Book XXIII: Ulysses and Penelope After the Slaughter

Up to the royal bower the matron wentWith an exulting heart, to tell the queenThat her beloved husband was within.With knees that faltered not, and quick light stepShe went, and, standing by her mistress, said:—

“Awake, Penelope, dear child, and seeWith thine own eyes what thou hast pined for long.Ulysses has returned; thy lord is here,Though late, and he has slain the arrogant crewOf suitors, who disgraced his house, and madeHis wealth a spoil, and dared insult his son.”

And thus discreet Penelope replied:“The gods, dear nurse, have made thee mad; for theyHave power to change the wisest men to fools,And make the foolish wise, and they have warpedThy mind once sound. How canst thou mock me thus,Amidst my sorrows, with such idle tales?Why wake me from the pleasant sleep that closedMy lids so softly? Never have I sleptSo sweetly since Ulysses went from meTo that bad city, which no tongue should name.Go, then; return into the lower rooms.Had any of my women save thyselfBrought such a message to disturb my sleep,I would have sent her back into the hallWith angry words; thy years are thy excuse.”

But Eurycleia, the dear nurse, rejoined:“Nay, my dear child, I mock thee not. Most trueIt is that thy Ulysses has returned,And here he is at home, as I have said.The stranger whom they scoffed at in the hallIs he; and long Telemachus has knownThat he was here, but wisely kept from allHis father’s secret, till he should avengeUpon those violent men their guilty deeds.”

She ended, and her mistress, overjoyed,Sprang from her couch, embraced the aged dame,And wept, and said to her in winged words:—

“Tell me, dear nurse, and truly, if indeedUlysses have returned as thou hast said.How smote he those proud suitors?—he alone,And they so many, gathered in the hall.”

And thus the well-beloved nurse replied:“I saw it not, nor knew of it. I heardOnly the moanings of the slain, while weThe maids, affrighted, sat in a recessOf that well-vaulted chamber; the firm doorsClosed us all in, until at length thy son,Sent by his father, called me forth. I foundUlysses standing midst the dead that layHeaped on each other, everywhere alongThe solid pavement. Thou wouldst have rejoicedTo see him like a lion with the stainsOf slaughter on him. Now the suitors lieBefore the portals of the palace-court,And he has kindled a great fire, and steepsIn smoke the noble hall. He bade me comeTo call thee. Follow me, that ye may giveYour hearts to gladness—for ye have enduredGreat sorrows both, and your long-cherished hopeIs now fulfilled. He hath returned aliveTo his dear home, and finds thee and his sonYet in his palace, and hath terriblyAvenged himself upon the guilty menWho under his own roof have done him wrong.”

Then spake the sage Penelope again:“Beloved nurse, exult not overmuch,Nor rashly boast. Well is it known to thee,Were he to come beneath this roof again,How welcome he would be to all, but mostTo me and to the son to whom we gaveHis being. Yet thy tidings are not true.Someone of the immortals must have slainThe arrogant suitors, angry to beholdTheir foul injustice and their many crimes;For no respect had they to mortal man,Good he might be, or bad, whome’er they met;And therefore have they made an evil end.But my Ulysses must have perished farFrom Ithaca, cut off from his return.”

Then Eurycleia, the dear nurse, rejoined:“What words are these, my child, that pass thy lips?Sayst thou, then, that thy husband, who now standsUpon thy hearthstone, never will return?O slow of faith! but thou wert ever thus.Come, then, I give a certain proof. I sawMyself, when he was at the bath, the scarLeft on him by the white tusk of a boar,And would have told thee, but he laid his handsUpon my mouth, and would not suffer meTo bear the tidings, such his forecast was.Now follow me; I give my life in pledge.If I deceive thee, slay me ruthlessly.”

Then spake discreet Penelope again:“Dear nurse, though thou in many things art wise,Think not to scan the counsels of the gods,Who live forever. Yet will we descend,And meet my son, and look upon the slain,And see the avenger by whose hand they fell.”

She spake, and from the royal bower went down,Uncertain whether she should stand aloofAnd question there her lord, or haste to himAnd clasp his hands in hers and kiss his brow.But having passed the threshold of hewn stone,Entering she took her seat right oppositeUlysses, in the full glow of the fire,Against the other wall. Ulysses satBeside a lofty column with his eyesCast down, and waiting for his highborn wifeTo speak when she had seen him. Long she satIn silence, for amazement overpoweredHer senses. Sometimes, looking in his eyes,She saw her husband there, and then again,Clad in those sordid weeds, she knew him not.Then spake Telemachus, and chid her thus:—

“Mother, unfeeling mother! hard of heartArt thou; how else couldst thou remain aloof?How keep from taking, at my father’s side,Thy place, to talk with him, and question him?No other wife could bring herself to bearSuch distance from a husband, just returnedAfter long hardships, in the twentieth yearOf absence, to his native land and her.Mother! thy heart is harder than a stone.”

And thus the sage Penelope replied:“Dear child, my faculties are overpoweredWith wonder, and I cannot question him,Nor even speak to him, nor fix my looksUpon his face. But if it be indeedUlysses, and he have returned, we soonShall know each other; there are tokens knownTo both of us, to none but him and me.”

She ended, and the much-enduring chiefUlysses, smiling at her words, bespakeTelemachus at once, in winged words:—

“Suffer thy mother, O Telemachus,To prove me; she will know me better soon.My looks are sordid, and my limbs are wrappedIn tattered raiment, therefore does she thinkMeanly of me, and cannot willinglyBelieve that I am he. But let us nowConsider what most wisely may be done.He who hath slain, among a tribe of men,A single one with few to avenge his death,Flees from his kindred and his native land;But we have slain the champions of the realm,The flower of all the youth of Ithaca.Therefore, I pray thee, think what shall be done.”

And then discreet Telemachus replied:“Look thou to that, dear father; for they sayThat thou of all mankind wert wont to giveThe wisest counsels. None of mortal birthIn this was deemed thy peer. We follow theeWith cheerful hearts; nor will our courage fail,I think, in aught that lies within our power.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“Then will I tell thee what I deem most wise.First take the bath, and then array yourselvesIn tunics, bid the palace-maidens chooseFresh garments; let the godlike bard, who bearsThe clear-toned harp, be leader, and strike upA melody to prompt the festive dance,That all may say who hear it from without—Whether the passers by or dwellers near—‘It is a wedding.’ Else throughout the landThe rumor of the slaughter we have wroughtAmong the suitors may have spread beforeWe reach our wooded farm, and there consultBeneath the guidance of Olympian Jove.”

He spake; they hearkened and obeyed. They tookThe bath, and then they put their garments on.The maids arrayed themselves; the godlike bardTook the curved harp, and woke in all the loveOf melody, and of the graceful dance.The spacious pile resounded to the stepsOf men and shapely women in their mirth,And one who stood without was heard to say:—

“Someone, no doubt, has made the long-wooed queenHis bride at last; a worthless woman she,Who could not, for the husband of her youth,Keep his fair palace till he came again.”

Such words were said, but they who uttered themKnew little what had passed. Eurynomè,The matron of the palace, meantime tookMagnanimous Ulysses to the bathIn his own dwelling, smoothed his limbs with oil,And threw a gorgeous mantle over himAnd tunic. Pallas on the hero’s headShed grace and majesty; she made him seemTaller and statelier, made his locks flow downIn curls like blossoms of the hyacinth,As when a workman skilled in many arts,And taught by Pallas and Minerva, twinesA golden border round the silver mass,A glorious work; so did the goddess shedGrace o’er his face and form. So from the bathHe stepped, like one of the immortals, tookThe seat from which he rose, right oppositePenelope, and thus addressed the queen:—

“Lady, the dwellers of the Olympian heightsHave given thee an impenetrable heartBeyond all other women. Sure I amNo other wife could bring herself to bearSuch distance from a husband just returnedAfter long hardships, in the twentieth yearOf absence, to his native land and her.Come, nurse, prepare a bed, where by myselfI may lie down; an iron heart is hers.”

To this the sage Penelope replied:“Nay, sir, ’tis not through pride or disregard,Or through excess of wonder, that I actThus toward thee. Well do I remember theeAs thou wert in the day when thy good shipBore thee from Ithaca. Bestir thyself,Dame Eurycleia, and make up with careA bed without the chamber, which he framedWith his own hands; bear out the massive bed,And lay upon it seemly coverings,Fleeces and mantles for his nightly rest.”

She spake to try her husband; but, displeased,Ulysses answered thus his virtuous queen:—

“O woman, thou hast said unwelcome words.Who hath displaced my bed? That task were hardFor long-experienced hands, unless some godHad come to shift its place. No living man,Even in his prime of years, could easilyHave moved it, for in that elaborate workThere was a mystery; it was I myselfWho shaped it, no one else. Within my courtThere grew an olive-tree with full-leaved boughs,A tall and flourishing tree; its massive stemWas like a column. Round it I built upA chamber with cemented stones untilThe walls were finished; then I framed a roofAbove it, and put on the well-glued doorsClose fitting. Next I lopped the full-leaved boughs,And, cutting off the trunk above the root,Smoothed well the stump with tools, and made of itA post to bear the couch. I bored the woodWith wimbles, placed on it the frame, and carvedThe work till it was done, inlaying itWith silver, gold, and ivory. I stretchedUpon it thongs of oxhide brightly dyedIn purple. Now, O wife, I cannot knowWhether my bed remains as then it was,Or whether someone from the root has hewnThe olive trunk, and moved it from its place.”

He spake, and her knees faltered and her heartWas melted as she heard her lord recountThe tokens all so truly; and she wept,And rose, and ran to him, and flung her armsAbout his neck, and kissed his brow, and said:—

“Ulysses, look not on me angrily,Thou who in other things art wise aboveAll other men. The gods have made our lotA hard one, jealous lest we should have passedOur youth together happily, and thusHave reached old age. I pray, be not incensed,Nor take it ill that I embraced thee notAs soon as I beheld thee, for my heartHas ever trembled lest someone who comesInto this isle should cozen me with words;And they who practise fraud are numberless.The Argive Helen, child of Jupiter,Would ne’er have listened to a stranger’s suitAnd loved him, had she known that in the yearsTo come the warlike Greeks would bring her backTo her own land. It was a deityWho prompted her to that foul wrong. Her thoughtWas never of the great calamityWhich followed, and which brought such woe on us.But now, since thou, by tokens clear and true,Hast spoken of our bed, which human eyeHas never seen save mine and thine, and thoseOf one handmaiden only, Actoris—Her whom my father gave me when I cameTo this thy palace, and who kept the doorOf our close chamber—thou hast won my mindTo full belief, though hard it was to win.”

She spake, and he was moved to tears; he weptAs in his arms he held his dearly lovedAnd faithful wife. As welcome as the landTo those who swim the deep, of whose stout barqueNeptune has made a wreck amidst the waves,Tossed by the billow and the blast, and fewAre those who from the hoary ocean reachThe shore, their limbs all crested with the brine,These gladly climb the sea-beach, and are safe—So welcome was her husband to her eyes.Nor would her fair white arms release his neck,And there would rosy-fingered Morn have foundBoth weeping, but the blue-eyed Pallas plannedThat thus it should not be; she stayed the nightWhen near its close, and held the golden MornLong in the ocean deeps, nor suffered herTo yoke her steeds that bring the light to men—Lampas and Phaëthon, swift steeds that bearThe Morning on her way. Ulysses then,The man of forecast, thus bespake his queen:—

“Not yet, O wife, have we attained the closeOf all our labors. One remains which yetI must achieve, toilsome, and measurelessIn difficulty; for so prophesiedThe spirit of Tiresias, on the dayWhen to the abode of Pluto I went downTo ask the seer concerning the returnOf my companions, and my own. But nowSeek we our couch, dear wife, that, softly laid,We may refresh ourselves with welcome sleep.”

Then spake in turn the sage Penelope:“Whenever thou desirest it thy couchShall be made ready, since the gods vouchsafeTo bring thee back into thy pleasant homeAnd to thy native land. But now that thouHast spoken of it, and some deityIs prompting thee, declare what this new taskMay be. Hereafter I shall hear of it,No doubt, nor were it worse to know it now.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“Dear wife, why wilt thou ask? why press me thus?Yet will I tell thee truly, nor will keepAught from thee, though thou wilt not gladly hear,Nor I relate. Tiresias bade me passThrough city after city, till I foundA people who know not the sea, nor eatTheir food with salt, who never yet beheldThe red-prowed galley, nor the shapely oars,Which are the wings of ships. And this plain signHe gave, nor will I keep it back from thee,That when another traveller whom I meetShall say it is a winnowing-fan I bearOn my stout shoulder, there he bade me plantThe oar upright in earth, and offer upTo monarch Neptune there a ram, a bull,And sturdy boar, and then, returning home,Burn hallowed hecatombs to all the godsWho dwell in the broad heaven, each one in turn.At last will death come over me, afarFrom ocean, such a death as peacefullyShall take me off in a serene old age,Amid a people prosperous and content.All this, the prophet said, will come to pass.”

And then the sage Penelope rejoined:“If thus the immortals make thy later ageThe happier, there is hope that thou wilt findEscape from evil in the years to come.”

So talked they with each other. Meantime wentEurynomè, attended by the nurse,And in the light of blazing torches dressedWith soft fresh drapery a bed; and whenTheir busy hands had made it full and high,The aged dame withdrew to take her restIn her own chamber, while Eurynomè,Who kept the royal bower, upheld a torchAnd thither led the pair, and, when they bothWere in the chamber, went her way. They tookTheir place delighted in the ancient bed.The prince, the herdsman, and the swineherd ceasedMeantime to tread the dance, and bade the maidsCease also, and within the palace-roomsDark with night’s shadow, sought their place of rest.Then came the time of pleasant mutual talk,In which that noblest among women spakeOf wrongs endured beneath her roof from thoseWho came to woo her—an insatiate crew—Who made of beeves and fatlings of the flockLarge slaughter, and drained many a wine-cask dry.Then nobly born Ulysses told what woesHis valor brought on other men; what toilsAnd suffering he had borne; he told her all,And she, delighted, heard him, nor did sleepLight on her eyelids till his tale was done.

And first he told her how he overcameThe people of Ciconia; how he passedThence to the rich fields of the race who feedUpon the lotus; what the Cyclops did,And how upon the Cyclops he avengedThe death of his brave comrades, whom the wretchHad piteously slaughtered and devoured.And how he came to Aeolus, and foundA friendly welcome, and was sent by himUpon his voyage; yet ’twas not his fateTo reach his native land; a tempest caughtHis fleet, and far across the fishy deepBore him away, lamenting bitterly.And how he landed at Telepylus,Among the Laestrigonians, who destroyedHis ships and warlike comrades, he aloneIn his black ship escaping. Then he toldOf Circè, her deceit and many arts,And how he went to Pluto’s dismal realmIn his good galley, to consult the soulOf him of Thebes, Tiresias, and beheldAll his lost comrades and his mother—herWho brought him forth, and trained him when a child.And how he heard the Sirens afterward,And how he came upon the wandering rocks,The terrible Charybdis, and the cragsOf Scylla—which no man had ever passedIn safety; how his comrades slew for foodThe oxen of the Sun; how Jupiter,The Thunderer, with a bolt of fire from heavenSmote his swift barque; and how his gallant crewAll perished, he alone escaped with life.And how he reached Ogygia’s isle, he told,And met the nymph Calypso, who desiredThat he would be her husband, and long timeDetained and fed him in her vaulted grot,And promised that he ne’er should die, nor knowDecay of age, through all the days to come;Yet moved she not the purpose of his heart.And how he next through many hardships cameTo the Phaeacians, and they welcomed himAnd honored him as if he were a god,And to his native country in a barqueSent him with ample gifts of brass and goldAnd raiment. As he uttered this last word,Sleep softly overcame him; all his limbsLay loose in rest, and all his cares were calmed.

The blue-eyed Pallas had yet new designs;And when she deemed Ulysses was refreshedWith rest and sleep, in that accustomed bed,She called the Morning, daughter of the Dawn,To rise from ocean in her car of gold,And shed her light on men. Ulysses roseFrom his soft couch, and thus enjoined his spouse:—

“O wife! enough of misery have we borneAlready—thou in weeping for my longUnhappy absence—I for years withheldBy Jupiter and all the other godsFrom my return to this dear land, althoughI pined for home. Now since upon this couchWe take the place so earnestly desired,Take thou the charge of all that I possessHere in the palace. For the herds and flocksWhich those high-handed suitors have devoured,I shall seize many others as a spoil;The rest the Greeks will bring me, till my stallsAre filled again. I hasten to my farmEmbowered in trees, to greet the aged manMy excellent father, who continuallyGrieves for me. Prudent as thou art, I giveThis charge; a rumor, with the rising sun,Will quickly go abroad that I have slainThe suitors in the palace. Now withdraw,Thou and thy maidens, to the upper room,And sit and look not forth, nor ask of aught.”

So spake the chief, and on his shoulders bracedHis glorious armor. Then he called his son,The herdsman, and the swineherd, bidding themTo take in hand their weapons. They obeyed,And, having armed themselves in brass, they threwThe portals open. As they all went forth,Ulysses led the way. The early lightWas on the earth, but Pallas, shrouding themIn darkness, led them quickly through the town.