Penelope and Her Guest
That left the great Odysseus waiting in his hall
as Athena helped him plot the slaughter of the suitors.
He turned at once to Telemachus, brisk with orders:
“Now we must stow the weapons out of reach, my boy,
all the arms and armor —and when the suitors miss them
and ask you questions, put them off with a winning story:
‘I stowed them away, clear of the smoke. A far cry
from the arms Odysseus left when he went to Troy,
fire-damaged equipment, black with reeking fumes.
10 And a god reminded me of something darker too.
When you’re in your cups a quarrel might break out,
you’d wound each other, shame your feasting here
and cast a pall on your courting.
14 Iron has powers to draw a man to ruin.’ ”
Telemachus did his father’s will at once,
calling out to his old nurse Eurycleia: “Quick,
dear one, close the women up in their own quarters,
till I can stow my father’s weapons in the storeroom.
Splendid gear, lying about, neglected, black with soot
20 since father sailed away. I was only a boy then.
Now I must safeguard them from the smoke.”
“High time, child,” the loving nurse replied.
“If only you’d bother to tend your whole house
and safeguard all your treasures. Tell me,
who’s to fetch and carry the torch for you?
You won’t let out the maids who’d light your way.”
“Our friend here will,” Telemachus answered coolly.
“I won’t put up with a man who shirks his work,
not if he takes his ration from my stores,
30 even if he’s miles away from home.”
That silenced the old nurse.
She barred the doors that led from the long hall —
and up they sprang, Odysseus and his princely son,
and began to carry off the helmets, studded shields
and pointed spears, and Pallas Athena strode before them,
lifting a golden lamp that cast a dazzling radiance round about.
“Father,” Telemachus suddenly burst out to Odysseus,
“oh what a marvel fills my eyes! Look, look there —
all the sides of the hall, the handsome crossbeams,
40 pinewood rafters, the tall columns towering —
all glow in my eyes like flaming fire!
Surely a god is here —
one of those who rule the vaulting skies!”
“Quiet,” his father, the old soldier, warned him.
“Get a grip on yourself. No more questions now.
It’s just the way of the gods who rule Olympus.
Off you go to bed. I’ll stay here behind
to test the women, test your mother too.
She in her grief will ask me everything I know.”
50 Under the flaring torchlight, through the hall
Telemachus made his way to his own bedroom now,
where he always went when welcome sleep came on him.
There he lay tonight as well, till Dawn’s first light.
That left the great king still waiting in his hall
as Athena helped him plot the slaughter of the suitors . . .
Now down from her chamber came reserved Penelope,
looking for all the world like Artemis or golden Aphrodite.
Close to the fire her women drew her favorite chair
with its whorls of silver and ivory, inlaid rings.
60 The craftsman who made it years ago, Icmalius,
added a footrest under the seat itself,
mortised into the frame,
and over it all was draped a heavy fleece.
Here Penelope took her place, discreet, observant.
The women, arms bared, pressing in from their quarters,
cleared away the tables, the heaped remains of the feast
and the cups from which the raucous lords had drunk.
Raking embers from the braziers onto the ground,
they piled them high again with seasoned wood,
providing light and warmth.
70 And yet again
Melantho lashed out at Odysseus: “You still here? —
you pest, slinking around the house all night,
leering up at the women?
Get out, you tramp —be glad of the food you got —
or we’ll sling a torch at you, rout you out at once!”
A killing glance, and the old trooper countered,
“What’s possessed you, woman? Why lay into me? Such abuse!
Just because I’m filthy, because I wear such rags,
roving round the country, living hand-to-mouth.
80 But it’s fate that drives me on:
that’s the lot of beggars, homeless drifters.
I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired;
rolling in wealth, I’d often give to a vagabond like myself,
whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door.
And crowds of servants I had, and lots of all it takes
to live the life of ease, to make men call you rich.
But Zeus ruined it all —god’s will, no doubt.
So beware, woman, or one day you may lose it all,
all your glitter that puts your work-mates in the shade.
90 Or your mistress may just fly in a rage and dress you down
or Odysseus may return —there’s still room for hope!
Or if he’s dead as you think and never coming home,
well there’s his son, Telemachus . . .
94 like father, like son —thanks to god Apollo.
No women’s wildness here in the house escapes
the prince’s eye. He’s come of age at last.”
So he warned, and alert Penelope heard him,
wheeled on the maid and tongue-lashed her smartly:
“Make no mistake, you brazen, shameless bitch,
100 none of your ugly work escapes me either —
you will pay for it with your life, you will!
How well you knew —you heard from my own lips —
that I meant to probe this stranger in our house
and ask about my husband . . . my heart breaks for him.”
She turned to her housekeeper Eurynome and said,
“Now bring us a chair and spread it soft with fleece,
so our guest can sit and tell me his whole story
and hear me out as well.
I’d like to ask him questions, point by point.”
110 Eurynome bustled off to fetch a polished chair
and set it down and spread it soft with fleece.
Here Odysseus sat, the man of many trials,
as cautious Penelope began the conversation:
“Stranger, let me start our questioning myself . . .
Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?”
“My good woman,” Odysseus, master of craft, replied,
“no man on the face of the earth could find fault with you.
Your fame, believe me, has reached the vaulting skies.
Fame like a flawless king’s who dreads the gods,
120 who governs a kingdom vast, proud and strong —
who upholds justice, true, and the black earth
bears wheat and barley, trees bow down with fruit
and the sheep drop lambs and never fail and the sea
teems with fish —thanks to his decent, upright rule,
and under his sovereign sway the people flourish.
So then, here in your house, ask me anything else
but don’t, please, search out my birth, my land,
or you’ll fill my heart to overflowing even more
as I bring back the past . . .
130 I am a man who’s had his share of sorrows.
It’s wrong for me, in someone else’s house,
to sit here moaning and groaning, sobbing so —
it makes things worse, this grieving on and on.
One of your maids, or you yourself, might scold me,
think it’s just the wine that had doused my wits
and made me drown in tears.”
“No, no, stranger,” wise Penelope demurred,
“whatever form and feature I had, what praise I’d won,
the deathless gods destroyed that day the Achaeans
140 sailed away to Troy, my husband in their ships,
Odysseus —if he could return to tend my life
the renown I had would only grow in glory.
Now my life is torment . . .
look at the griefs some god has loosed against me!
All the nobles who rule the islands round about,
Dulichion, Same, and wooded Zacynthus too,
and all who lord it in sunny Ithaca itself —
they court me against my will, they lay waste my house.
So I pay no heed to strangers, suppliants at my door,
150 not even heralds out on their public errands here —
I yearn for Odysseus, always, my heart pines away.
They rush the marriage on, and I spin out my wiles.
A god from the blue it was inspired me first
to set up a great loom in our royal halls
and I began to weave, and the weaving finespun,
the yarns endless, and I would lead them on: ‘Young men,
my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more,
go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until
I can finish off this web . . .
160 so my weaving won’t all fray and come to nothing.
This is a shroud for old lord Laertes, for that day
when the deadly fate that lays us out at last will take him down.
I dread the shame my countrywomen would heap upon me,
yes, if a man of such wealth should lie in state
without a shroud for cover.’
My very words,
and despite their pride and passion they believed me.
So by day I’d weave at my great and growing web —
by night, by the light of torches set beside me,
I would unravel all I’d done. Three whole years
170 I deceived them blind, seduced them with this scheme.
Then, when the wheeling seasons brought the fourth year on
and the months waned and the long days came round once more,
then, thanks to my maids —the shameless, reckless creatures —
the suitors caught me in the act, denounced me harshly.
So I finished it off. Against my will. They forced me.
And now I cannot escape a marriage, nor can I contrive
177 a deft way out. My parents urge me to tie the knot
and my son is galled as they squander his estate —
he sees it all. He’s a grown man by now, equipped
180 to tend to his own royal house and tend it well:
Zeus grants my son that honor . . .
But for all that —now tell me who you are.
Where do you come from? You’ve hardly sprung
from a rock or oak like some old man of legend.”
The master improviser answered, slowly,
“My lady . . . wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus,
will your questions about my family never end?
All right then. Here’s my story. Even though
it plunges me into deeper grief than I feel now.
190 But that’s the way of the world, when one has been
so far from home, so long away as I, roving over
many cities of men, enduring many hardships.
Still,
my story will tell you all you need to know.
There is a land called Crete . . .
ringed by the wine-dark sea with rolling whitecaps —
handsome country, fertile, thronged with people
well past counting —boasting ninety cities,
language mixing with language side-by-side.
First come the Achaeans, then the native Cretans,
200 hardy, gallant in action, then Cydonian clansmen,
201 Dorians living in three tribes, and proud Pelasgians last.
202 Central to all their cities is magnificent Cnossos,
203 the site where Minos ruled and each ninth year
conferred with almighty Zeus himself. Minos,
205 father of my father, Deucalion, that bold heart.
Besides myself Deucalion sired Prince Idomeneus,
who set sail for Troy in his beaked ships of war,
208 escorting Atreus’ sons. My own name is Aethon.
I am the younger-born;
210 my older brother’s a better man than I am.
Now, it was there in Cnossos that I saw him . . .
Odysseus —and we traded gifts of friendship.
A heavy gale had landed him on our coast,
driven him way off course, rounding Malea’s cape
215 when he was bound for Troy. He anchored in Amnisus,
hard by the goddess’ cave of childbirth and labor,
that rough harbor —barely riding out the storm.
218 He came into town at once, asking for Idomeneus,
claiming to be my brother’s close, respected friend.
220 Too late. Ten or eleven days had already passed
since he set sail for Troy in his beaked ships.
So I took Odysseus back to my own house,
gave him a hero’s welcome, treated him in style —
stores in our palace made for princely entertainment.
As for his comrades, all who’d shipped with him,
I dipped into public stock to give them barley,
ruddy wine and fine cattle for slaughter,
beef to their hearts’ content. A dozen days
they stayed with me there, those brave Achaeans,
230 penned up by a North Wind so stiff that a man,
even on dry land, could never keep his feet —
some angry spirit raised that blast, I’d say.
Then on the thirteenth day the wind died down
and they set sail for Troy.”
Falsehoods all,
but he gave his falsehoods all the ring of truth.
As she listened on, her tears flowed and soaked her cheeks
as the heavy snow melts down from the high mountain ridges,
snow the West Wind piles there and the warm East Wind thaws
and the snow, melting, swells the rivers to overflow their banks —
240 so she dissolved in tears, streaming down her lovely cheeks,
weeping for him, her husband, sitting there beside her.
Odysseus’ heart went out to his grief-stricken wife
but under his lids his eyes remained stock-still —
they might have been horn or iron —
his guile fought back his tears. And she,
once she’d had her fill of grief and weeping,
turned again to her guest with this reply:
“Now, stranger, I think I’ll test you, just to see
if there in your house, with all his friends-in-arms,
250 you actually entertained my husband as you say.
Come, tell me what sort of clothing he wore,
what cut of man was he?
What of the men who followed in his train?”
“Ah good woman,”
Odysseus, the great master of subtlety, returned,
“how hard it is to speak, after so much time
apart . . . why, some twenty years have passed
since he left my house and put my land behind him.
Even so, imagine the man as I portray him —
I can see him now.
King Odysseus . . .
260 he was wearing a heavy woolen cape, sea-purple
in double folds, with a golden brooch to clasp it,
twin sheaths for the pins, on the face a work of art:
a hound clenching a dappled fawn in its front paws,
slashing it as it writhed. All marveled to see it,
solid gold as it was, the hound slashing, throttling
the fawn in its death-throes, hoofs flailing to break free.
I noticed his glossy tunic too, clinging to his skin
like the thin glistening skin of a dried onion,
silky, soft, the glint of the sun itself.
270 Women galore would gaze on it with relish.
And this too. Bear it in mind, won’t you?
I’ve no idea if Odysseus wore these things at home
or a comrade gave him them as he boarded ship,
or a host perhaps —the man was loved by many.
There were few Achaeans to equal him . . . and I?
I gave him a bronze sword myself, a lined cloak,
elegant, deep red, and a fringed shirt as well,
and I saw him off in his long benched ship of war
in lordly style.
Something else. He kept a herald
280 beside him, a man a little older than himself.
I’ll try to describe him to you, best I can.
Round-shouldered he was, swarthy, curly-haired.
283 His name? Eurybates. And Odysseus prized him
most of all his men. Their minds worked as one.”
His words renewed her deep desire to weep,
recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered.
But as soon as she’d had her fill of tears and grief,
Penelope turned again to her guest and said,
“Now, stranger, much as I pitied you before,
290 now in my house you’ll be my special friend,
my honored guest. I am the one, myself,
who gave him the very clothes that you describe.
I brought them up from the storeroom, folded them neatly,
fastened the golden brooch to adorn my husband,
Odysseus —never again will I embrace him,
striding home to his own native land.
A black day it was
when he took ship to see that cursed city . . .
299 Destroy, I call it —I hate to say its name!”
300 “Ah my queen,” the man of craft assured her,
“noble wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus,
ravage no more your lovely face with tears
or consume your heart with grieving for your husband.
Not that I’d blame you, ever. Any woman will mourn
the bridegroom she has lost, lain with in love
and borne his children too. Even though he
was no Odysseus —a man like a god, they say.
But dry your tears and take my words to heart.
I will tell you the whole truth and hide nothing:
310 I have heard that Odysseus now, at last, is on his way,
he’s just in reach, in rich Thesprotian country —
the man is still alive
and he’s bringing home a royal hoard of treasure,
gifts he won from the people of those parts.
His crew? He’s lost his crew and hollow ship
on the wine-dark waters off Thrinacia Island.
317 Zeus and Helios raged, dead set against Odysseus
for his men-at-arms had killed the cattle of the Sun,
so down to the last hand they drowned in crashing seas.
320 But not Odysseus, clinging tight to his ship’s keel —
the breakers flung him out onto dry land, on Scheria,
the land of Phaeacians, close kin to the gods themselves,
and with all their hearts they prized him like a god,
showered the man with gifts, and they’d have gladly
sailed him home unscathed. In fact Odysseus
would have been here beside you long ago
but he thought it the better, shrewder course
to recoup his fortunes roving through the world.
At sly profit-turning there’s not a man alive
330 to touch Odysseus. He’s got no rival there.
So I learned from Phidon, king of Thesprotia,
who swore to me as he poured libations in his house,
‘The ship’s hauled down and the shipmates set to sail,
to take Odysseus home to native land.’
But I . . .
he shipped me off before. A Thesprotian cutter
chanced to be heading for Dulichion rich in wheat.
But he showed me all the treasure Odysseus had amassed,
enough to last a man and ten generations of his heirs —
so great the wealth stored up for him in the king’s vaults!
340 But Odysseus, he made clear, was off at Dodona then
to hear the will of Zeus that rustles forth
from the god’s tall leafy oak: how should he return,
after all the years away, to his own beloved Ithaca,
openly or in secret?
And so the man is safe,
as you can see, and he’s coming home, soon,
he’s close, close at hand —
he won’t be severed long from kin and country,
no, not now. I give you my solemn, binding oath.
I swear by Zeus, the first, the greatest god —
350 by Odysseus’ hearth, where I have come for help:
all will come to pass, I swear, exactly as I say.
True, this very month —just as the old moon dies
and the new moon rises into life —Odysseus will return!”
“If only, my friend,” reserved Penelope exclaimed,
“everything you say would come to pass!
You’d soon know my affection, know my gifts.
Any man you meet would call you blest.
But my heart can sense the way it all will go.
Odysseus, I tell you, is never coming back,
360 nor will you ever gain your passage home,
for we have no masters in our house like him
at welcoming in or sending off an honored guest.
Odysseus. There was a man, or was he all a dream?
But come, women, wash the stranger and make his bed,
with bedding, blankets and lustrous spreads to keep him warm
till Dawn comes up and takes her golden throne.
Then, tomorrow at daybreak, bathe him well
and rub him down with oil, so he can sit beside
Telemachus in the hall, enjoy his breakfast there.
370 And anyone who offends our guest beyond endurance —
he defeats himself; he’s doomed to failure here,
no matter how raucously he raves and blusters on.
For how can you know, my friend, if I surpass
all women in thoughtfulness and shrewd good sense,
if I’d allow you to take your meals at hall
so weatherbeaten, clad in rags and tatters?
Our lives are much too brief . . .
If a man is cruel by nature, cruel in action,
the mortal world will call down curses on his head
380 while he is alive, and all will mock his memory after death.
But then if a man is kind by nature, kind in action,
his guests will carry his fame across the earth
and people all will praise him from the heart.”
“Wait, my queen,” the crafty man objected,
“noble wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus —
blankets and glossy spreads? They’re not my style.
Not from the day I launched out in my long-oared ship
and the snowy peaks of Crete went fading far astern.
I’ll lie as I’ve done through sleepless nights before.
390 Many a night I’ve spent on rugged beds afield,
waiting for Dawn to mount her lovely throne.
Nor do I pine for any footbaths either.
Of all the women who serve your household here,
not one will touch my feet. Unless, perhaps,
there is some old retainer, the soul of trust,
someone who’s borne as much as I have borne . . .
I wouldn’t mind if she would touch my feet.”
“Dear friend,”
the discreet Penelope replied, “never has any man
so thoughtful —of all the guests in my palace
400 come from foreign parts —been as welcome as you . . .
so sensible, so apt, is every word you say.
I have just such an old woman, seasoned, wise,
who carefully tended my unlucky husband, reared him,
took him into her arms the day his mother bore him —
frail as the woman is, she’ll wash your feet.
Up with you now, my good old Eurycleia,
407 come and wash your master’s . . . equal in years.
Odysseus must have feet and hands like his by now —
hardship can age a person overnight.”
At that name
410 the old retainer buried her face in both hands,
burst into warm tears and wailed out in grief,
“Oh my child, how helpless I am to help you now!
How Zeus despised you, more than all other men,
god-fearing man that you were . . .
Never did any mortal burn the Old Thunderer
such rich thighbones —offerings charred and choice —
never as many as you did, praying always to reach
a ripe old age and raise a son to glory. Now,
you alone he’s robbed of your home-coming day!
420 Just so, the women must have mocked my king,
far away, when he’d stopped at some fine house —
just as all these bitches, stranger, mock you here.
And because you shrink from their taunts, their wicked barbs,
you will not let them wash you. The work is mine —
Icarius’ daughter, wise Penelope, bids me now
and I am all too glad. I will wash your feet,
both for my own dear queen and for yourself —
your sorrows wring my heart . . . and why?
Listen to me closely, mark my words.
430 Many a wayworn guest has landed here
but never, I swear, has one so struck my eyes —
your build, your voice, your feet —you’re like Odysseus . . .
to the life!”
“Old woman,” wily Odysseus countered,
“that’s what they all say who’ve seen us both.
We bear a striking resemblance to each other,
as you have had the wit to say yourself.”
The old woman took up a burnished basin
she used for washing feet and poured in bowls
of fresh cold water before she stirred in hot.
440 Odysseus, sitting full in the firelight, suddenly
swerved round to the dark, gripped by a quick misgiving —
soon as she touched him she might spot the scar!
The truth would all come out.
Bending closer
she started to bathe her master . . . then,
in a flash, she knew the scar —
that old wound
made years ago by a boar’s white tusk when Odysseus
447 went to Parnassus, out to see Autolycus and his sons.
The man was his mother’s noble father, one who excelled
the world at thievery, that and subtle, shifty oaths.
450 Hermes gave him the gift, overjoyed by the thighs
of lambs and kids he burned in the god’s honor —
Hermes the ready partner in his crimes. Now,
Autolycus once visited Ithaca’s fertile land,
to find his daughter’s son had just been born.
Eurycleia set him down on the old man’s knees
as he finished dinner, urging him, “Autolycus,
you must find a name for your daughter’s darling son.
The baby comes as the answer to her prayers.”
“You,
my daughter, and you, my son-in-law,” Autolycus replied,
460 “give the boy the name I tell you now. Just as I
have come from afar, creating pain for many —
men and women across the good green earth —
463 so let his name be Odysseus . . .
the Son of Pain, a name he’ll earn in full.
And when he has come of age and pays his visit
to Parnassus —the great estate of his mother’s line
where all my treasures lie —I will give him enough
to cheer his heart, then speed him home to you.”
And so,
in time, Odysseus went to collect the splendid gifts.
470 Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus warmed him in
with eager handclasps, hearty words of welcome.
472 His mother’s mother, Amphithea, hugged the boy
and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes.
Autolycus told his well-bred sons to prepare
a princely feast. They followed orders gladly,
herded an ox inside at once, five years old,
skinned it and split the carcass into quarters,
deftly cut it in pieces, skewered these on spits,
roasted all to a turn and served the portions out.
480 So all day long till the sun went down they feasted,
consuming equal shares to their hearts’ content.
Then when the sun had set and night came on
they turned to bed and took the gift of sleep.
As soon
as young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
they all moved out for the hunt, hounds in the lead,
Autolycus’ sons and Prince Odysseus in their ranks.
Climbing Parnassus’ ridges, thick with timber,
they quickly reached the mountain’s windy folds
and just as the sun began to strike the plowlands,
490 rising out of the deep calm flow of the Ocean River,
the beaters came to a wooded glen, the hounds broke,
hot on a trail, and right behind the pack they came,
Autolycus’ sons —Odysseus out in front now,
pressing the dogs, brandishing high his spear
with its long shadow waving. Then and there
a great boar lay in wait, in a thicket lair so dense
that the sodden gusty winds could never pierce it,
nor could the sun’s sharp rays invade its depths
nor a downpour drench it through and through,
500 so dense, so dark, and piled with fallen leaves.
Here, as the hunters closed in for the kill,
crowding the hounds, the tramp of men and dogs
came drumming round the boar —he crashed from his lair,
his razor back bristling, his eyes flashing fire
and charging up to the hunt he stopped, at bay —
and Odysseus rushed him first,
shaking his long spear in a sturdy hand,
wild to strike but the boar struck faster,
lunging in on the slant, a tusk thrusting up
510 over the boy’s knee, gouging a deep strip of flesh
but it never hit the bone —
Odysseus thrust and struck,
stabbing the beast’s right shoulder —
a glint of bronze —
the point ripped clean through and down in the dust he dropped,
grunting out his breath as his life winged away.
The sons of Autolycus, working over Odysseus,
skillfully binding up his open wound —
the gallant, godlike prince —
chanted an old spell that stanched the blood
and quickly bore him home to their father’s palace.
520 There, in no time, Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus
healed him well and, showering him with splendid gifts,
sped Odysseus back to his native land, to Ithaca,
a young man filled with joy. His happy parents,
his father and noble mother, welcomed him home
and asked him of all his exploits, blow-by-blow:
how did he get that wound? He told his tale with style,
how the white tusk of a wild boar had gashed his leg,
hunting on Parnassus with Autolycus and his sons . . .
That scar —
as the old nurse cradled his leg and her hands passed down
530 she felt it, knew it, suddenly let his foot fall —
down it dropped in the basin —the bronze clanged,
tipping over, spilling water across the floor.
Joy and torment gripped her heart at once,
tears rushed to her eyes —voice choked in her throat
she reached for Odysseus’ chin and whispered quickly,
“Yes, yes! you are Odysseus —oh dear boy —
I couldn’t know you before . . .
not till I touched the body of my king!”
She glanced at Penelope, keen to signal her
540 that here was her own dear husband, here and now,
but she could not catch the glance, she took no heed,
Athena turned her attention elsewhere. But Odysseus —
his right hand shot out, clutching the nurse’s throat,
with his left he hugged her to himself and muttered,
“Nurse, you want to kill me? You suckled me yourself
at your own breast —and now I’m home, at last,
after bearing twenty years of brutal hardship,
home, on native ground. But now you know,
now that a god has flashed it in your mind,
550 quiet! not a word to anyone in the house.
Or else, I warn you —and I mean business too —
if a god beats down these brazen suitors at my hands,
I will not spare you —my old nurse that you are —
when I kill the other women in my house.”
“Child,” shrewd old Eurycleia protested,
“what nonsense you let slip through your teeth!
You know me —I’m stubborn, never give an inch —
I’ll keep still as solid rock or iron.
One more thing. Take it to heart, I tell you.
560 If a god beats down these brazen suitors at your hands,
I’ll report in full on the women in your house:
who are disloyal to you, who are guiltless.”
“Nurse,” the cool tactician Odysseus said,
“why bother to count them off? A waste of breath.
I’ll observe them, judge each one myself.
Just be quiet. Keep your tales to yourself.
Leave the rest to the gods.”
Hushed so,
the old nurse went padding along the halls
to fetch more water —her basin had all spilled —
570 and once she’d bathed and rubbed him down with oil,
Odysseus drew his chair up near the fire again,
trying to keep warm,
but he hid his scar beneath his beggar’s rags
as cautious Penelope resumed their conversation:
“My friend, I have only one more question for you,
something slight, now the hour draws on for welcome sleep —
for those who can yield to sweet repose, that is,
heartsick as they are. As for myself, though,
some god has sent me pain that knows no bounds.
580 All day long I indulge myself in sighs and tears
as I see to my tasks, direct the household women.
When night falls and the world lies lost in sleep,
I take to my bed, my heart throbbing, about to break,
anxieties swarming, piercing —I may go mad with grief.
585 Like Pandareus’ daughter, the nightingale in the green woods
lifting her lovely song at the first warm rush of spring,
perched in the treetops’ rustling leaves and pouring forth
her music shifting, trilling and sinking, rippling high to burst
589 in grief for Itylus, her beloved boy, King Zethus’ son
590 whom she in innocence once cut down with bronze . . .
so my wavering heart goes shuttling, back and forth:
Do I stay beside my son and keep all things secure —
my lands, my serving-women, the grand high-roofed house —
true to my husband’s bed, the people’s voice as well?
Or do I follow, at last, the best man who courts me
here in the halls, who gives the greatest gifts?
My son —when he was a boy and lighthearted —
urged me not to marry and leave my husband’s house.
But now he has grown and reached his young prime,
600 he begs me to leave our palace, travel home.
Telemachus, so obsessed with his own estate,
the wealth my princely suitors bleed away.
But please,
read this dream for me, won’t you? Listen closely . . .
I keep twenty geese in the house, from the water trough
they come and peck their wheat —I love to watch them all.
But down from a mountain swooped this great hook-beaked eagle,
yes, and he snapped their necks and killed them one and all
and they lay in heaps throughout the halls while he,
back to the clear blue sky he soared at once.
610 But I wept and wailed —only a dream, of course —
and our well-groomed ladies came and clustered round me,
sobbing, stricken: the eagle killed my geese. But down
he swooped again and settling onto a jutting rafter
called out in a human voice that dried my tears,
‘Courage, daughter of famous King Icarius!
This is no dream but a happy waking vision,
real as day, that will come true for you.
The geese were your suitors —I was once the eagle
but now I am your husband, back again at last,
620 about to launch a terrible fate against them all!’
So he vowed, and the soothing sleep released me.
I peered around and saw my geese in the house,
pecking at their wheat, at the same trough
where they always took their meal.”
“Dear woman,”
quick Odysseus answered, “twist it however you like,
your dream can only mean one thing. Odysseus
told you himself —he’ll make it come to pass.
Destruction is clear for each and every suitor;
not a soul escapes his death and doom.”
630 “Ah my friend,” seasoned Penelope dissented,
“dreams are hard to unravel, wayward, drifting things —
not all we glimpse in them will come to pass . . .
633 Two gates there are for our evanescent dreams,
one is made of ivory, the other made of horn.
Those that pass through the ivory cleanly carved
are will-o’-the-wisps, their message bears no fruit.
The dreams that pass through the gates of polished horn
are fraught with truth, for the dreamer who can see them.
But I can’t believe my strange dream has come that way,
640 much as my son and I would love to have it so.
One more thing I’ll tell you —weigh it well.
The day that dawns today, this cursed day,
will cut me off from Odysseus’ house. Now,
644 I mean to announce a contest with those axes,
the ones he would often line up here inside the hall,
twelve in a straight unbroken row like blocks to shore a keel,
then stand well back and whip an arrow through the lot.
Now I will bring them on as a trial for my suitors.
The hand that can string the bow with greatest ease,
650 that shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes —
he’s the man I follow, yes, forsaking this house
where I was once a bride, this gracious house
so filled with the best that life can offer —
I shall always remember it, that I know . . .
even in my dreams.”
“Oh my queen,”
Odysseus, man of exploits, urged her on,
“royal wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus, now,
don’t put off this test in the halls a moment.
Before that crew can handle the polished bow,
660 string it taut and shoot through all those axes —
Odysseus, man of exploits, will be home with you!”
“If only, my friend,” the wise Penelope replied,
“you were willing to sit beside me in the house,
indulging me in the comfort of your presence,
sleep would never drift across my eyes.
But one can’t go without one’s sleep forever.
The immortals give each thing its proper place
in our mortal lives throughout the good green earth.
So now I’m going back to my room upstairs
670 and lie down on my bed,
that bed of pain my tears have streaked, year in,
year out, from the day Odysseus sailed away to see . . .
673 Destroy, I call it —I hate to say its name!
There I’ll rest, while you lie here in the hall,
spreading your blankets somewhere on the floor,
or the women will prepare a decent bed.”
With that
the queen went up to her lofty well-lit room
and not alone: her women followed close behind.
Penelope, once they reached the upper story,
680 fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband,
till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep.