The first action Athena performs in The Odyssey is not to set Odysseus free from Calypso’s slippery grasp.  It is to visit Telemachus, and with Telemachus her plan is at its most transparent.

            The prince, as we know, is around twenty years of age, born just before Odysseus’ unwilling departure for Troy.  Our immediate impression of him is underwhelming as that of Penelope:  he seems to be a typical self-pitying adolescent, unsure of his identity and quick to bemoan his father’s unsung death:

“Mother has always told me I’m his son, it’s true,

but I am not so certain.  Who, on his own,

has ever really known who gave him life?

Would to god I’d been the son of a happy man

whom old age overtook in the midst of his possessions! 

Now think of the most unlucky mortal ever born—

Since you ask me, yes, they say I am his son.”  (B.1, 249-255)

 

This is not a promising start, but Telemachus at least welcomes the disguised Athena into his home with the proper charity and deference.  He is an unhappy but well-bred young man, and Athena milks him for all the information politely possible.  For this veiled interrogation she has taken the form of the Taphian lord Mentes.  The tradition of the innocuous stranger turning out to be a god is a popular one in Greek myth, and the guest-hospitality law of xenia is explained as the most sensible insurance against these random inspections.  Presumably a stranger is in the best position to judge the character of the natives, and furthermore is a tempting receptacle for their private woes and worries.  Telemachus, as we have seen, unburdens his heart to Athena with humorously little prodding.

            Having established the necessary facts, Athena immediately sets to rousing Telemachus from his funk.  She assures him of his father’s prowess, but rather than dwelling on his past feats, emphasizes what damage he would deal to the freeloading suitors—“If only that Odysseus sported with these suitors, / a blood wedding, a quick death would take the lot!” (B.1, 307-8) and then swiftly shifts that duty to Telemachus—“But you, I urge you, / think how to drive these suitors from your halls.”  (B.1, 311-2)  She goes on to suggest he cluck his tongue at the suitors in council, voyage to meet Nestor and Menelaus, and allow his mother to make her own decisions regarding an incipient marriage.  This is not exactly the splashy scenario of Odysseus’ return, but it is a baby step up from one in which Telemachus is a hopeless victim.  The next step of her suggested agenda is even more aggressive:

“Now, if you hear your father’s alive and heading home,

hard-pressed as you are, brave out one more year.

If you hear he’s dead, no longer among the living,

then back you come to the native land you love,

raise his grave-mound, build his honors high

with the full funeral rites that he deserves—

and give your mother to another husband.

                                                                        Then,

Once you’ve sealed those matters, seen them through,

think hard, reach down deep in your heart and soul

for a way to kill these suitors in your house,

by stealth or in open combat.

You must not cling to your boyhood any longer—

—it’s time you were a man.”  (B.1, 330-342)

 

We the audience know that this plan is a decoy, since Odysseus is most certainly alive and due to return in a matter of days, not years.  The point here is not to set up the sequence of action which will actually resolve Ithaca’s troubles on its own, but to awaken Telemachus’ formidable potential so that he can take part in the ultimate plan.  He is the son of Odysseus, and claiming this identity as well as moving forward from it will be a necessary part of becoming his own adult.  The name “Telemachus” carries the connotation of “far from war”, a bit of wishful thinking on the part of Odysseus at the dawn of the Troy’s troubles.  Telemachus will have to join the battle, too.  Odysseus is the son of Laertes, but he is also Odysseus:  the same must become true for Telemachus.  As Athena confides in him,

“be brave, you too,

so men to come will sing your praises down the years.” (B.1, 346-7)

 

Athena departs in a suitably impressive fashion, her work evidently well-done:

“Off and away Athena the bright-eyed goddess flew

like a bird in soaring flight

but left his spirit filled with nerve and courage,

charged with his father’s memory more than ever now,

He felt his sense quicken, overwhelmed with wonder—

This was a god, he knew it well and made at once

for the suitors, a man like a god himself.” (B.1, 367-373)

 

This is a very impressive wake-up call, all things considered.  The rest of her interactions with Telemachus are simply helpful nudges down this clearly-drawn path; the four scrolls comprising the so-called Telemachy might very well go trundling along their merry way in exact accordance with her suggestions, were it not for her larger plans.  As it stands, Athena’s careful hypothesizing forces Telemachus to consider himself as an agent of change, moving him to shape the future rather than bemoaning the past. 

            As the excerpt above demonstrates, the effect on Telemachus is immediate.  What is most pleasing is that this new-found enthusiasm is not witless bravura—he does not stride back into the house and punch Antinous on the nose—but draws out of him a quick-witted self-possession that brings to mind both of his parents.  When Eurymachus hurls at him a barrage of provocative questions regarding the nature of his mysterious visitor and “which Achaean will lord it over seagirt Ithaca”, Telemachus responds with unmistakable coolness:

“‘Eurymachus,’ Telemachus answered shrewdly,

clearly my father’s journey home is lost forever.

I no longer trust in rumors—rumors from the blue—

Nor bother with any prophecy, when mother calls

some wizard into the house to ask him questions.

as for the stranger, though,

the man’s an old family friend […]’

                                                            So he said,

but deep in his mind he knew the immortal goddess.” (B.1, 470-479)

 

            The suitors can do nothing but turn back to more successful entertainments, the sport of Telemachus-baiting having suddenly lost its luster.  The very next chapter begins with an equally encouraging description:

“the true son of Odysseus sprang from bed and dressed,

over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword,

fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet

and stepped from his bedroom, handsome as a god.”  (B.2, 2-5)

 

As if this weren’t a striking enough change from the adolescent slouch he wore the day before, Athena douses him with an additional splendor before he enters the council and declares his intentions: 

“I was the one who called us all together.

Something wounds me deeply…

not news I’ve heard of an army on the march,

word I’ve caught firsthand so I can warn you now,

or some other public matter I’ll disclose and argue.

No, the crisis is my own.”  (B.2, 43-8, emphasis mine)

 

Ownership of the problem asserted, he stands firmly against the arguments of the suitors, nor does he give way to reckless enthusiasm even after Zeus’ generous two-eagle omen for Odysseus’ return.  He takes care to legalize his reluctance to pressure Penelope by citing his respect for the sanctity of the family—the dread tale of Agamemnon’s house is brought to light once again when, in a clear reference to the misfortunes of Orestes, he reminds the assembly that Penelope might very well call the Erinyes upon him for evicting her.  He then announces his departure.    

            Immediately after this momentous scene, Athena returns to speak with him in Mentor’s form, which she keeps throughout the story.  She issues further reassurances:

“Telemachus,

you’ll lack neither courage nor sense from this day on,

not if your father’s spirit courses through your veins—

now there was a man, I’d say, in words and action both!

So how can your journey end in shipwreck or defeat?

Only if you were not his stock, Penelope’s too,

then I’d fear your hopes might come to grief.”  (B.2, 302-308)

 

So now, thanks to Athena’s  we have a Telemachus with newfound confidence in his role at home, able to speak before the assembly, rebuff the suitors, and think both strategically, while still considerately, about his mother.  (We can be reasonably sure that his businesslike talk of her dowry price and the curse of the Erinyes is not entirely cold-blooded strategy, since he later requests that Eurycleia will keep his absence from Penelope to ensure that she will not “mar her lovely face with tears.” B.2, 416  This is not a man with any intention of causing his mother unnecessary grief.)  He can comfort his nurse instead of being comforted, and can sit in his father’s chair without wincing.  The next step is a Telemachus who can conduct himself in the outside world, and reclaim the glorious aspects of his father’s time at Troy.

            An odd chapter in Athena’s relations with Telemachus, which are otherwise of the above-seen cheerleader variety, is her trip into town.  She recruits crewmembers, livens them up, borrows a ship, and even drags it ashore in Telemachus’ form.  She ends by dazing the suitors[1] The text makes these actions seem to be almost accidental ideas:  “Then bright-eyed Pallas thought of one more step”, “Then bright-eyed Pallas thought of one last thing.”  The lack of premeditation hinted at here suggests that Athena might be making up some parts of The Odyssey as she goes.  Certainly Athena is not an omniscient character—nor are hardly any of the gods.  She has a keen awareness of the present moment, but beyond a few vague references to “knowing it would turn out this way”, claim to knowing the future is never convincingly laid[2].  If one is a god acting with the backing of Zeus, one can be relatively sure of things working properly, but the exact outlay of events must be somewhat fogged.  This is a point hinging a good deal on inductive reasoning, but its significance for how Athena interacts with her mortal cohorts is noteworthy.  The most likely conclusion to draw is not that Athena is constantly on the verge of dropping the ball, but that she is constantly reassessing the present situation and adjusting it to fit her grander schemes all the better.  Telemachus’ form is simply the most logical one to take, ensuring that the suitors will be taken by surprise at the immediacy of his departure (the real Telemachus sitting casually among them all the evening), that he will arrive on board pre-approved by his crew, that his crew will furthermore not sense anything out of the ordinary (ie, that they have been recruited by a goddess),  and that they will not expect authority to be endowed in some other figure (ie, Mentor).  Lastly, sedating the suitors is a simple and economical safety measure for extracting Telemachus unharmed.  “Telemachus,” she urges him, “your comrades-at-arms are ready at the oars, / waiting for your command to launch.  So come, / on with our voyage now, we’re wasting time.”  (B.2, 442-5).  The exhortation is followed by an image which will recur often in the course of the story:

“And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead

as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess.”  (B.2, 446-7)

 

            This is following in more ways than one.  Telemachus is learning the skills of his parents and his patron:  improvisation, coupled with forethought.

            Over the next chapters of Telemachus’ journey, Athena gradually leaves him more and more to his own devices as he increases in confidence (and as she becomes more deeply entangled in rescuing his father).  At Nestor’s house he has lost some of his early momentum—Athena’s frustrated cry of “Telemachus, no more shyness, this is not the time!” (B.3, 16) is met with the following hedge:

“The prince replied, wise in his own way too,

‘How can I greet him, Mentor, even approach the king?

I’m hardly adept at subtle conversation.

Someone my age might feel shy, what’s more,

Interrogating an older man.’ (B.2, 23-27)

 

            Athena’s reply is another standard reassurance that the power to do so will be part his, and part divine.  The real reason in this regard is delivered by Pisistratus, Nestor’s son, in passing a cup first to Athena:

“[…] Hand this cup

of hearty, seasoned wine to your comrade here

so he can pour forth, too.  He, too, I think,

should pray to the deathless ones himself.

All men need the gods…

but the man is younger, just about my age.

That’s why I give the gold cup first to you.” (B.3, 51-6)

 

Athena is duly thrilled by this good example of how to defer to superiors without falling victim to shyness, and from the strength of her reaction, we can expect Telemachus to be taking notes.  Pisistratus, although rather small as speaking parts go in The Odyssey, is an important figure for Telemachus; his first true companion in age and status.  If the gods tend to run in packs, heroes do so all the more, creating a social class unto themselves with a complicated hierarchy and deeply hewn rivalries and friendships (as we can see from Odysseus’ trip to the Underworld).  Without friends, one can have no fame.  While much of his trip is dedicated to learning from elders, Telemachus must also learn from  his contemporaries, and Pisistratus is a one-man shorthand promising the audience that he is on his way to become an Achaean hero in his own right. 

            As the visit continues, Nestor waxes on his narrow escape from Troy, pausing to note that 

“Your father, yes, if you are in fact his son…

I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me.

Your way with words—it’s just like his—I’d swear

No youngster could ever speak like you, so apt, so telling.” (B.3, 137-140)

 

This is a far cry from the shy Telemachus of mere hours ago, and the first time that Telemachus has heard of his own Odysseus-ness from one of his father’s own friends, a source beyond Ithaca’s well-scuffed shores.

            We also begin to see what might be a teasing relationship develop between Telemachus and Athena, which we later see in full swagger between the goddess and Odysseus himself.  Hearing of Telemachus’ troubles back home, Nestor innocently suggests that Odysseus might return:

“ ‘I’ve never seen the immortals show so much affection

as Pallas openly showed him, standing by your father—

if only she’d favor you, tend you with all her heart,

many a suitor then would lose all thought of marriage,

blotted out forever.’

                                    ‘Never, your majesty,’

Telemachus countered gravely, ‘that will never

Come to pass, I know.  What you say dumbfounds me,

staggers imagination!  Hope, hope as I will,

that day will never dawn…

not even if the gods should will it so.’

                                                            ‘Telemachus!’

Pallas Athena broke in sharply, her eyes afire—

‘What’s this nonsense slipping through your teeth?’” (B.3, 251-262)

 

Whether or not he is actually dead-panning, Telemachus’ response is certainly overdone given that Athena is practically jostling him at the elbows.  He is either joking, as suggested, or he is genuinely melancholy (although this seems a bit dim of him, given her studious hinting), or he is digging at Athena to make her presence more widely appreciated and/or give him more specific information relating to Odysseus’ present state.  Athena goes on, in a particularly dark vein—

“It’s light work for a willing god to save a mortal

even half the world away.  Myself, I’d rather

sail through years of trouble and labor home

and see that blessed day, than hurry home

to die at my own hearth like Agamemnon…

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods

Can defend a man, not even on they love, that day

When fate takes hold and lays him out at last.”  (B.2, 262-271)

 

The obvious comment is that if her efforts to save Odysseus comprise a light day for Athena, the audience would doubtless be interested to see what constitutes a difficult one.  Humor aside, this is a very revealing passage, and one of Athena’s most direct comments on the nature of her own gambit.  Like the extemporaneous nature of some of her early actions, this throws attention on the uncertainty present in her mission, as well as essentially giving away Odysseus’ story to Telemachus—“sail through years of trouble and labor home”.  (If he was indeed digging, he has succeeded.)  In this story of entertaining near-escapes and blanketing reassurances, there is still some suspense.  For Athena this could never be a laughing matter.  The gods cannot die—but Zeus’ mourning for Sarpedon at Troy is more than enough proof of the anguish they can suffer when their heroes succumb to the rule of fate.

            Regardless of the reason for her irritation, her booming response does not even ruffle Telemachus, who counters by insisting again on the gloomiest of scenarios and then deftly changes the subject.  This is a neat political sidestep away from a topic he clearly realizes is too sensitive for further merriment.  Before too much longer, Nestor has finished his tale.  He warns Telemachus not to fall into the error of Agamemnon (and, as we know, Odysseus):  “So you, / dear boy, take care.  Don’t rove from home too long, / too far, leaving your own holdings unprotected-- / […] and then your journey here will come to nothing.”  (B.3, 352-8)  After a start for the door, Nestor invites them to spend the night.  Athena happily accepts for Telemachus, and then pulls her first public stunt: 

“With that the bright-eyed goddess winged away

in an eagle’s form and flight.

Amazement fell on all the Achaeans there.

The old king, astonished by what he’d seen,

grasped Telemachus’ hand and cried out to the prince,

‘Dear boy—never fear you’ll be a coward or defenseless,

not if at your young age the gods will guard you so.

Of all who dwell on Olympus, this was none but she,

Zeus’ daughter, the glorious one, his third born,

who prized your father among the Argives.’” (B.3, 415-424)

 

With that, Telemachus’ reputation is given an official stamp after a long and painstaking leadup, during which his virtue is made to be recognized on its own merits.  Nestor and his people offer sacrifice, which Athena graciously attends the day following; afterwards she departs once more, and Telemachus makes his way on horseback to Lacedaemon, accompanied only by Pisistratus.  She does not make an appearance on Sparta until summoning Telemachus home in Book 15, to be met by his father.

            The result of all this is that Telemachus has been made into a man, both inwardly, locally, and in the larger world; he has been made into his father’s image, to the point that Menelaus and Helen recognize him instantly for who he is (although only Helen is brazen enough to yawp about it immediately).  He also understands better who that father is, having now heard of him from mouths untainted with a hometown accent.

            So why all this careful cultivation of Telemachus?  It’s certainly considerate of Athena to give Telemachus a boost out of his nearly Caulfieldian misery, and Odysseus enjoys the help of his son in the battle against the suitors.  However, one gets the feeling Odysseus might well have accomplished the feat even if he had been childless.          Telemachus is a goal in himself, but he also represents the ultimate future of Odysseus, just as Laertes represents his origins.  In assuring that Odysseus will return home to son worthy of the name, Athena is assuring that Odysseus will not come unmoored in time.  We hear again and again the grim details of the house of Atreus:  Agamemnon’s shameful end is only assuaged by the brutal heroics of Orestes[3], and Menelaus is doomed to die without issue from his infinitely troublesome wife.  We also see the gloomy shade of Achilles anxiously inquire after his son Neoptolemus, the only aspect of his own self still among the living, more important to him than his own personal fame.  And so on, and so forth.  Is it any wonder that, in a class of men who can trace their lineage almost invariably back to Zeus himself, a character like Telemachus is considered so crucial?  Athena is his own great-aunt, Odysseus her nephew.  In the heroic world, a bloodline is as solid as stone.  Failure to sustain it causes the whole house to crumble.  Without taking this into account, Athena and all the gods of the pantheon could cup Odysseus in their collective palm, without ever delivering him to true success.