Part 4

Cunning Odysseus evaded her question. She might ask him anything but that, he said; for it gave him too much sorrow to think of his country and his race. Penelope was only too willing to be turned aside, burning as she was to ask for news of Odysseus. So she told the old man of her husband, and of his sailing for Troy, and of how she was pining for his return.

“_O that he came once more, and had care of my life as aforetime! So were fairer my fame, and my lot more happy; for alway Now I am sad—such woes hath a deity sent to assail me.... Wherefore little I care for my guests, or if beggars entreat me, Little for heralds I care, who work for the weal of the people; Wasted away is my heart as I yearn for Odysseus...._“[8]

She told him about the wooers, and the device of the shroud, which gained her three years’ respite. But a treacherous servant had betrayed her, and she had been compelled to finish her task.

“_Now can I neither escape from a marriage, nor yet am I able Further device to discover; and urgently also my parents Bid me to marry; and vexed is my son as they waste his possessions._“[8]

But having related so much of her own story, she asked again for the old man’s name and race; and above all, would not he say whether he had seen or heard aught of her husband? Odysseus needed all his subtlety now, as he invented a tale of Crete and the great city of Cnossos, and Minos the king who was his ancestor; and how on one occasion her husband had indeed taken shelter with him there.

_Thus in the likeness of truth he related a tissue of falsehood. Meantime, weeping she listened, her cheeks all flooded with teardrops, Like as the snow when it melteth away from the heights of the mountains, Thawed by the breath of the Eurus—the snow that the Zephyr hath sprinkled._

_... And Odysseus, Touched to the heart by the grief of his wife, felt tender compassion; Yet did his eyes keep fixed, as of horn they had been or of iron, Motionless under the lids. Tears came, but he skilfully hid them._[8]

There was one thing more which Odysseus must do before he could reveal himself; and meantime he could only comfort Penelope by assuring her that her husband still lived and was even now on his way home to her. She shook her head sadly: that was too good to believe: the kind old man was only trying to comfort her. But it was time for him to go to bed; and because he disliked the giddy young serving-maids, Penelope called up the old nurse Euryclea, and bade her wash the beggar’s feet with as much care as if he were her master returned at last. That he was indeed her master the nurse divined the instant that her fingers touched an old scar upon his foot. But Odysseus hastily whispered her to say nothing of what she had discovered; and soon the palace was asleep, with the old beggar stretched upon sheepskins in the forecourt.

At dawn next morning Odysseus awoke, and prayed to Zeus to help him in the great deed that he was to do that day. Soon the suitors were astir, and the usual preparations were begun for the banquet. Penelope herself came down from her room, to watch what would happen. For, as she had told the beggar the night before, she could not withhold her decision any longer. This day she must choose between the suitors. And because they were all alike hateful to her she would decide the question by a test: she would consent to take for her husband that man who could shoot with Odysseus’ bow.

“_I now the suitors to that feat will call Of axes, that he used to set in hall Twelve in a row, like ship-stays, and far back Standing would shoot an arrow through them all._

“_Now therefore to the suitors I will shew This feat; and whoso in his hands the bow Shall bend most easily, and down the line Of the twelve axes make the arrow go,_

“_Him will I follow, putting far from me This house of my espousals, fair to see And full of substance, that I think in dreams I shall remember through the days to be._“[7]

She went up into the high Treasure-chamber, and sorrowfully took down the great bow that a friend in Sparta had given to Odysseus long ago. She carried it forth among the suitors; and Telemachus, who was eager for the contest which he knew would end for them in a shameful death, swiftly set up the twelve axes in a row, through which they were to shoot. Odysseus leaned silently against the door-post, still in his beggar’s disguise; whilst one after another of the suitors tried to bend the bow. But one after another miserably failed to bend it, although a great fire was lit and a cake of lard was brought to make the bow supple. At last, in rage and despair, they had to abandon the attempt; and then Odysseus humbly asked if he might be allowed to try. This was a pre-arranged signal between father and son; and in the instant outcry that arose at the old man’s presumption, Penelope and her maids were led away. Then Odysseus, with his son and two faithful serving-men who were in the secret, made a bold attack upon the suitors. They were greatly outnumbered, but their plans had been laid warily, and Athena was on their side. Through a grim struggle they prevailed at last, and did not cease until vengeance was complete and every evil suitor had been slain. But Penelope, although she heard the horrible din in the hall below, had no idea of its cause. It was probably, she thought, another of the frequent brawls between these tumultuous wooers. She was still completely ignorant of Odysseus’s return; and when the old nurse came running to her with the joyful news, she believed her to be mad. She had looked so long and so despairingly for this event that now it had come she was utterly incredulous. Even when she heard all the ghastly story of the slaying of the suitors, and came into the hall where her husband stood awaiting her, she could not realize that it was he.

_Then from her room she descended, and deeply she pondered in spirit Whether to hold her aloof from her lord and to test him with questions Or to approach and embrace him and kiss him on hands and on forehead. So, when at length she had entered the hall and had stept from the door-stone, Fronting Odysseus she seated herself, in the light of a brazier, Close to the opposite wall; and with eyes cast down he was sitting Nigh to a pillar that rose to the roof; and he waited expectant, Hoping his beautiful wife would speak when she saw him before her. Long while silent she sat, with her spirit amazed and bewildered._[8]

Telemachus could not comprehend the reason for his mother’s silence, and broke into impulsive chiding. He could not see that the very steadfastness of her nature would not allow her to be lightly convinced.

_Then answer made Penelope the wise: “My child, the soul is dizzy with surprise Within me; no word can I speak to him, Nor question him nor look him in the eyes._

_“But if he comes indeed, and this is he, We shall know one another certainly. For we have tokens that from all men else Are hidden, and none know but only we.”_[7]

Truly, it is Greek meeting Greek, in this encounter between the wit of Penelope and that of the man she dare not hope is really her husband. Odysseus grows angry at last, and that gives the victory to his wife. For when he orders that a bed shall be made for him apart, she says cunningly to the maid:

“_Now, Eurycleia, lay the goodly bed Without the chamber firmly-stablished That his own hands made: take it out from thence, You and the women, and upon it spread_

_The broidered blankets, that he soft may lie, And rugs and fleeces._“[7]

Now Odysseus had built the bed himself, literally round the trunk of a standing tree; and by this token she is trying him. In his answer she perceives that he truly is her husband, for none but he could know how wonderfully their bed was built.

“_Verily, wife, this word thou hast spoken is grievously cruel. Who hath removed it—the bed that I built? ‘Twere difficult truly E’en for a man right skilful, unless some deity helped him. ... Great is the secret Touching that fine-wrought bed—for I made it myself and in private. Once was a long-leaved olive that stood inside the enclosure, Thriving and grown to the full; and its stem was as thick as a pillar. Round it I built me a chamber and laboured until it was finished._“[8]

Odysseus is indignant at the suggestion that his wonderful handiwork has been destroyed; but Penelope does not mind about his anger, for she is convinced at last that he is indeed her husband.

_Then as he spake were loosened her knees and the heart in her bosom, Since to herself she confessed that the token was sure that he gave her. Bursting in tears, straightway to Odysseus she ran and embraced him, Casting her arms on his neck and kissing his head and exclaiming: “Gaze not upon me in anger, Odysseus! In all thou hast shown thee Wisest of men—and thou knowst that the gods have sent us affliction, Jealous to see us abiding in happiness one with the other.... Ever and ever again hath my heart in the depths of my bosom Shuddered with fear lest any with tales might haply deceive me.... Now ... I believe! for thou giv’st me a token unerring—the secret Touching the bed.... Yea, I believe! thou hast conquered my heart, however unloving!”_[8]

Odysseus’s anger quickly melts as he clasps his sweet wife in his arms; and so we may leave Penelope in her happiness. Homer has one word more to say about her, however. It occurs, with apparent naïveté, almost like a curious little afterthought, in the last book of the poem. But there is really exquisite art in it. The souls of the suitors have gone wailing on their way to the World of the Dead; and there they meet the great Greek heroes who died at Troy. There too, they meet the haughty spirit of King Agamemnon, murdered by his wife on his return to Mycenæ. To him the suitors tell their tale of the faithful wife of Odysseus, and their ignominious end. And then from Agamemnon’s lips, bitterly contrasting his wife with Penelope, falls what is perhaps the noblest and most impressive tribute to her:

“_O fortunate Laertes’ son, Odysseus many-counselled, who a wife So virtuous and so excellent have won!_

“_How rightly minded from of old was she, Icarius’ child, unblamed Penelope! How well remembered she her wedded lord Odysseus! Therefore undecayed shall be_

“_Her fame for worth, among mankind so long Shall the immortals make a lovely song Of chaste Penelope._“[7]

Footnote 7:

From Professor J. W. Mackail’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (John Murray).

Footnote 8:

From Mr H. B. Cotterill’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (Harrap & Co.).

_Homer: Circe_

Penelope is not the only woman in the _Odyssey_, although she is far the most prominent. Round her are grouped three other woman-figures—Calypso, Circe, and Nausicaa; and although two of them are goddesses rather than women, they seem none the less deliberately chosen, with the sweet youthfulness of Nausicaa, to enhance the dignity of Penelope.

They come into the story as incidents in the adventures of Odysseus, as he is driven from point to point on his weary voyage homeward. Calypso and Circe, dwelling each in a lonely island of the sea, lure him and hold him from Penelope against his will. But it is of no avail to change his purpose. They have many charms, and they can sing sweetly to ease the heart from pain. They live a dainty and a joyous life, which he may share if he will; and which he does share for a time. They are more beautiful than Penelope; they have strange lore, and a knowledge of enchantments; they have, too, eternal youth and kinship with the immortals. But when all is said, they cannot compare with the dear human soul who is waiting for Odysseus in Ithaca; and this contrast the poet makes us clearly see, in the way in which Odysseus always turns with longing to the thought of Penelope.

So it is, too, with Nausicaa. This fresh young daughter of King Alcinous, just a fair mortal girl, might be Penelope’s very self, when twenty years before Odysseus had taken away Icarius’s child to be his wife. One would think that there must be something quite irresistible about her to the toil worn man just escaped from death. She is so brave and helpful; and so prudent too, as she tells him a little wistfully that he must not enter the city in her company. Yet, though we feel that Odysseus cannot but admire this spirited young creature, she does but serve to remind him of one in whom similar beauty and wisdom have grown to maturity.

Thus we have another comparison from which Penelope gains; and thus all three of these other women of the _Odyssey_ serve to throw the heroine into stronger relief. The poet accomplishes this very cunningly. He does not bring them into direct contact with Penelope: they are never, so to speak, on the stage together. That would be too severe a contrast—one from which Penelope would suffer, as well as they. But at distant times and places, each is brought separately into the circle of Penelope’s life, by rivalry for the love of her husband. So they stand in the poem, not only as a graceful setting to the figure of the heroine; but they occupy in relation to Odysseus the same position which the suitors occupy in relation to Penelope. There is a perfect balance of the poem here, and one can only marvel at the art which built it so. For the suitors serve on the one hand to show Penelope’s fidelity; and on the other hand, by their arrogance and brutality, they make a complete foil to the just and subtle Odysseus. Penelope cannot cope with them; she knows them too well to dare the effect of a downright refusal; and she sets her wits to work to keep them at bay, while she longs and prays for her husband’s return. In conflict with them, her loyalty shines; and there are developed all her many merits as queen and housewife and mother. But in the conflict we get at the same time, through their sensuality and impiousness, a sense of the absolute contrast with Odysseus.

The three minor women of the _Odyssey_ serve a similar double purpose. They stand to the hero as the suitors stand to Penelope. If Odysseus’s loyalty to his wife does not come perfectly scathless through the ordeal—if we cannot hold him entirely blameless for the year spent with Circe—the test does nevertheless reveal his essential constancy. That is indeed the poet’s purpose; as well as to give a bright and graceful touch to an exciting story of adventure. But he had also another purpose, which we have already seen—to make of these rivals of Penelope a charming setting, in which she should shine with added lustre.

We hear all about Circe when Odysseus is telling the story of his adventures to King Alcinous. He relates how he had sailed a second time from Aeolia, sadly and wearily, because of the folly of his men. For they had been well within sight of their beloved Ithaca, and Odysseus, worn out with his long vigil at the main-sheet, had dropped asleep. It was an evil opportunity for the curious crew, who were burning to know what was contained in the great skin sack that their commander had stored below so carefully. Within a trice the Bag of the Winds was cut, letting loose on them havoc and destruction.

They fared back to King Aeolus, and humbly begged his help once more. But he would not a second time labour to imprison the winds for men on whom the gods had obviously laid a curse of foolishness; and they had to sail away unfriended. For six days they rowed hard against adverse weather; and on the seventh their evil fortune lured them to the land of the Laestrygonians. Not one of the ships that entered the harbour ever came out again. Only Odysseus and his own men, who lay outside awaiting them, were saved from the hands of that cruel race.

_Thence we sailed onward, joyful to have fled With life, but for our fellows perished Grieving at heart: then came we to the isle Aeaea, where abode a goddess dread, Circe, of mortal speech and tresses fair._[9]

Such was the coming of Odysseus to the land of Circe; and of all the strange and terrible things that had yet befallen him, the strangest and most terrible he was to receive at her hands. At first all went well. The ship ran smoothly into a fair haven: they landed in safety, and for two days and nights they rested on the shore, Odysseus himself shooting them venison for their food. In all this time no human creature had been seen; but Odysseus in his explorations had seen one sign of habitation—a curl of smoke rising from an oaken coppice. That gave at least some hope of succour; but when he called his men to search the wood with him, he found that their courage had been completely broken. Their sufferings from the savage Cyclops and the Laestrygonians had taught them to fear the unknown rather than to hope from it; and none would volunteer for the expedition. So a council was called, lots were cast, and those on whom the lots fell went off most unwillingly, led by Eurylochus.

The island lay low upon the sea, with only one hill-peak; and when they climbed the hill the circling waters could be seen stretching away to the horizon’s edge, without another glimpse of land. It would seem that they were utterly cut off: that there was no possible succour anywhere but in the mysterious valley below them; and the knowledge spurred them to seek out the dweller in the wood, and so perhaps find help and counsel.

In a wide and shallow valley, where the oaks had been cleared away and the sun streamed hotly upon a southern slope, they came upon the house of Circe, daughter of the sun. No human figure could be seen:

_But beasts alone, Hill-wolves and lions, over whom the witch With evil drugs had her enchantment thrown._[9]

Even these creatures made no sound to break the silence that was like a menace, while the sailors stopped awe-struck at the sight. The great house, with its many halls and shining marble pillars, fascinated their sight; and the strange beasts which leapt and fawned around them seemed to invite them to enter. But while they stood in doubt, dreading to advance and yet withheld from flight by some impalpable, resistless power, the sound of a sweet voice rose upon the air. Softly at first it floated out to them, in trembling notes; and they stole forward, drawn by the exquisite melody, until they stood upon the very threshold of Circe’s house.

_And now upon the fair-tressed Goddess’ floor They stood, and from the porches through the door Heard Circe singing sweetly, as within She wrought, the deathless high-built loom before._

_... They called aloud and cried. Then issuing forth she straight threw open wide The shining doors and called them; and they all Went in their folly trooping at her side._[9]

Circe, with a lurking smile of malice on her lips, came forward to welcome them. She was very lovely, with the youthful, changeless beauty of the immortals; but though Homer does not tell us so, we know that there was sensuality in the curving fullness of her mouth and a cruel gleam in the eyes over which the white lids drooped. With sweet words and fluttering movements of her soft hands, she brought them in and bade them sit; and busied herself, with swift and stealthy eagerness, to mix and pour a luscious drink of Pramnian wine and honey. But before she gave the cup into their hands, she furtively dropped into it one of her secret baneful drugs; and as they greedily drank, their human shape was instantly transformed to that of swine.

One of the crew, however, had not entered; and when his comrades did not return, he ran back to the ship to tell of what had happened. Odysseus, suspecting some evil, slung on his sword, seized his bow, and sped away to Circe’s house. But suddenly in his path stood the god Hermes, Messenger of Zeus, in the likeness of a handsome youth. The god held up an arresting hand.

“_Ah, whither do you go Across the wolds, O man unfortunate, Alone amid a land you do not know?_

“_Your fellows here in Circe’s palace pine, Close-barred and prisoned in the shape of swine; And come you hither to release them? Nay, Yourself you shall not save, as I divine._“[9]

Then Hermes foretold all that should befall Odysseus in Circe’s house, thinking to deter him. But when he would persist in the attempt to save his men, the god gave Odysseus a plant that should be an antidote to Circe’s poison.

_Thereafter to far-off Olympus he Passed from the island set with many a tree, But I to Circe’s house; and as I went Many a thing my heart revolved in me._

_Then by the fair-tressed Goddess’ portals nigh I stood and called her, and she heard my cry, And issuing forth at once flung open wide The glittering doors and called me in: and I_

_Followed as one who goes his doom to meet: Forthwith she led me in, and on a seat Fair, carven, silver-studded, set me down And laid a footstool underneath my feet._[9]

Below her courtesy an evil intent was lurking, as Odysseus knew too well; and presently she served to him the same poisoned drink with which she had bewitched his men. But the plant of moly that Hermes had given him made him proof against her drugs. The wine failed of its effect, and Circe, angrily taking her wand, smote Odysseus with it, crying: “Begone now to the sty and couch among your band.”

_So said she: but the sharp sword from my thigh I drew, and leapt at Circe suddenly As purposing to slay her; and she shrieked Aloud, and under it ran in anigh,_

_And caught my knees, and winged words anew She uttered: “Who and whence of men are you? Where is the city of your ancestry? I marvel greatly how this cup I brew_

_“You drink, and yet its sorcery have withstood: For unbewitched has none of mortal brood Drunk of it yet or let it pass his lips; But your breast holds against bewitchment good._

_“Wandering Odysseus truly you must be, Who in his swift black ship across the sea Ever the golden-wanded Shining One Said should from Troy returning visit me.”_[9]

Her mischievous purpose faded on the instant, and she became full of fawning admiration and wonder. Her malice was changed; but something even more dangerous took its place. She began with sweet words to smooth away Odysseus’s anger, fondling him and begging him to remain with her and be her husband. But Odysseus remembered the warning of the god, and at first he would not yield. He was sullen and suspicious, and would not answer her gently until she had sworn to release his men.

_Thereat immediately Out through the palace, rod in hand, went she, And opened the sty-doors and drave them out Resembling swine of nine years old to see._

_Thereafter all in front of her stood they, While she passed down along their whole array, Smearing another drug on each of them; And off their limbs the bristles fell away,_

_That the first baleful drug from Circe’s store Had made to grow upon them; and once more Men they became, and younger were to see And taller far and goodlier than before._[9]