Telemachus said, “Stranger, I will tell you the truth. There is no feud between me and the whole people, and I cannot complain of brothers. Zeus has made our line run single: Arceisius fathered only Laertes, Laertes only Odysseus, Odysseus only me, and he left me alone in the house without joy of him. Therefore many enemies fill the place.”
Eumaeus said, “I hear and understand. As I go that way, shall I also tell poor Laertes? He used to oversee the farms though he grieved for Odysseus. Since you sailed for Pylos they say he no longer comes down, eats and drinks as before, or looks to the work. He sits mourning, and the flesh wastes from his bones.”
“More’s the pity,” said Telemachus. “We must leave him for now. If we could have all we wished, our first prayer would be my father’s return. You go deliver your message and come straight back. Do not wander through the fields after Laertes. Tell my mother to send the housekeeper, quietly and soon; she can take word to the old man.”
So he urged him. Eumaeus bound on his sandals and started for town. Athena watched him well clear of the farm, then drew near in the likeness of a tall, beautiful woman skilled in glorious handwork. She stood in the doorway opposite Odysseus. He saw her; Telemachus did not see her, or sense her near — the gods do not show clearly to everyone. The dogs saw her too and slunk away whimpering to the far side of the yard. She nodded; Odysseus understood, and went out past the great wall of the yard. He stood before her, and Athena said:
“Son of Laertes, bred of Zeus, now tell your son. Do not keep him blind. Plan the suitors’ death together, then go to the city. I will not be far from you for long — I am eager for that fight.”
She laid her gold wand against him. At once a clean tunic and cloak about his shoulders. Then she filled out his limbs, darkened his jaw, and restored the flush to his cheeks. She made him taller and younger to look on, and went. Odysseus returned to the hut. His son stared in wonder and turned his eyes away, afraid it was a god. Then he spoke:
“Stranger — you are changed from what you were a moment ago. Your clothes are different, your skin too. Surely you are one of the gods who hold wide heaven. Be gracious, so we may give you pleasing sacrifice and golden gifts, finely wrought. Spare us.”
Odysseus said, “I am no god. Why liken me to the deathless ones? I am your father — the man for whom you grieve, suffering under the violence of lawless men.” He kissed his son, and tears he had held back until now fell to the ground. But Telemachus could not yet believe, and answered:
“You are not Odysseus my father. Some god cheats me, to make my sorrow sharper afterward. No mortal man could devise this by himself — to be old and then young again by his own will. A moment ago you were a ragged beggar. Now you are like the gods who hold the broad sky.”
Odysseus said, “Telemachus, it is not fitting that you wonder past measure at your own father in this house. No other Odysseus will come. I am he — after much wandering, much pain, in the twentieth year, come back to my own land. This change is Athena’s work, the spoiler of armies. She makes me whatever she wishes — a beggar, or a young man in fine clothes. It is easy for the gods who hold wide heaven to exalt a man or degrade him.”