Book XXIII: Ulysses and Penelope After the Slaughter

Lyrics

Descent of Penelope to the hall⁠—Her doubts of the identity of Ulysses removed by evident tokens given by Ulysses⁠—Her transport at their removal⁠—His narrative of his adventures⁠—Departure of Ulysses with his son, the herdsman, and the swineherd, to the country. Up to the royal bower the matron went With an exulting heart, to tell the queen That her beloved husband was within. With knees that faltered not, and quick light step She went, and, standing by her mistress, said:⁠— "Awake, Penelope, dear child, and see With thine own eyes what thou hast pined for long. Ulysses has returned; thy lord is here, Though late, and he has slain the arrogant crew Of suitors, who disgraced his house, and made His wealth a spoil, and dared insult his son." And thus discreet Penelope replied: "The gods, dear nurse, have made thee mad; for they Have power to change the wisest men to fools, And make the foolish wise, and they have warped Thy mind once sound. How canst thou mock me thus, Amidst my sorrows, with such idle tales? Why wake me from the pleasant sleep that closed My lids so softly? Never have I slept So sweetly since Ulysses went from me To that bad city, which no tongue should name. Go, then; return into the lower rooms. Had any of my women save thyself Brought such a message to disturb my sleep, I would have sent her back into the hall With angry words; thy years are thy excuse." But Eurycleia, the dear nurse, rejoined: "Nay, my dear child, I mock thee not. Most true It is that thy Ulysses has returned, And here he is at home, as I have said. The stranger whom they scoffed at in the hall Is he; and long Telemachus has known That he was here, but wisely kept from all His father's secret, till he should avenge Upon 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 indeed Ulysses 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 heard Only the moanings of the slain, while we The maids, affrighted, sat in a recess Of that well-vaulted chamber; the firm doors Closed us all in, until at length thy son, Sent by his father, called me forth. I found Ulysses standing midst the dead that lay Heaped on each other, everywhere along The solid pavement. Thou wouldst have rejoiced To see him like a lion with the stains Of slaughter on him. Now the suitors lie Before the portals of the palace-court, And he has kindled a great fire, and steeps In smoke the noble hall. He bade me come To call thee. Follow me, that ye may give Your hearts to gladness⁠—for ye have endured Great sorrows both, and your long-cherished hope Is now fulfilled. He hath returned alive To his dear home, and finds thee and his son Yet in his palace, and hath terribly Avenged himself upon the guilty men Who 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 most To me and to the son to whom we gave His being. Yet thy tidings are not true. Someone of the immortals must have slain The arrogant suitors, angry to behold Their 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 far From 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 stands Upon thy hearthstone, never will return? O slow of faith! but thou wert ever thus. Come, then, I give a certain proof. I saw Myself, when he was at the bath, the scar Left on him by the white tusk of a boar, And would have told thee, but he laid his hands Upon my mouth, and would not suffer me To 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 aloof And question there her lord, or haste to him And clasp his hands in hers and kiss his brow. But having passed the threshold of hewn stone, Entering she took her seat right opposite Ulysses, in the full glow of the fire, Against the other wall. Ulysses sat Beside a lofty column with his eyes Cast down, and waiting for his highborn wife To speak when she had seen him. Long she sat In silence, for amazement overpowered Her 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 heart Art 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 bear Such distance from a husband, just returned After long hardships, in the twentieth year Of 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 overpowered With wonder, and I cannot question him, Nor even speak to him, nor fix my looks Upon his face. But if it be indeed Ulysses, and he have returned, we soon Shall know each other; there are tokens known To both of us, to none but him and me." She ended, and the much-enduring chief Ulysses, smiling at her words, bespake Telemachus 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 wrapped In tattered raiment, therefore does she think Meanly of me, and cannot willingly Believe that I am he. But let us now Consider 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 say That thou of all mankind wert wont to give The wisest counsels. None of mortal birth In this was deemed thy peer. We follow thee With 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 yourselves In tunics, bid the palace-maidens choose Fresh garments; let the godlike bard, who bears The clear-toned harp, be leader, and strike up A 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 land The rumor of the slaughter we have wrought Among the suitors may have spread before We reach our wooded farm, and there consult Beneath the guidance of Olympian Jove." He spake; they hearkened and obeyed. They took The bath, and then they put their garments on. The maids arrayed themselves; the godlike bard Took the curved harp, and woke in all the love Of melody, and of the graceful dance. The spacious pile resounded to the steps Of men and shapely women in their mirth, And one who stood without was heard to say:⁠— "Someone, no doubt, has made the long-wooed queen His 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 them Knew little what had passed. Eurynomè, The matron of the palace, meantime took Magnanimous Ulysses to the bath In his own dwelling, smoothed his limbs with oil, And threw a gorgeous mantle over him And tunic. Pallas on the hero's head Shed grace and majesty; she made him seem Taller and statelier, made his locks flow down In curls like blossoms of the hyacinth, As when a workman skilled in many arts, And taught by Pallas and Minerva, twines A golden border round the silver mass, A glorious work; so did the goddess shed Grace o'er his face and form. So from the bath He stepped, like one of the immortals, took The seat from which he rose, right opposite Penelope, and thus addressed the queen:⁠— "Lady, the dwellers of the Olympian heights Have given thee an impenetrable heart Beyond all other women. Sure I am No other wife could bring herself to bear Such distance from a husband just returned After long hardships, in the twentieth year Of absence, to his native land and her. Come, nurse, prepare a bed, where by myself I 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 act Thus toward thee. Well do I remember thee As thou wert in the day when thy good ship Bore thee from Ithaca. Bestir thyself, Dame Eurycleia, and make up with care A bed without the chamber, which he framed With 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 hard For long-experienced hands, unless some god Had come to shift its place. No living man, Even in his prime of years, could easily Have moved it, for in that elaborate work There was a mystery; it was I myself Who shaped it, no one else. Within my court There grew an olive-tree with full-leaved boughs, A tall and flourishing tree; its massive stem Was like a column. Round it I built up A chamber with cemented stones until The walls were finished; then I framed a roof Above it, and put on the well-glued doors Close 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 it A post to bear the couch. I bored the wood With wimbles, placed on it the frame, and carved The work till it was done, inlaying it With silver, gold, and ivory. I stretched Upon it thongs of oxhide brightly dyed In purple. Now, O wife, I cannot know Whether my bed remains as then it was, Or whether someone from the root has hewn The olive trunk, and moved it from its place." He spake, and her knees faltered and her heart Was melted as she heard her lord recount The tokens all so truly; and she wept, And rose, and ran to him, and flung her arms About his neck, and kissed his brow, and said:⁠— "Ulysses, look not on me angrily, Thou who in other things art wise above All other men. The gods have made our lot A hard one, jealous lest we should have passed Our youth together happily, and thus Have reached old age. I pray, be not incensed, Nor take it ill that I embraced thee not As soon as I beheld thee, for my heart Has ever trembled lest someone who comes Into 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 suit And loved him, had she known that in the years To come the warlike Greeks would bring her back To her own land. It was a deity Who prompted her to that foul wrong. Her thought Was never of the great calamity Which followed, and which brought such woe on us. But now, since thou, by tokens clear and true, Hast spoken of our bed, which human eye Has never seen save mine and thine, and those Of one handmaiden only, Actoris⁠— Her whom my father gave me when I came To this thy palace, and who kept the door Of our close chamber⁠—thou hast won my mind To full belief, though hard it was to win." She spake, and he was moved to tears; he wept As in his arms he held his dearly loved And faithful wife. As welcome as the land To those who swim the deep, of whose stout barque Neptune has made a wreck amidst the waves, Tossed by the billow and the blast, and few Are those who from the hoary ocean reach The 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 found Both weeping, but the blue-eyed Pallas planned That thus it should not be; she stayed the night When near its close, and held the golden Morn Long in the ocean deeps, nor suffered her To yoke her steeds that bring the light to men⁠— Lampas and Phaëthon, swift steeds that bear The Morning on her way. Ulysses then, The man of forecast, thus bespake his queen:⁠— "Not yet, O wife, have we attained the close Of all our labors. One remains which yet I must achieve, toilsome, and measureless In difficulty; for so prophesied The spirit of Tiresias, on the day When to the abode of Pluto I went down To ask the seer concerning the return Of my companions, and my own. But now Seek 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 couch Shall be made ready, since the gods vouchsafe To bring thee back into thy pleasant home And to thy native land. But now that thou Hast spoken of it, and some deity Is prompting thee, declare what this new task May 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 keep Aught from thee, though thou wilt not gladly hear, Nor I relate. Tiresias bade me pass Through city after city, till I found A people who know not the sea, nor eat Their food with salt, who never yet beheld The red-prowed galley, nor the shapely oars, Which are the wings of ships. And this plain sign He gave, nor will I keep it back from thee, That when another traveller whom I meet Shall say it is a winnowing-fan I bear On my stout shoulder, there he bade me plant The oar upright in earth, and offer up To monarch Neptune there a ram, a bull, And sturdy boar, and then, returning home, Burn hallowed hecatombs to all the gods Who dwell in the broad heaven, each one in turn. At last will death come over me, afar From ocean, such a death as peacefully Shall 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 age The happier, there is hope that thou wilt find Escape from evil in the years to come." So talked they with each other. Meantime went Eurynomè, attended by the nurse, And in the light of blazing torches dressed With soft fresh drapery a bed; and when Their busy hands had made it full and high, The aged dame withdrew to take her rest In her own chamber, while Eurynomè, Who kept the royal bower, upheld a torch And thither led the pair, and, when they both Were in the chamber, went her way. They took Their place delighted in the ancient bed. The prince, the herdsman, and the swineherd ceased Meantime to tread the dance, and bade the maids Cease also, and within the palace-rooms Dark with night's shadow, sought their place of rest. Then came the time of pleasant mutual talk, In which that noblest among women spake Of wrongs endured beneath her roof from those Who came to woo her⁠—an insatiate crew⁠— Who made of beeves and fatlings of the flock Large slaughter, and drained many a wine-cask dry. Then nobly born Ulysses told what woes His valor brought on other men; what toils And suffering he had borne; he told her all, And she, delighted, heard him, nor did sleep Light on her eyelids till his tale was done. And first he told her how he overcame The people of Ciconia; how he passed Thence to the rich fields of the race who feed Upon the lotus; what the Cyclops did, And how upon the Cyclops he avenged The death of his brave comrades, whom the wretch Had piteously slaughtered and devoured. And how he came to Aeolus, and found A friendly welcome, and was sent by him Upon his voyage; yet 'twas not his fate To reach his native land; a tempest caught His fleet, and far across the fishy deep Bore him away, lamenting bitterly. And how he landed at Telepylus, Among the Laestrigonians, who destroyed His ships and warlike comrades, he alone In his black ship escaping. Then he told Of Circè, her deceit and many arts, And how he went to Pluto's dismal realm In his good galley, to consult the soul Of him of Thebes, Tiresias, and beheld All his lost comrades and his mother⁠—her Who 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 crags Of Scylla⁠—which no man had ever passed In safety; how his comrades slew for food The oxen of the Sun; how Jupiter, The Thunderer, with a bolt of fire from heaven Smote his swift barque; and how his gallant crew All perished, he alone escaped with life. And how he reached Ogygia's isle, he told, And met the nymph Calypso, who desired That he would be her husband, and long time Detained and fed him in her vaulted grot, And promised that he ne'er should die, nor know Decay of age, through all the days to come; Yet moved she not the purpose of his heart. And how he next through many hardships came To the Phaeacians, and they welcomed him And honored him as if he were a god, And to his native country in a barque Sent him with ample gifts of brass and gold And raiment. As he uttered this last word, Sleep softly overcame him; all his limbs Lay loose in rest, and all his cares were calmed. The blue-eyed Pallas had yet new designs; And when she deemed Ulysses was refreshed With 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 rose From his soft couch, and thus enjoined his spouse:⁠— "O wife! enough of misery have we borne Already⁠—thou in weeping for my long Unhappy absence⁠—I for years withheld By Jupiter and all the other gods From my return to this dear land, although I pined for home. Now since upon this couch We take the place so earnestly desired, Take thou the charge of all that I possess Here in the palace. For the herds and flocks Which those high-handed suitors have devoured, I shall seize many others as a spoil; The rest the Greeks will bring me, till my stalls Are filled again. I hasten to my farm Embowered in trees, to greet the aged man My excellent father, who continually Grieves for me. Prudent as thou art, I give This charge; a rumor, with the rising sun, Will quickly go abroad that I have slain The 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 braced His glorious armor. Then he called his son, The herdsman, and the swineherd, bidding them To take in hand their weapons. They obeyed, And, having armed themselves in brass, they threw The portals open. As they all went forth, Ulysses led the way. The early light Was on the earth, but Pallas, shrouding them In darkness, led them quickly through the town.