Homer, The Odyssey, tr. by Albert Cook (NY: 1967).
‘Shepherds that camp in the wild, disgraces, merest bellies:
we know to tell many lies that sound like truth,
but we know
to sing reality, when we will.’
(Hesiod, Theogony, tr. M.L West [Oxford 1988], p. 3)
The first time I taught this mythology class, I remember being struck by these lines from Hesiod’s Theogony, in which the Muses introduce themselves to Hesiod on Mt. Helicon. Since these lines are intended to establish Hesiod’s credentials – I was a poor shepherd until the Muses personally invested me with the gift, and my poetry is pure Muse-ic, it seems strange that the Muses should indicate their ability to tell lies that “sound like truth.” I began to wonder – does such a statement invalidate what the bard or poet has to present? If the Muses can lie, and sometimes do lie, when do we know or how can we know they are telling the truth? And as I read the Odyssey this summer in Albert Cook’s translation, and listened to it in Allen Mandelbaum’s and Robert Fagles’ translations, the same question occurred to me regarding Odysseus, and the Odyssey. How do we know Odysseus is telling the truth, and how can we know it?
Ultimately there are only two tell-tale signs (we may include a third, possibly). One is the scar that Odysseus got when he went boar hunting as a young man at his maternal grandfather’s estate. That mark gave him away to Eurycleia, his old nurse who took care of him as a boy. While washing him, she noticed the scar and recognized her master, despite the disguised form Athena gave him (xix, 386-475). It seems strange to me that Athena would overlook such a detail, for she seems to know him as well as any mortal, and Odysseus himself seems painfully aware of the oversight (xix, 390-391) just before Eurycleia begins to wash his feet. From Homer’s point of view, it may have seemed necessary that Odysseus have some confederates within the house to help him, and so he arranges for her to find out accidentally (for Odysseus’ initial plan is to reveal himself only to his son).
After Odysseus has killed all the suitors and taken care of the dissension in his house, he reveals himself to Penelope, but, characteristically, she does not believe him. She asks for his forgiveness for not recognizing him before, but she has learned to be wary of strangers and what they say (xxiii, 213-216). The way she makes sure that the man before her his her husband is to test him by giving directions for something impossible, but which only he will know is impossible. She directs his bed to be brought out into the hall for the stranger to sleep on, until his identity can be proven. As the bed had a rooted tree-trunk for one of the bedposts, it cannot be moved, which Odysseus blurts out (xxiii, 170-230). By lying herself, she catches her husband off guard so that he cannot formulate some smart answer, but blurts out the truth about the bed, something only he and she know, and his identity is known.
The other instance, which does not advance the plot, and which, so far as I can tell, is included as a touching scene, involves the dog, Argus (xvii, 290-327). Odysseus, in disguise, together with Eumaeus, the swineherd, heads into the city, and there by the gate is an old dog, a dog Odysseus had left as a pup 20 years ago. The dog recognizes his master at once, but is too old to do more than wag his tail just before he dies. The scene allows us to see the softer side of Odysseus, who has to wipe a tear away as he looks on old Argus, for he does not want Eumaeus to know the truth yet.
In all three cases, it requires some non-verbal proof before the truth is established. Odysseus’ scar gives him away to Eurycleia, his knowledge of the physical details of his bed give him away to Penelope, and the dog’s non-verbal recognition of his master (some quality that dogs get, but humans don’t) allow Argus to see through the disguise to his master. There is only one other main recognition scene in the work, and it is somewhat troubling. Odysseus reveals himself to his son, Telemachus, when the young man comes to see Eumaeus after his own traveling in search of information about his father. At Athena’s urging, he reveals himself to his son (xvi, 157-220). Why does Telemachus believe him? Admittedly, Athena (whom Telemachus cannot see) does change Odysseus’ form back to the way he looked in the glory days, but Telemachus never really saw his father – there are no photographs or accurate likenesses in Bronze Age Greece, and he was an infant when Odysseus went away, 20 years before. The transformation of a beggar into someone who appears like a prince would be striking, and Telemachus would be shocked and take notice. But he has already been helped by Athena, who disguised herself as Mentes and Mentor. In fact, he first believes the person standing before him in Eumaeus’ hut to be a god in human form. What is it that convinces him that the person before him is his father? No purely physical proof would work for Telemachus (he wouldn’t know about the scar, not in the way that Eurycleia or Penelope would recognize it, and he would have no information about his father that wasn’t known by many others – he has no equivalent to the bed test). Given the number of lies Odysseus tells about himself (some which he’s already told earlier in Book xvi), Telemachus has every reason not to believe the stranger. Of course, we are not reading this (or listening to it, like Homer’s own audience) as legal scholars getting ready to cross examine the witness, and there is something that rings true about a son recognizing his father. And this son has learned something of the ways of the world in his recent travels, and so he can see through stories and determine what is true and what is false. So something in his intuition tells him it is true. We just accept this and move on with the story.
There are other parts of the Odyssey which are possibly troubling from a “true/false” way of looking at things. Repeatedly Odysseus has lied about who he is. He has good reason to lie, as many people he encounters on his travels are not trustworthy. He lies to the Cyclops in Book ix, telling him his name is “Nobody.” When he does reveal the truth, following his big Greek ego’s desire to be known, the blind Cyclops almost kills him with a boulder, and then has the necessary personal information he can pass on to his father, Poseidon, who then takes revenge on Odysseus (ix, 502-535). He lies to all the people in Ithaca, when he returns, even trusted servants like Eumaeus and Philoetius. He lies to Athena when he first gets home (xiii, 256-286), and has reason to – she has disguised the harbor of Ithaca, so he doesn’t recognize it. Most striking of all, he lies to his father, Laertes, after he has already won victory over the suitors and made himself known to many in the palace (xxiv, 302-314). He even begins his speech to his father, in which he lies, “All right, I shall tell you everything truthfully,” xxiv, 302). What makes this scene almost surreal is that Odysseus here has no reason to lie, and he knows that his father has suffered terribly in his absence. He knows that his mother committed suicide (or wasted away) pining for him (xi, 200-203), and yet he is willing to carry the charade on one more time. Very strange.
I’m not sure why Homer has Odysseus tell this one last lie – the only reason I can think of is that he has cast Odysseus as the world’s best liar, who gives nothing away, and always sends out a smokescreen so as to keep people at bay until he is sure about them. He is so described in the poem’s opening lines, and, once a liar, always a liar, I guess. And I think the audience may have been shocked if this man, who tests everything, and doesn’t give away information easily (information is power that can be used against one), failed to follow his normal game plan. The desire to see Odysseus pull one more scam may have overridden the desire to cast Odysseus in a good light, for his plan to lie to his father makes him seem a bit cruel. And when the old man falls to the ground and starts rolling in the dirt, even Odysseus realizes he cannot keep up the game and tells his dad all (xxiv 316-321).
Given Odysseus’ predilection for lying, how is it that we can believe him when he tells the Phaeacians the story of his travels so far (Books ix-xii)? In a way, we cannot be sure he is telling the truth. That he includes some stupid stuff he does (telling the Cyclops his name in Book ix, forgetting about going home in Book x – his men have to remind him that they’ve been on Circe’s island for a year, his tendency to fall asleep at the most inopportune times) may be included as a guarantor of the truth of his statements. As these books include the most memorable parts of the work, it may simply be that we don’t care – Odysseus’ adventures may be hyped, but they are told so well. They are great adventure yarns. Homer and his audience must have been aware of the tendency of storytellers to embellish a story for effect, and, if the teller’s talent were great enough, the audience could accept such flourishes. Alcinous, in hearing Odysseus tell his story has the following to say: “… as we look on you we would not think you/to be a deceiver and cheat the way many men are” and later “there is grace in your words and your thoughts are noble./As a singer would, you have skillfully told the tale of all the Argives’ sad troubles…” (xi, 363-64, 367-69). A man who has already told lies, and even told them in his story to Alcinous and company, gets a bye from the king, because he tells the story well, just like a singer. It does not affect the Phaeacians who treat their guests well, if Odysseus is telling a lie. And it doesn’t affect us, as the audience of Homer’s story, if Odysseus is a big fat liar. It is told so well, we just sit back and enjoy it.
Earlier in the Odyssey, Odysseus is being feasted by the Phaeacians, but he has not yet revealed his identity. It is clear he is a noble person, and so he is treated with honor and respect by Alcinous and his people. During that time, the singer Demodocus sings a couple of songs. The one told in detail involves the love affair of Ares and Aphrodite, some light entertainment, not to be taken as theologically valid – just a good story of the underdog defeating his challenger – “the slow man finds out the swift…” (viii, 329). In Homer’s poem, this story also has a larger purpose – it serves as a counter to the effect marital infidelity has on mortals. The bard, Demodocus, sings other songs as well, those dealing with Troy. He sings of the quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles (viii, 73-83), and the story of the Trojan Horse (viii, 500-521). Both stories, though we do not hear them, are assumed to be true – Odysseus, a main character in both stories, recognizes the incidents and the details, and weeps. This physical reaction on the part of Odysseus prompts Alcinous to urge Odysseus to tell his story, and guarantees their veracity. It also casts approval on the art of telling, for the Phaeacians live in a never-never land, away from all other peoples. They had no contingents at Troy, and yet, here the singer tells a story recognized by an eyewitness. Truly the force of the Muses is strong with this one, that he, a blind man in a far off kingdom, can tell a true story about a war he never saw. No doubt, Homer is saying the same thing about himself. He delivers a true story about a war that took place centuries earlier.
And yet, what makes his story true, and other accounts, like the many Odysseus himself tells, false? And how can we tell? For Homer, I think the answer may not matter. If a story is told well, it somehow gets to the heart of the matter. The details may not be accurate, but the spirit of the work is. There is a truth beyond the details provided. Every teller elaborates and so, from a technical point of view, lies, but as authors of fiction know, a teller can present a truth beyond the words, something that rings true, even if made wholly out of cloth. Homer, in this work, set out to celebrate a man of “many turns.” In doing so, he also celebrates himself, for what is a teller but a clever man of words, one who knows how to put together a plausible story, even if it includes monsters like the Cyclops, or other creatures. There must have been an awareness for Homer of the limits of language, that, in an oral society (one with no written records), one always had to weigh the words of others, that every statement will not be true for all, or not equally true for all. Such a society requires its members be good listeners and try to determine the truth one conversation, one song, one poem at a time. And so, as we’ve been listening to Homer, or Odysseus through Homer, we are in the position of everyone Odysseus meets, and we must weigh his words, as Telemachus does, as the Phaeacians do, as Penelope does, and make our own judgment – is this the truth? or does it matter?