They heard sounds of revelry within. The voice of a singer was accompanied by the sweet tones of a stringed instrument, and through the open gateway they saw a crowd of guests in the centre of which two dancers were moving in time to the music. This was a great day in Menelaus’ palace. The old hero was celebrating the marriage of two of his children. There was so much noise and confusion within that the clatter of the chariot had not been noticed. A servant by chance saw the strangers at the gate. “Two strange youths of kingly mien are without. Shall I unharness their horses,” he asked, “or shall I bid them drive on to seek hospitality elsewhere?”
“What!” cried Menelaus angrily, “how canst thou ask such childish questions. Have we not ourselves received many gifts and been kindly entertained amongst strangers? Go quickly, take out the horses, and bring the men in to the feast!”
The servant obeyed, and Telemachus and Pisistratus were conducted into the hall. They were astonished at the splendor of the palace, for Menelaus had returned with great possessions. Maid servants conducted them to the bath, and when they had anointed themselves, they donned their tunics and cloaks and took their places on raised seats beside the host. Servants appeared at once with small tables and food. One poured water over their hands from a golden ewer into a silver basin, while another brought wine, meat, and bread. “Now eat and drink with us,” cried Menelaus; “afterward shall you tell me who you are, for I perceive that ye are no common men.” With these words he placed a fine fat piece of roast, his own special portion, upon their plates, and the youths found it a delicious morsel.
Menelaus gazed at them intently. He remarked with satisfaction that they were astonished at the magnificence of his hall and of the utensils, and he saw how they called each other’s attention secretly to new objects. This induced him to speak of his travels, of the perils to which he had been exposed for eight years after the Trojan war, and of the persons he had met who had presented him with the costly objects by which he was now surrounded. In his recital he often referred to the hardships of the Trojan war, while the mention of the ignominious death of his brother, Agamemnon, caused him to shed bitter tears. “But,” he continued, “I would bear all this with patience if only I might have kept my friend, dearer to me than all the rest, the noble Ulysses, with whom I have shared good and evil days! Or if I but knew that he was safe and could have him near me! I would endow him with a city that we might live side by side and commune with each other daily until death should part us. But the gods alone know whether he is alive or dead. Perhaps his old father, his chaste wife, and his son Telemachus are even now mourning him as dead!”
Telemachus hid his tears behind his cloak. Menelaus saw this and was uncertain whether to question him or to leave him to his grief. Just then his spouse, the once beautiful Helen, entered the hall accompanied by her maidens, one of whom brought her a chair, another carried the soft woollen carpet for her feet, a third her silver work basket. She seated herself near the strangers, observed them attentively, and then said to her husband: “Hast thou inquired the names of our guests? I should say that two people were never more alike than this youth is unto the noble Ulysses.”
“Indeed it is true,” answered the hero. “He has the hands, the feet, the eyes, and hair of Ulysses. And just now while I was speaking of our old friend, the hot tears sprang from the youth’s lids and he hid his face in the folds of his purple mantle.”
“Thou art quite right, Menelaus, godlike ruler,” interrupted Pisistratus. “This is truly the son of Ulysses, but he is a modest youth and did not wish to make himself known at once with boastful speech. My father, Nestor, hath sent me with him thither that thou mightest give him tidings of his noble father and advice, for he is sore beset at home and there is none among the people to rise up and avert disaster from him.”
Menelaus would now have rejoiced over the youth had not sad memories of his lost friend overwhelmed him. He wept, Helen also, and Telemachus still sobbed, while young Pisistratus was much moved. For a while they gave themselves up to their grief until Menelaus proposed that they should talk the matter over on the morrow and should now banish these sorrowful thoughts and return to the feast. This sensible advice was approved by all. A servant at once laved the hands of the guests, and they began once more to eat and drink. Helen, who was an adept at various arts, secretly poured a magic powder into the wine. It was a wonderful spice given her by an Egyptian princess, which had the property of deadening every discomfort or sorrow and cheering the soul, even though a father and mother, brother or sister, or even one’s own son had been killed before one’s eyes. They all drank of it and became gay. Helen told many amusing tales of the craftiness of Ulysses which she had herself experienced. For while she was still in Ilium he had come into the city in disguise to spy out the plans of the Trojans. No one recognized him, and only to Helen did he discover himself and confide the plans of the Greeks. Menelaus also told how they had been concealed within the wooden horse and would scarcely have withstood Helen’s call had Ulysses not restrained them. While the evening was thus being passed in confidential talk, Helen had a couch prepared in the hall with cushions and soft covers for the guests and a herald conducted them thither with a torch. Menelaus and his spouse, however, slept in the interior of the palace.
Not until morning did the host ask his guests their business. Telemachus told him the story of the insolent suitors, and begged Menelaus for some news of his father. “Ah!” cried the hero when he had heard the tale, “it shall be as though the doe had left her young in the lion’s cave and had gone away to graze upon the hills. When the lion returns and finds the strange brood, he destroys them. Thus will Ulysses return to his house and make a terrible end of those trespassers! Could they but see him in the majesty of his power as he once threw Philomelides in Lesbos, then truly they would have little stomach for courting. But, dear youth, as thou hast asked me, I will tell thee what the old prophet Proteus in Egypt once told me of him. On my return voyage angry gods detained me for twenty days on an island at the mouth of the Nile, for I had carelessly forgotten to make the customary offering of atonement. Our food was nearly gone, my companions lost courage, and I should perhaps have perished with them had a goddess not taken pity on me. Idothea, the lovely daughter of Proteus, looked upon us with compassion, and once when I had wandered far from the others, she came and spoke to me. Then I told her my plight, and begged her to tell me some means of gaining the favor of the heavenly powers to discern which of the gods was hindering my journey and how I might reach home through the endless leagues of ocean.
“‘Gladly, oh stranger,’ said she, ‘will I tell thee of an unfailing means. Thou knowest that my father, the old sea god, Proteus, is omniscient, and if thou canst surprise him by some cunning scheme he might easily tell thee all that thou wishest to know.’ ‘Good,’ said I; ‘but tell me what means I can employ to ensnare him.’ ‘Listen,’ answered the goddess; ‘every day when the sun is at the zenith the god rises from the sea, and comes on shore to sleep in the cool grottoes. With him come also the seals to sun themselves upon the shore. Therefore, if thou wouldst approach him unseen thou must conceal thyself in the skin of a seal and take thy place amongst the others. I will help thee. Come here early to-morrow morning with three picked companions, and I will furnish you all with glossy skins. When my father comes up, the first thing he does is to count his seals as a shepherd counts his sheep; then he lies down amongst them. As soon as thou seest that he has fallen asleep it is time to use force. You must all seize him and hold him fast, not letting go, no matter how he struggles to free himself. He will use all his arts of transformation to get away, now as fire, now as water, and now as some rapacious animal. But ye must not cease to contend with him until he shall have reassumed his proper form. Then loose the bonds, and let him tell thee what thou wishest to know.’