asked him who he was and whence he came, and
(recognizing the clothes which he wore as those which her maidens
and herself had made) from whom he received those garments. He told
them of his residence in Calypso’s isle and his departure thence; of
the wreck of his raft, his escape by swimming, and of the relief
afforded by the princess. The parents heard approvingly, and the
king promised to furnish a ship in which his guest might return to his
own land.

The next day the assembled chiefs confirmed the promise of the king.
A bark was prepared and a crew of stout rowers selected, and all
betook themselves to the palace, where a bounteous repast was
provided. After the feast the king proposed that the young men
should show their guest their proficiency in manly sports, and all
went forth to the arena for games of running, wrestling, and other
exercises. After all had done their best, Ulysses being challenged
to show what he could do, at first declined, but being taunted by
one of the youths, seized a quoit of weight far heavier than any of
the Phaeacians had thrown, and sent it farther than the utmost throw
of theirs. All were astonished, and viewed their guest with greatly
increased respect.

After the games they returned to the hall, and the herald led in
Demodocus, the blind bard,

“…Dear to the Muse,
Who yet appointed him both good and ill,
Took from his sight, but gave him strains divine.”

He took for his theme the “Wooden Horse,” by means of which the
Greeks found entrance into Troy. Apollo inspired him, and he sang so
feelingly the terrors and the exploits of that eventful time that
all were delighted, but Ulysses was moved to tears. Observing which,
Alcinous, when the song was done, demanded of him why at the mention
of Troy his sorrows awaked. Had he lost there a father, or brother, or
any dear friend? Ulysses replied by announcing himself by his true
name, and at their request, recounted the adventures which had
befallen him since his departure from Troy. This narrative raised
the sympathy and admiration of the Phaeacians for their guest to the
highest pitch. The king proposed that all the chiefs should present
him with a gift, himself setting the example. They obeyed, and vied
with one another in loading the illustrious stranger with costly
gifts.

The next day Ulysses set sail in the Phaeacian vessel, and in a
short time arrived safe at Ithaca, his own island. When the vessel
touched the strand he was asleep. The mariners, without waking him,
carried him on shore, and landed with him the chest containing his
presents, and then sailed away.

Neptune was so displeased at the conduct of the Phaeacians in thus
rescuing Ulysses from his hands that on the return of the vessel to
port he transformed it into a rock, right opposite the mouth of the
harbour.

Homer’s description of the ships of the Phaeacians has been
thought to look like an anticipation of the wonders of modern steam
navigation. Alcinous says to Ulysses,

“Say from what city, from what regions tossed,
And what inhabitants those regions boast?
So shalt thou quickly reach the realm assigned,
In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind;
No helm secures their course, no pilot guides;
Like man intelligently they plough the tides,
Conscious of every coast and every bay
That lies beneath the sun’s all-seeing ray.”
Odyssey, Book VIII.

Lord Carlisle, in his “Diary in the Turkish and Greek Waters,”
thus speaks of Corfu, which he considers to be the ancient Phaeacian
island:

“The sites explain the ‘Odyssey.’ The temple of the sea-god could
not have been more fitly placed, upon a grassy platform of the most
elastic turf, on the brow of a crag commanding the harbour, and
channel, and ocean. Just at the entrance of the inner harbour there is
a picturesque rock with a small convent perched upon it, which by
one legend is the transformed pinnace of Ulysses.

“Almost the only river in the island is just at the proper
distance from the probable site of the city and palace of the king, to
justify the princess Nausicaa having had resort to her chariot and
to luncheon when she went with the maidens of the court to wash
their garments.”

FATE OF THE SUITORS

Ulysses had now been away from Ithaca for twenty years, and when
he awoke he did not recognize his native land. Minerva appeared to him
in the form of a young shepherd, informed him where he was, and told
him the state of things at his palace. More than a hundred nobles of
Ithaca and of the neighbouring islands had been for years suing for
the hand of Penelope, his wife, imagining him dead, and lording it
over his palace and people, as if they were owners of both. That he
might be able to take vengeance upon them, it was important that he
should not be recognized. Minerva accordingly metamorphosed him into
an unsightly beggar, and as such he was kindly received by Eumaeus,
the swine-herd, a faithful servant of his house.

Telemachus, his son, was absent in quest of his father. He had
gone to the courts of the other kings, who had returned from the
Trojan expedition. While on the search, he received counsel from
Minerva to return home. He arrived and sought Eumaeus to learn
something of the state of affairs at the palace before presenting
himself among the suitors. Finding a stranger with Eumaeus, he treated
him courteously, though in the garb of a beggar, and promised him
assistance. Eumaeus was sent to the palace to inform Penelope
privately of her son’s arrival, for caution was necessary with
regard to the suitors, who, as Telemachus had learned, were plotting
to intercept and kill him. When Eumaeus was gone, Minerva presented
herself to Ulysses, and directed him to make himself known to his son.
At the same time she touched him, removed at once from him the
appearance of age and penury, and gave him the aspect of vigorous
manhood that belonged to him. Telemachus viewed him with astonishment,
and at first thought he must be more than mortal. But Ulysses
announced himself as his father, and accounted for the change of
appearance by explaining that it was Minerva’s doing.

“…Then threw Telemachus
His arms around his father’s neck and wept.
Desire intense of lamentation seized.
On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged
His grief.”

The father and son took counsel together how they should get the
better of the suitors and punish them for their outrages. It was
arranged that Telemachus should proceed to the palace and mingle
with the suitors as formerly; that Ulysses should also go as a beggar,
a character which in the rude old times had different privileges
from what we concede to it now. As traveller and storyteller, the
beggar was admitted in the halls of chieftains, and often treated like
a guest; though sometimes, also, no doubt, with contumely. Ulysses
charged his son not to betray, by any display of unusual interest in
him, that he knew him to be other than he seemed, and even if he saw
him insulted, or beaten, not to interpose otherwise than he might do
for any stranger. At the palace they found the usual scene of feasting
and riot going on. The suitors pretended to receive Telemachus with
joy at his return, though secretly mortified at the failure of their
plots to take his life. The old beggar was permitted to enter, and
provided with a portion from the table. A touching incident occurred
as Ulysses entered the courtyard of the palace. An old dog lay in
the yard almost dead with age, and seeing a stranger enter, raised his
head, with ears erect. It was Argus, Ulysses’ own dog, that he had
in other days often led to the chase.

“…Soon as he perceived
Long-lost Ulysses nigh, down fell his ears
Clapped close, and with his tall glad sign he gave
Of gratulation, impotent to rise,
And to approach his master as of old.
Ulysses, noting him, wiped off a tear
Unmarked.
…Then his destiny released
Old Argus, soon as he had lived to see
Ulysses in the twentieth year restored.”

As Ulysses sat eating his portion in the hall, the suitors began
to exhibit their insolence to him. When he mildly remonstrated, one of
them raised a stool and with it gave him a blow. Telemachus had hard
work to restrain his indignation at seeing his father so treated in
his own hall, but remembering his father’s injunctions, said no more
than what became him as master of the house, though young, and
protector of his guests.

Penelope had protracted her decision in favour of either of her
suitors so long that there seemed to be no further pretence for delay.
The continued absence of her husband seemed to prove that his return
was no longer to be expected. Meanwhile her son had grown up, and
was able to manage his own affairs. She therefore consented to
submit the question of her choice to a trial of skill among the
suitors. The test selected was shooting with the bow. Twelve rings
were arranged in a line, and he whose arrow was sent through the whole
twelve was to have the queen for his prize. A bow that one of his
brother heroes had given to Ulysses in former times was brought from
the armoury, and with its quiver full of arrows was laid in the
hall. Telemachus had taken care that all other weapons should be
removed, under pretence that in the heat of competition there was
danger, in some rash moment, of putting them to an improper use.

All things being prepared for the trial, the first thing to be
done was to bend the bow in order to attach the string. Telemachus
endeavoured to do it, but found all his efforts fruitless; and
modestly confessing that he had attempted a task beyond his
strength, he yielded the bow to another. He tried it with no better
success, and, amidst the laughter and jeers of his companions, gave it
up. Another tried it and another; they rubbed the bow with tallow, but
all to no purpose; it would not bend. Then spoke Ulysses, humbly
suggesting that he should be permitted to try; for, said he, “beggar
as I am, I was once a soldier, and there is still some strength in
these old limbs of mine.” The suitors hooted with derision, and
commanded to turn him out of the hall for his insolence. But
Telemachus spoke up for him, and, merely to gratify the old man,
bade him try. Ulysses took the bow, and handled it with the hand of
a master. With ease he adjusted the cord to its notch, then fitting an
arrow to the bow be drew the string and sped the arrow unerring
through the rings.

Without allowing them time to express their astonishment, he said,
“Now for another mark!” and aimed direct at the most insolent one of
the suitors. The arrow pierced through his throat and he fell dead.
Telemachus, Eumaeus, and another faithful follower, well armed, now
sprang to the side of Ulysses. The suitors, in amazement, looked round
for arms, but found none, neither was there any way of escape, for
Eumaeus had secured the door. Ulysses left them not long in
uncertainty; he announced himself as the long-lost chief, whose
house they had invaded, whose substance they had squandered, whose
wife and son they had persecuted for ten long years; and told them
he meant to have ample vengeance. All were slain, and Ulysses was left
master of his palace and possessor of his kingdom and his wife.

Tennyson’s poem of “Ulysses” represents the old hero, after his
dangers past and nothing left but to stay at home and be happy,
growing tired of inaction and resolving to set forth again in quest of
new adventures:

“…Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles whom we knew;” etc.