Chapter 19
King Odysseus was left in the deserted hall to plot the destruction of the Suitors with Athene’s aid. His first step was to give his son some instructions.
“Telemachus,” he said, “the arms must be stowed away, to the last weapon. When the Suitors miss them and ask you what has happened, you must lull their suspicions with some plausible tale. You can say: ‘I have rescued them from the smoke, having noticed how different they looked from when Odysseus left them and sailed for Troy. The fire had got at them and damaged them badly. It also occurred to me – and this was more serious – that since the very presence of a weapon provokes a man to use it you might start quarrelling in your cups and wound each other, thus spoiling your festivities and discrediting your suit.’ ”
Acting at once on his father’s orders, Telemachus called the nurse Eurycleia to his side and said:
“Good mother, I want you to keep the womenfolk shut up in their quarters till I have stowed away my father’s arms in the storeroom. They’re a fine set, but I’ve carelessly left them about the place to be tarnished by the smoke ever since my father sailed. I was too small then to know better; but now I have decided to pack them away where the fire won’t get at them.”
“My child,” his fond old nurse replied, “happy the day when you see fit to worry over your house and look after your belongings! But tell me, who is to go along with you and carry a light? The maids would have done it, but you say you won’t have them about.”
“This stranger,” Telemachus was quick to reply. “I keep no man idle who has eaten my bread, however far he may have tramped.”
The old woman could have said more but this silenced her, and she locked the door of the women’s quarters, while Odysseus and the young prince fell to work at their task of stowing away the helmets, the bossed shields, and the pointed spears. Pallas Athene herself took the lead, carrying a golden lamp, which shed a beautiful radiance over the scene. At this, Telemachus could not restrain a sudden exclamation. “Father!” he cried. “What is this marvel that I see? The walls of the hall, the panels, the pine-wood beams, and the soaring pillars all stand out as though there were a blazing fire; or so it seems to me. I honestly believe some god from heaven is in the house.”
“Hush!” said the cautious Odysseus. “Keep your own counsel and ask no questions. The Olympians have ways of their own, and this is an instance. Go to your bed now and leave me here to draw out the maids a little more, and your mother also. In her distress she is sure to cross-examine me thoroughly.”
So Telemachus went off through the hall to bed, and found his way by torchlight to his usual sleeping-quarters, where he now settled down, as on other nights, to sleep till daybreak. Odysseus was left once more in the hall, planning the slaughter of his rivals with Athene’s help.
The wise Penelope now came down from her apartment, looking as lovely as Artemis or golden Aphrodite; and they drew up a chair for her in her usual place by the fire. It was overlaid with ivory and silver, and was the work of a craftsman called Icmalius. To the framework itself he had attached a foot-rest, over which a large fleece was spread. Penelope took her seat, and the white-armed maids, issuing from their quarters, began to clear away the remains of the meal, and the tables and cups which the menfolk had used for their debauch. They also raked out the fire from the braziers onto the floor and heaped them high with fresh fuel for light and warmth.
Melantho seized the occasion to scold Odysseus once again. “Ha! Still here,” she cried, “to plague us all night long, cruising around the house and ogling the women! Off with you, wretch, and be glad of the supper you had, or you’ll find yourself thrown out at the door with a torch about your ears.”
Odysseus of the nimble wits turned on her with a frown. “My good woman,” he said, “why set upon me with such spite? Is it because, having no choice in the matter, I go dirty and dressed in rags, and pick up my living from door to door like any other beggar or tramp? If so, let me tell you there was a time when I too was one of the lucky ones with a rich house to live in, and that I’ve often given alms to such a vagrant as myself, no matter who he was or what he wanted. Hundreds of servants I had, and plenty of all one needs to live in luxury and take one’s place as a man of means. But Zeus, no doubt for some good reason of his own, stripped me of everything. So look out for yourself, my girl, or one day you may lose the fine place you have in the household here. Your mistress may fall foul of you, or Odysseus come back. Yes, there’s still a chance of that; while, if he’s really dead and gone for ever, he has a son by god’s grace as good as himself; and there’s no mischief any of you women here may do that Telemachus misses. He’s past the age for that.”
Penelope, who had listened, rounded in fury on the maid and scolded her for a bold and shameless hussy. “Make no mistake,” she went on; “I heard the whole disgraceful affair and you shall pay dearly for what you did. For you knew perfectly well – in fact you heard me say so – that in my great distress I meant to examine this stranger here in my house for any news he might have of my husband.” And turning to Eurynome, the housekeeper, she said: “Will you bring a settle here, with a rug on it, for my guest to sit on, so that he and I can talk to one another? I wish to have his whole story from the man.”
Eurynome hurried off and came back with a wooden settle, on which she spread a rug. Here the noble and stalwart Odysseus sat down, and Penelope opened their talk by saying: “Sir, I shall make so bold as to ask you some questions without further ado. Who are you and where do you hail from? What is your city and to what family do you belong?”
“Madam,” answered the resourceful Odysseus, “there is not a man in the wide world who could take anything amiss from you. For your fame has reached heaven itself, like that of some perfect king, ruling a populous and mighty state with the fear of god in his heart, and upholding the right, so that the dark soil yields its wheat and barley, the trees are laden with ripe fruit, the sheep never fail to bring forth their lambs, nor the sea to provide its fish – all as a result of his good government – and his people prosper under him. Yet just because you are so good, ask me any other questions now that you have me in your house, but do not insist on finding out my lineage and my country, or you will bring fresh sorrow to my heart by making me recall the past. For I have been through many bitter experiences. Yet there is no reason why I should sit moaning and lamenting in someone else’s house. It’s a bad thing never to stop croaking, and I’m afraid some of your maids here or you yourself might find me a nuisance and conclude that it was the wine that had gone to my head and loosed this flood of tears.”
“Sir,” said Penelope, “all merit, grace, or beauty that I had, the gods destroyed when the Argives embarked for Ilium and my husband Odysseus joined their fleet. If he could return and devote himself to me, my good name might indeed be embellished and enhanced. But I am left to my misery: the powers above have heaped so many troubles on my head. For of all the island chieftains that rule in Dulichium, in Same, and in wooded Zacynthus, or that live here in our own sunny Ithaca, there is not one that is not forcing his unwelcome suit upon me and plundering my house. As a result I neglect my guests, I neglect the beggar at my door, and even the messengers that come on public business. I simply wear my heart out in longing for Odysseus. Meanwhile they are pressing me to name my wedding-day and I have to think out tricks to fool them with. The first was a real inspiration. I set up a great web on my loom here and started weaving a large and delicate robe, saying to my suitors: ‘I should be grateful to you young lords who are courting me now that going Odysseus is dead, if you could restrain your ardour for my hand till I have done this work, so that the threads I have spun may not be altogether wasted. It is a winding-sheet for Lord Laertes. When he succumbs to the dreaded hand of Death that stretches all men out at last, I must not risk the scandal there would be among my countrywomen here if one who had amassed such wealth were laid to rest without a shroud.’ That is what I put to them, and they had the grace to consent. So by day I used to weave at the great web, but every night I had torches set beside it and undid the work. For three years they were taken in by this stratagem of mine. A fourth began and the seasons were already slipping by, when they were given the chance by my maids, those irresponsible wretches, of catching me unawares at my task. They loaded me with reproaches, and I was forced reluctantly to finish the work. And now I can neither evade marriage with one of them nor think of any means of escape, particularly as my parents insist that I should take this step, while the sight of these people eating him out of house and home revolts my son, who realizes well enough what is happening, being a man by now and well qualified to look after a flourishing estate. However, I do press you still to give me an account of yourself, for you certainly did not spring from a tree or a rock, like the man in the old story.”
“Your majesty,” answered the inventive Odysseus, “will you never be satisfied till I have given you my pedigree? Very well, you shall have it. Yet you will be making me more miserable than I already am – as is only to be expected when a man has spent so long a time away from home as I have, wandering through the world in evil plight from town to town. However, here is my tale and an answer to all your questions.”
“Out in the dark blue sea there lies a land called Crete, a rich and lovely land, washed by the waves on every side, densely peopled and boasting ninety cities. Each of the several races of the isle has its own language. First there are the Achaeans; then the genuine Cretans, proud of their native stock; next the Cydonians; the Dorians, with their three clans; and finally the noble Pelasgians. One of the ninety towns is a great city called Cnossus, and there, for nine years, King Minos ruled and enjoyed the friendship of almighty Zeus. He was the father of my father, the great Deucalion, who had two sons, myself and King Idomeneus. At the time I have in mind, Idomeneus had gone off in his beaked ships to Ilium with the sons of Atreus; so it fell to me, the younger son, Aethon by name, and not so good a man as my elder brother, to meet Odysseus and welcome him to Crete, where he was brought by a gale which had driven him off his course at Cape Malea when bound for Troy. He put in at Amnisus, where the cave of Eileithyie is – a difficult harbour to make; the storm nearly wrecked him. And the first thing he did was to go up to the town and ask for Idomeneus, whom he described as a dear and honoured friend. But nine or ten days had already gone by since Idomeneus had sailed for Ilium in his beaked ships. So I took Odysseus to my house and made him thoroughly welcome. My own wealth at the time enabled me to entertain him lavishly; and as for his following, by drawing on the public store I provided him with corn and wine as well as cattle to slaughter to their hearts’ content. The good fellows stayed with me for twelve days, pent up by that northerly gale, which they couldn’t even stand up to on dry land, some hostile power made it blow so hard. But on the thirteenth the wind fell and they put out to sea.”
He made all these lying yarns of his so convincing that, as she listened, the tears poured from Penelope’s eyes and bedewed her cheeks. As the snow that the west wind has brought melts on the mountain-tops when the east wind thaws it, and, melting, makes the rivers run in spate, so did the tears she shed drench her fair cheeks as she wept for the husband who was sitting at her side. But though Odysseus’ heart was wrung by his wife’s distress, his eyes, hard as horn or iron, never wavered between their lids, so craftily did he repress his tears.
When Penelope had wept to her heart’s content she returned to her interrogation. “I feel, sir,” she said, “that it is time I put you to the proof and found out whether you really entertained my husband and his gallant company in your Cretan home as you have stated. Tell me what sort of clothes he was wearing and what he looked like; and describe the men who were with him also.”
“Mistress,” replied Odysseus, “it is not easy to describe a man when one has not seen him for so long; and nineteen years have passed since Odysseus sailed from my country. However, I’ll give you the picture of him that I have in my mind’s eye. My lord wore a thick purple cloak folded back on itself and displaying a golden brooch with a pair of sheaths for the pins. There was a device on the face of it: a hound holding down a dappled fawn in his forepaws and ripping it as it struggled. Everyone admired the workmanship, the hound ripping and throttling the fawn, the fawn lashing out with his feet in his efforts to escape – and the whole thing done in gold. I noticed his tunic too. It gleamed on his body like the skin of a dried onion, it was so smooth; and it shone like the sun. I tell you, all the women were fascinated by him. At the same time you must remember that I cannot say whether Odysseus wore these clothes at home, or whether they had been given him by one of his friends when he embarked, or by some acquaintance he visited, for Odysseus was very popular and there were few of his countrymen like him. I myself gave him a bronze sword, a fine purple mantle, and a tunic with a fringe, and I saw him off with all honours on his well-found ship. And here’s another thing. He had a squire in his retinue who was a little older than himself. I’ll tell you what he looked like too. He was round in the shoulders and had a dark complexion and curly hair. Eurybates was his name, and Odysseus thought more of him than of anyone else in his company, for the squire saw eye to eye with his leader.”
Odysseus’ descriptions made Penelope even more disposed to weep, recognizing, as she did, all that he so faithfully portrayed. She found relief in tears once more, then turned to him and said: “Sir, I pitied you before; but now you shall be a dear and honoured guest in my house. For it was I who gave him those clothes, just as you describe them; I who took them from our store-room; I who folded them and put in the bright brooch as an ornament for him. And now I shall never welcome him home to the land he loved so well. Aye, ’twas an evil day when Odysseus sailed in his hollow ship to that accursed city which I loathe to name.”
“My lady and my Queen,” replied the subtle Odysseus, “I beg you not to spoil those fair cheeks any more nor to wring your heart by weeping for your husband. Not that I blame you. Any woman mourns when she loses the husband whose love she has enjoyed and whose children she has borne, however poorly that husband might compare with Odysseus, whom people speak about as though he were a god. But dry your tears now and hear what I have to say. I am speaking the truth and nothing but the truth when I tell you that I have news of Odysseus’ return, that he’s alive and near, actually in the rich land of Thesprotia, and that he’s bringing home a great fortune acquired in his dealings abroad. On the other hand he has lost all his company and his good ship on the high seas. This happened soon after they left the island of Thrinacie. Zeus and the Sun-god were infuriated with him because his men had killed the cattle of the Sun; and his whole crew found a watery grave. But he himself clung to the keel of his boat and was cast on shore by the waves in the country of the Phaeacians, who are cousins to the gods.
“These people in the goodness of their hearts paid him divine honours, showered gifts upon him, and were anxious to see him safely home themselves. Indeed Odysseus would have been here long ago, had he not thought it the more profitable course to travel about in the pursuit of wealth – which shows that in business enterprise he is unsurpassed; in fact not a man alive can rival him. I had all this from Pheidon, the Thesprotian king, who moreover swore in my presence over a drink-offering in his palace that a ship with a crew standing by was waiting on the beach to convey Odysseus to his own country. But Pheidon sent me off before him as a Thesprotian ship happened to be starting for the corn island of Dulichium. He even showed me what wealth Odysseus had amassed. The amount of treasure stored up for him there in the king’s house would keep a man and his heirs to the tenth generation.”
“Odysseus himself, Pheidon said, had gone to Dodona to find out the will of Zeus from the great oak-tree that is sacred to the god, and to discover how he should approach his own island of Ithaca after so long an absence, whether to return openly or in disguise.”
“So you see that he is safe and will soon be back. Indeed, he is very close. His exile from his friends and country will be ended soon; and whether you ask it or not you shall have my oath to that effect. I swear first by Zeus, the best and greatest of the gods, and then by the good Odysseus’ hearth which I have come to, that everything will happen as I foretell. This very year Odysseus will be here, between the waning of the old moon and the waxing of the new.”
“Sir,” the wise queen replied to this, “may what you say prove true! If it does, you shall learn from my liberality what my friendship means and the world will envy you your luck. But the future that my heart forebodes is different. I neither see Odysseus coming home, nor you securing your passage hence; for we have no-one in command here, no leader of men, such as Odysseus (if ever there was such a man), to receive strangers with proper respect and send them on their way. But, come, my maids, you must wash our visitor’s feet and spread a bed for him, with mattress, blankets, and clean sheets, so that he may lie in warmth and comfort till Dawn takes her golden throne; and the first thing in the morning you must give him a bath and rub him down with oil so that he may feel ready to take his place beside Telemachus at breakfast in the hall. And if any of those men is spiteful enough to plague our guest, so much the worse for him. His chances of succeeding here will vanish: he can rage and fume as he will. For how are you, sir, to find out whether I really have more sense and forethought than other women, if you sit down to meals unkempt and ill-clad in my house? Man’s life is short enough. A churlish fellow with no idea of hospitality earns the whole world’s ill-will while he is alive and its contempt when he is dead; whereas when a man does kind things because his heart is in the right place his reputation is spread far and wide by the guests he befriends, and he has no lack of people to sing his praises.”
“Honoured lady,” replied the cautious Odysseus, “I must admit that I have taken a dislike to blankets and clean sheets since I sailed off in my galley and said farewell to the snowcapped hills of Crete. So I will lie just as I have often lain and kept vigil in the past. For many’s the night I’ve spent on some unseemly couch, waiting for the gold light of the blessed Dawn. Nor does the prospect of a foot-bath appeal to me much. I shouldn’t care for any of your maid-servants here to touch my feet, unless there is some old and respectable dame who has had as much experience in life as I have. If there is such a one, I should not object to her handling my feet.”
To which the wise Penelope replied: “My dear friend – as I cannot help calling the wisest guest this house has ever welcomed from abroad, for you put everything so well and you talk so sensibly – I have just such an old woman, a decent soul, who faithfully nursed my unhappy husband and brought him up; in fact she took him in her arms the moment he was born. She shall wash your feet, although she is somewhat past her work. Come, Eurycleia, and do this service for one who is of the same age as your master. Yes, and no doubt Odysseus’ hands and feet are like our guest’s by now, for men age quickly in misfortune.”
At this, the old woman covering her face with her hands burst into tears and gave voice to her grief: “Alas, my child, that there shouldn’t be a thing that I can do for you! Zeus must indeed have hated you above all men, god-fearing though you were. For no one ever burnt for the Thunderer so many fat pieces from the thigh and such choice sacrifices as you used to offer him when you prayed that you might age in comfort and see your son grow up like a prince. Yet you are the only one of whose home-coming he has said: ‘It shall not be.’ I keep thinking of the women in some foreign land mocking my master when he called at this great house or that, just as you, sir, have been mocked by all these bitches here, whose insolence and vulgar gibes you wished to spare yourself when you refused to let them wash your feet. Well, my wise Queen has given me the task, and I am most willing. I will bathe your feet, both for Penelope’s sake and for your own, since your unhappiness has touched my heart. But hear me out: there’s something else I want to say. We have had plenty of wayworn travellers here before, but not one that have seen has reminded me so strongly of anyone as your looks and your voice and your very feet remind me of Odysseus.”
“My good dame,” said Odysseus, on his guard, “that is what everyone thinks who has set eyes on us both. They say we are remarkably alike, as you yourself have so shrewdly observed.”
The old woman fetched a clean basin which was used as a foot-bath, poured plenty of cold water in and added warm. Odysseus was sitting at the hearth, but now he swung abruptly round to face the dark, for it had struck him suddenly that in handling him she might notice a certain scar he had, and his secret would be out. Indeed, when Eurycleia came up to her master and began to wash him, she recognized the scar at once.
Years before, Odysseus had received a wound from the white tusk of a boar when on a visit to Autolycus and his sons. This nobleman, his mother’s father, was the most accomplished thief and liar of his day. He owed his preeminence to the god Hermes himself, whose favour he sought by sacrificing lambs and kids in his honour, and in whom he secured a willing confederate. He went over once to the rich island of Ithaca, where he found that his daughter had just given birth to a son. Eurycleia put the baby on its grandfather’s knees as he finished supper, and said: “Autolycus, perhaps you can think of a name to give your daughter’s son, whom we have so long been praying for.”
By way of answer, Autolycus turned to his son-in-law and daughter and said: “Yes, let me be his godfather. In the course of my lifetime I have made enemies of many a man and woman up and down the wide world. So let this child be called Odysseus, ‘the victim of enmity’. And when he has grown up and comes to his mother’s old home at Parnassus, where I keep my worldly goods, I will give him a share of them and send him back a happy man.”
This led in due course to a visit from Odysseus, who went over to receive his grandfather’s gifts. Autolycus and his sons gave him a friendly welcome. They shook him warmly by the hand, and his grandmother, Amphithee, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him on the forehead and on both his eyes. Autolycus told his sons to make preparations for a banquet. Nothing loath, they quickly brought in a five-year-old bull, which they flayed and prepared by cutting up the carcass and deftly chopping it into small pieces. These they pierced with spits, carefully roasted, and served in portions. And so they banqueted for the rest of the day till sunset, all sharing alike and all contented with their share. When the sun sank and darkness fell, they went off to their beds to enjoy the blessing of sleep.
Early next day at the first blush of dawn Autolycus’ sons accompanied by the good Odysseus set out for the chase with a pack of hounds. Climbing the steep and wooded heights of Parnassus, they soon found themselves on the windswept folds of the mountain; and it was just as the Sun, fresh from the deep and quiet Stream of Ocean, was touching the plough-lands with his first beams that the beaters reached a certain wooded glen. The hounds, hot on a scent, preceded them. Behind came Autolycus’ sons, and with them the good Odysseus, close up on the pack and swinging his long spear. It was at this spot that a mighty boar had his lair, in a thicket so dense that when the winds blew moist not a breath could get inside, nor when the Sun shone could his rays penetrate the darkness, nor could the rain soak right through to the ground, which moreover was littered with an abundance of dead leaves. However, the boar heard the footfalls of the men and hounds as they pressed forward in the chase. He sallied out from his den and with bristling back and eyes aflame he faced the hunt. Odysseus was the first to act. Poising his long spear in his great hand, he rushed in, eager to score a hit. But the boar was too quick and caught him above the knee, where he gave him a long flesh-wound with a cross lunge of his tusk, but failed to reach the bone. Odysseus’ thrust went home as well. He struck him on the right shoulder, and the point of his bright spear transfixed the boar, who sank to earth with a grunt and there gave up his life. Autolycus’ sons took charge of the carcass. They also carefully bandaged the brave young prince’s wound, staunching the dark blood with a spell; and before long they were back at home.
Under the care of Autolycus and his sons, Odysseus recovered from his injury and in due course, loaded with presents, was given a happy send-off to his own home in Ithaca. His father and his gentle mother were delighted to see him back. They asked him about all his adventures, in particular how he had come by his scar, and Odysseus told them how in the course of the chase he had been gashed by a boar’s tusk on the expedition to Parnassus with Autolycus’ sons.
Now, as the old woman passed her hands over this scar, she recognized the feel of it and abruptly let go her master’s foot, which made the metal ring as it dropped against the basin, upsetting it and spilling all the water on the floor. Delight and anguish swept through her heart together; her eyes were filled with tears; her voice was strangled by emotion. She lifted her hand to Odysseus’ chin and said, “Of course, you are Odysseus, my dear child. And to think that I didn’t know you till I’d handled all my master’s limbs!”
With this she turned her eyes in Penelope’s direction, as though to let her know that her own husband was in the room. But Penelope was not prepared to meet her glance or understand it, for Athene had distracted her attention. In the meantime Odysseus’ right hand sought and gripped the old woman’s throat, while with the other he pulled her closer to him.
“Nurse,” he said, “do you wish to ruin me, you who reared me at your own breast? I am indeed home after nineteen years of hard adventure. But since by some unlucky chance you have lit on the fact, keep your mouth shut and let not a soul in the house learn the truth. Otherwise I tell you plainly – and you know I make no idle threats – that if I am lucky enough to defeat these love-sick noblemen, I won’t spare you, though you’re my own nurse, on the day when I put the rest of the maids in my palace to death.”
“My child,” Eurycleia replied in her wisdom, “no need to talk like that to me. You know well enough how staunch and hard I am. I’ll keep dead silent as a block of stone or iron. Remember this too, that if you have the luck to bring these insolent lordlings down, I shall be ready to inform you about all the women in your household and to pick out the disloyal from the innocent.”
“And what,” said the self-reliant Odysseus, “would be the good of that? I do not need your help, for on my own account I shall take note of each and mark them down. Meanwhile keep all this to yourself and leave the issue to the gods.”
Thus admonished, the old woman went out of the hall to fetch water for his feet, since the whole basinful was spilt. When she had washed and rubbed them with olive-oil, Odysseus drew his settle up to the fire once more in order to get warm, and covered the scar with his rags.
It was Penelope who reopened their talk. “Sir,” she said, “I shall venture to detain you yet a while and put another matter to you, and this although I know the time for sleep is drawing near – at least for those whose grief allows them such a sweet reprieve. But in my own case, heaven seems to have set no limit to my misery. For by day my one relief is to weep and sigh as I go about my tasks and supervise the household work; but when night falls and brings all others sleep, I lie down on my bed, and care comes with a thousand stings to prick my heavy heart and turn dejection into torture. You know how Pandareus’ daughter, the brown nightingale, perched in the dense foliage of the trees, makes her sweet music when the spring is young, and with how many turns and trills she pours out her full-throated song in sorrow for Itylus her beloved son, King Zethus’ child, whom in her careless folly she killed with her own hand. So does my inclination waver, first to this side, then to that. Am I to stay with my son and keep everything intact, my belongings, my servants, and this great house of ours, in loyalty to my husband’s bed and deference to public opinion? Or shill I go away now with the best and most generous of my suitors here in the palace? For I must tell you that my son, while still an irresponsible child, made it out of the question for me to leave my husband’s house and marry again. But now that he has grown up and entered on manhood, he actually implores me to take myself off, so concerned is he for his estate, which he sees the young lords eating up.”
“But enough. Let me ask you to interpret a dream of mine which I shall now describe. I keep a flock of twenty geese in the place. They come in from the pond to pick up their grain and I delight in watching them. In my dream I saw a great eagle swoop down from the hills and break their necks with his crooked beak, killing them all. There they lay in a heap on the floor while he vanished in the open sky. I wept and cried aloud, though it was only a dream, and Achaean ladies gathering about me found me sobbing my heart out because the eagle had slaughtered my geese. But the bird came back. He perched on a jutting timber of the roof, and breaking into human speech he checked my tears. ‘Take heart,’ he said, ‘daughter of the noble Icarius. This is not a dream but a happy reality which you shall see fulfilled. The geese were your lovers, and I that played the eagle’s part am now your husband, home again and ready to deal out grim punishment to every man among them.’ At this point I awoke. I looked around me and there I saw the geese in the yard pecking their grain at the trough in their accustomed place.”
“Lady,” replied the subtle Odysseus, “nobody could force any other meaning on this dream; you have learnt from Odysseus himself how he will translate it into fact. Clearly, the Suitors are all of them doomed: there is not one who will get away alive.”
“Dreams, sir,” said the cautious Penelope, “are awkward and confusing things: not all that people see in them comes true. For there are two gates through which these insubstantial visions reach us; one is of horn and the other of ivory. Those that come through the ivory gate cheat us with empty promises that never see fulfilment; while those that issue from the gate of burnished horn inform the dreamer what will really happen. But I fear it was not from this source that my own strange dream took wing, much as I and my son should rejoice if it proved so.”
“However, I meant to tell you something else that will give you matter for thought. The hateful day is drawing very near which is to tear me from Odysseus’ house. For I intend shortly to propose a trial of strength, using the very axes which he sometimes set up here at home, twelve in a row like the props under a new keel. Standing a good way off, he could shoot an arrow through them all. And now I am going to make the Suitors compete in the same test of skill. Whichever proves the handiest at stringing the bow and shoots an arrow through each of the twelve axes, with that man I will go, bidding goodbye to this house that welcomed me as a bride, this lovely house so full of all good things, this home which even in my dreams I never shall forget.”
“Royal lady,” Odysseus a nswered, with subtle intent, “the sooner you hold the contest in the palace the better, for that arch-contriver Odysseus himself will be here long before those fellows have fumbled the string onto that fine bow of his and shot an arrow through the iron marks.”
“Ah, my friend,” said the wise Penelope, “if you would only sit here at my side in the hall and entertain me, my eyes would never close in drowsiness. But no-one can do without sleep for ever. It has its allotted place in our daily lives, like everything else. So now I shall withdraw upstairs to lie down on what has always been for me a bed of sorrows, watered by my perpetual tears, since the day when Odysseus sailed away to that accursed city which I loathe to name. So much for me. And as for you, whether you spread yourself something on the floor or let them make you a proper bed, the house is at your disposal for the night.”
So Penelope went up to her beautiful room, escorted by the ladies in attendance. But as soon as they were all upstairs, she broke down and wept for Odysseus, her beloved husband, till Athene brought her the sweet gift of sleep.
