Supper is now served, and when it is over, Ulysses, pressed by Alcinous, announces his name and begins the story of his adventures.

It is with profound regret that I find myself unable to quote any of the fascinating episodes with which his narrative abounds, but I have said I was going to lecture on the humour of Homer—­that is to say of the Iliad and the Odyssey—­and must not be diverted from my subject.  I cannot, however, resist the account which Ulysses gives of his meeting with his mother in Hades, the place of departed spirits, which he has visited by the advice of Circe.  His mother comes up to him and asks him how he managed to get into Hades, being still alive.  I will translate freely, but quite closely, from Ulysses’ own words, as spoken to the Phaeacians.

“And I said, ’Mother, I had to come here to consult the ghost of the old Theban prophet Teiresias, I have never yet been near Greece, nor set foot on my native land, and have had nothing but one long run of ill luck from the day I set out with Agamemnon to fight at Troy.  But tell me how you came here yourself?  Did you have a long and painful illness or did heaven vouchsafe you a gentle easy passage to eternity?  Tell me also about my father and my son?  Is my property still in their hands, or has someone else got hold of it who thinks that I shall not return to claim it?  How, again, is my wife conducting herself?  Does she live with her son and make a home for him, or has she married again?’

“My mother answered, ’Your wife is still mistress of your house, but she is in very great straits and spends the greater part of her time in tears.  No one has actually taken possession of your property, and Telemachus still holds it.  He has to accept a great many invitations, and gives much the sort of entertainments in return that may be expected from one in his position.  Your father remains in the old place, and never goes near the town; he is very badly off, and has neither bed nor bedding, nor a stick of furniture of any kind.  In winter he sleeps on the floor in front of the fire with the men, and his clothes are in a shocking state, but in summer, when the warm weather comes on again, he sleeps out in the vineyard on a bed of vine leaves.  He takes on very much about your not having returned, and suffers more and more as he grows older:  as for me I died of nothing whatever in the world but grief about yourself.  There was not a thing the matter with me, but my prolonged anxiety on your account was too much for me, and in the end it just wore me out.’”

In the course of time Ulysses comes to a pause in his narrative and Queen Arete makes a little speech.

“‘What do you think,’ she said to the Phaeacians, ’of such a guest as this?  Did you ever see anyone at once so good-looking and so clever?  It is true, indeed, that his visit is paid more particularly to myself, but you all participate in the honour conferred upon us by a visitor of such distinction.  Do not be in a hurry to send him off, nor stingy in the presents you make to one in so great need; for you are all of you very well off.’”