The Odyssey: Book XIX Text

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BOOK XIX


TELEMACHUS AND ULYSSES REMOVE THE ARMOUR—ULYSSES INTERVIEWS
PENELOPE—EURYCLEA WASHES HIS FEET AND RECOGNISES THE SCAR ON HIS
LEG—PENELOPE TELLS HER DREAM TO ULYSSES.


Ulysses was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby with
Minerva’s help he might be able to kill the suitors. Presently he said
to Telemachus, “Telemachus, we must get the armour together and take it
down inside. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you have
removed it. Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of the
smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went away,
but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this more
particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel over
their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may
disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes
tempts people to use them.”

Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called nurse
Euryclea and said, “Nurse, shut the women up in their room, while I
take the armour that my father left behind him down into the store
room. No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has got all
smirched with soot during my own boyhood. I want to take it down where
the smoke cannot reach it.”

“I wish, child,” answered Euryclea, “that you would take the management
of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after all the
property yourself. But who is to go with you and light you to the
store-room? The maids would have done so, but you would not let them.”

“The stranger,” said Telemachus, “shall show me a light; when people
eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from.”

Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their room.
Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets, shields,
and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold lamp in her
hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon Telemachus said,
“Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls, with the rafters,
crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest are all aglow as with a
flaming fire. Surely there is some god here who has come down from
heaven.”

“Hush,” answered Ulysses, “hold your peace and ask no questions, for
this is the manner of the gods. Get you to your bed, and leave me here
to talk with your mother and the maids. Your mother in her grief will
ask me all sorts of questions.”

On this Telemachus went by torch-light to the other side of the inner
court, to the room in which he always slept. There he lay in his bed
till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering on the
means whereby with Minerva’s help he might be able to kill the suitors.

Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana, and
they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near the
fire in her accustomed place. It had been made by Icmalius and had a
footstool all in one piece with the seat itself; and it was covered
with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came from the
women’s room to join her. They set about removing the tables at which
the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away the bread that was
left, with the cups from which they had drunk. They emptied the embers
out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them to give both light
and heat; but Melantho began to rail at Ulysses a second time and said,
“Stranger, do you mean to plague us by hanging about the house all
night and spying upon the women? Be off, you wretch, outside, and eat
your supper there, or you shall be driven out with a firebrand.”

Ulysses scowled at her and answered, “My good woman, why should you be
so angry with me? Is it because I am not clean, and my clothes are all
in rags, and because I am obliged to go begging about after the manner
of tramps and beggars generally? I too was a rich man once, and had a
fine house of my own; in those days I gave to many a tramp such as I
now am, no matter who he might be nor what he wanted. I had any number
of servants, and all the other things which people have who live well
and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased Jove to take all away from
me; therefore, woman, beware lest you too come to lose that pride and
place in which you now wanton above your fellows; have a care lest you
get out of favour with your mistress, and lest Ulysses should come
home, for there is still a chance that he may do so. Moreover, though
he be dead as you think he is, yet by Apollo’s will he has left a son
behind him, Telemachus, who will note anything done amiss by the maids
in the house, for he is now no longer in his boyhood.”

Penelope heard what he was saying and scolded the maid, “Impudent
baggage,” said she, “I see how abominably you are behaving, and you
shall smart for it. You knew perfectly well, for I told you myself,
that I was going to see the stranger and ask him about my husband, for
whose sake I am in such continual sorrow.”

Then she said to her head waiting woman Eurynome, “Bring a seat with a
fleece upon it, for the stranger to sit upon while he tells his story,
and listens to what I have to say. I wish to ask him some questions.”

Eurynome brought the seat at once and set a fleece upon it, and as soon
as Ulysses had sat down Penelope began by saying, “Stranger, I shall
first ask you who and whence are you? Tell me of your town and
parents.”

“Madam,” answered Ulysses, “who on the face of the whole earth can dare
to chide with you? Your fame reaches the firmament of heaven itself;
you are like some blameless king, who upholds righteousness, as the
monarch over a great and valiant nation: the earth yields its wheat and
barley, the trees are loaded with fruit, the ewes bring forth lambs,
and the sea abounds with fish by reason of his virtues, and his people
do good deeds under him. Nevertheless, as I sit here in your house, ask
me some other question and do not seek to know my race and family, or
you will recall memories that will yet more increase my sorrow. I am
full of heaviness, but I ought not to sit weeping and wailing in
another person’s house, nor is it well to be thus grieving continually.
I shall have one of the servants or even yourself complaining of me,
and saying that my eyes swim with tears because I am heavy with wine.”

Then Penelope answered, “Stranger, heaven robbed me of all beauty,
whether of face or figure, when the Argives set sail for Troy and my
dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after my affairs
I should be both more respected and should show a better presence to
the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the afflictions
which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me. The chiefs from all our
islands—Dulichium, Same, and Zacynthus, as also from Ithaca itself, are
wooing me against my will and are wasting my estate. I can therefore
show no attention to strangers, nor suppliants, nor to people who say
that they are skilled artisans, but am all the time broken-hearted
about Ulysses. They want me to marry again at once, and I have to
invent stratagems in order to deceive them. In the first place heaven
put it in my mind to set up a great tambour-frame in my room, and to
begin working upon an enormous piece of fine needlework. Then I said to
them, ‘Sweethearts, Ulysses is indeed dead, still, do not press me to
marry again immediately; wait—for I would not have my skill in
needlework perish unrecorded—till I have finished making a pall for the
hero Laertes, to be ready against the time when death shall take him.
He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out
without a pall.’ This was what I said, and they assented; whereon I
used to keep working at my great web all day long, but at night I would
unpick the stitches again by torch light. I fooled them in this way for
three years without their finding it out, but as time wore on and I was
now in my fourth year, in the waning of moons, and many days had been
accomplished, those good for nothing hussies my maids betrayed me to
the suitors, who broke in upon me and caught me; they were very angry
with me, so I was forced to finish my work whether I would or no. And
now I do not see how I can find any further shift for getting out of
this marriage. My parents are putting great pressure upon me, and my
son chafes at the ravages the suitors are making upon his estate, for
he is now old enough to understand all about it and is perfectly able
to look after his own affairs, for heaven has blessed him with an
excellent disposition. Still, notwithstanding all this, tell me who you
are and where you come from—for you must have had father and mother of
some sort; you cannot be the son of an oak or of a rock.”

Then Ulysses answered, “Madam, wife of Ulysses, since you persist in
asking me about my family, I will answer, no matter what it costs me:
people must expect to be pained when they have been exiles as long as I
have, and suffered as much among as many peoples. Nevertheless, as
regards your question I will tell you all you ask. There is a fair and
fruitful island in mid-ocean called Crete; it is thickly peopled and
there are ninety cities in it: the people speak many different
languages which overlap one another, for there are Achaeans, brave
Eteocretans, Dorians of three-fold race, and noble Pelasgi. There is a
great town there, Cnossus, where Minos reigned who every nine years had
a conference with Jove himself.152 Minos was father to Deucalion, whose
son I am, for Deucalion had two sons Idomeneus and myself. Idomeneus
sailed for Troy, and I, who am the younger, am called Aethon; my
brother, however, was at once the older and the more valiant of the
two; hence it was in Crete that I saw Ulysses and showed him
hospitality, for the winds took him there as he was on his way to Troy,
carrying him out of his course from cape Malea and leaving him in
Amnisus off the cave of Ilithuia, where the harbours are difficult to
enter and he could hardly find shelter from the winds that were then
raging. As soon as he got there he went into the town and asked for
Idomeneus, claiming to be his old and valued friend, but Idomeneus had
already set sail for Troy some ten or twelve days earlier, so I took
him to my own house and showed him every kind of hospitality, for I had
abundance of everything. Moreover, I fed the men who were with him with
barley meal from the public store, and got subscriptions of wine and
oxen for them to sacrifice to their heart’s content. They stayed with
me twelve days, for there was a gale blowing from the North so strong
that one could hardly keep one’s feet on land. I suppose some
unfriendly god had raised it for them, but on the thirteenth day the
wind dropped, and they got away.”

Many a plausible tale did Ulysses further tell her, and Penelope wept
as she listened, for her heart was melted. As the snow wastes upon the
mountain tops when the winds from South East and West have breathed
upon it and thawed it till the rivers run bank full with water, even so
did her cheeks overflow with tears for the husband who was all the time
sitting by her side. Ulysses felt for her and was sorry for her, but he
kept his eyes as hard as horn or iron without letting them so much as
quiver, so cunningly did he restrain his tears. Then, when she had
relieved herself by weeping, she turned to him again and said: “Now,
stranger, I shall put you to the test and see whether or no you really
did entertain my husband and his men, as you say you did. Tell me,
then, how he was dressed, what kind of a man he was to look at, and so
also with his companions.”

“Madam,” answered Ulysses, “it is such a long time ago that I can
hardly say. Twenty years are come and gone since he left my home, and
went elsewhither; but I will tell you as well as I can recollect.
Ulysses wore a mantle of purple wool, double lined, and it was fastened
by a gold brooch with two catches for the pin. On the face of this
there was a device that shewed a dog holding a spotted fawn between his
fore paws, and watching it as it lay panting upon the ground. Every one
marvelled at the way in which these things had been done in gold, the
dog looking at the fawn, and strangling it, while the fawn was
struggling convulsively to escape.153 As for the shirt that he wore
next his skin, it was so soft that it fitted him like the skin of an
onion, and glistened in the sunlight to the admiration of all the women
who beheld it. Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart, that
I do not know whether Ulysses wore these clothes when he left home, or
whether one of his companions had given them to him while he was on his
voyage; or possibly some one at whose house he was staying made him a
present of them, for he was a man of many friends and had few equals
among the Achaeans. I myself gave him a sword of bronze and a beautiful
purple mantle, double lined, with a shirt that went down to his feet,
and I sent him on board his ship with every mark of honour. He had a
servant with him, a little older than himself, and I can tell you what
he was like; his shoulders were hunched,154 he was dark, and he had
thick curly hair. His name was Eurybates, and Ulysses treated him with
greater familiarity than he did any of the others, as being the most
like-minded with himself.”

Penelope was moved still more deeply as she heard the indisputable
proofs that Ulysses laid before her; and when she had again found
relief in tears she said to him, “Stranger, I was already disposed to
pity you, but henceforth you shall be honoured and made welcome in my
house. It was I who gave Ulysses the clothes you speak of. I took them
out of the store room and folded them up myself, and I gave him also
the gold brooch to wear as an ornament. Alas! I shall never welcome him
home again. It was by an ill fate that he ever set out for that
detested city whose very name I cannot bring myself even to mention.”

Then Ulysses answered, “Madam, wife of Ulysses, do not disfigure
yourself further by grieving thus bitterly for your loss, though I can
hardly blame you for doing so. A woman who has loved her husband and
borne him children, would naturally be grieved at losing him, even
though he were a worse man than Ulysses, who they say was like a god.
Still, cease your tears and listen to what I can tell you. I will hide
nothing from you, and can say with perfect truth that I have lately
heard of Ulysses as being alive and on his way home; he is among the
Thesprotians, and is bringing back much valuable treasure that he has
begged from one and another of them; but his ship and all his crew were
lost as they were leaving the Thrinacian island, for Jove and the
sun-god were angry with him because his men had slaughtered the
sun-god’s cattle, and they were all drowned to a man. But Ulysses stuck
to the keel of the ship and was drifted on to the land of the
Phaeacians, who are near of kin to the immortals, and who treated him
as though he had been a god, giving him many presents, and wishing to
escort him home safe and sound. In fact Ulysses would have been here
long ago, had he not thought better to go from land to land gathering
wealth; for there is no man living who is so wily as he is; there is no
one can compare with him. Pheidon king of the Thesprotians told me all
this, and he swore to me—making drink-offerings in his house as he did
so—that the ship was by the water side and the crew found who would
take Ulysses to his own country. He sent me off first, for there
happened to be a Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheat-growing island
of Dulichium, but he showed me all the treasure Ulysses had got
together, and he had enough lying in the house of king Pheidon to keep
his family for ten generations; but the king said Ulysses had gone to
Dodona that he might learn Jove’s mind from the high oak tree, and know
whether after so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly or
in secret. So you may know he is safe and will be here shortly; he is
close at hand and cannot remain away from home much longer;
nevertheless I will confirm my words with an oath, and call Jove who is
the first and mightiest of all gods to witness, as also that hearth of
Ulysses to which I have now come, that all I have spoken shall surely
come to pass. Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end
of this moon and the beginning of the next he will be here.”

“May it be even so,” answered Penelope; “if your words come true you
shall have such gifts and such good will from me that all who see you
shall congratulate you; but I know very well how it will be. Ulysses
will not return, neither will you get your escort hence, for so surely
as that Ulysses ever was, there are now no longer any such masters in
the house as he was, to receive honourable strangers or to further them
on their way home. And now, you maids, wash his feet for him, and make
him a bed on a couch with rugs and blankets, that he may be warm and
quiet till morning. Then, at day break wash him and anoint him again,
that he may sit in the cloister and take his meals with Telemachus. It
shall be the worse for any one of these hateful people who is uncivil
to him; like it or not, he shall have no more to do in this house. For
how, sir, shall you be able to learn whether or no I am superior to
others of my sex both in goodness of heart and understanding, if I let
you dine in my cloisters squalid and ill clad? Men live but for a
little season; if they are hard, and deal hardly, people wish them ill
so long as they are alive, and speak contemptuously of them when they
are dead, but he that is righteous and deals righteously, the people
tell of his praise among all lands, and many shall call him blessed.”

Ulysses answered, “Madam, I have foresworn rugs and blankets from the
day that I left the snowy ranges of Crete to go on shipboard. I will
lie as I have lain on many a sleepless night hitherto. Night after
night have I passed in any rough sleeping place, and waited for
morning. Nor, again, do I like having my feet washed; I shall not let
any of the young hussies about your house touch my feet; but, if you
have any old and respectable woman who has gone through as much trouble
as I have, I will allow her to wash them.”

To this Penelope said, “My dear sir, of all the guests who ever yet
came to my house there never was one who spoke in all things with such
admirable propriety as you do. There happens to be in the house a most
respectable old woman—the same who received my poor dear husband in her
arms the night he was born, and nursed him in infancy. She is very
feeble now, but she shall wash your feet.” “Come here,” said she,
“Euryclea, and wash your master’s age-mate; I suppose Ulysses’ hands
and feet are very much the same now as his are, for trouble ages all of
us dreadfully fast.”

On these words the old woman covered her face with her hands; she began
to weep and made lamentation saying, “My dear child, I cannot think
whatever I am to do with you. I am certain no one was ever more
god-fearing than yourself, and yet Jove hates you. No one in the whole
world ever burned him more thigh bones, nor gave him finer hecatombs
when you prayed you might come to a green old age yourself and see your
son grow up to take after you: yet see how he has prevented you alone
from ever getting back to your own home. I have no doubt the women in
some foreign palace which Ulysses has got to are gibing at him as all
these sluts here have been gibing at you. I do not wonder at your not
choosing to let them wash you after the manner in which they have
insulted you; I will wash your feet myself gladly enough, as Penelope
has said that I am to do so; I will wash them both for Penelope’s sake
and for your own, for you have raised the most lively feelings of
compassion in my mind; and let me say this moreover, which pray attend
to; we have had all kinds of strangers in distress come here before
now, but I make bold to say that no one ever yet came who was so like
Ulysses in figure, voice, and feet as you are.”

“Those who have seen us both,” answered Ulysses, “have always said we
were wonderfully like each other, and now you have noticed it too.”

Then the old woman took the cauldron in which she was going to wash his
feet, and poured plenty of cold water into it, adding hot till the bath
was warm enough. Ulysses sat by the fire, but ere long he turned away
from the light, for it occurred to him that when the old woman had hold
of his leg she would recognise a certain scar which it bore, whereon
the whole truth would come out. And indeed as soon as she began washing
her master, she at once knew the scar as one that had been given him by
a wild boar when he was hunting on Mt. Parnassus with his excellent
grandfather Autolycus—who was the most accomplished thief and perjurer
in the whole world—and with the sons of Autolycus. Mercury himself had
endowed him with this gift, for he used to burn the thigh bones of
goats and kids to him, so he took pleasure in his companionship. It
happened once that Autolycus had gone to Ithaca and had found the child
of his daughter just born. As soon as he had done supper Euryclea set
the infant upon his knees and said, “Autolycus, you must find a name
for your grandson; you greatly wished that you might have one.”

“Son-in-law and daughter,” replied Autolycus, “call the child thus: I
am highly displeased with a large number of people in one place and
another, both men and women; so name the child ‘Ulysses,’ or the child
of anger. When he grows up and comes to visit his mother’s family on
Mt. Parnassus, where my possessions lie, I will make him a present and
will send him on his way rejoicing.”

Ulysses, therefore, went to Parnassus to get the presents from
Autolycus, who with his sons shook hands with him and gave him welcome.
His grandmother Amphithea threw her arms about him, and kissed his
head, and both his beautiful eyes, while Autolycus desired his sons to
get dinner ready, and they did as he told them. They brought in a five
year old bull, flayed it, made it ready and divided it into joints;
these they then cut carefully up into smaller pieces and spitted them;
they roasted them sufficiently and served the portions round. Thus
through the livelong day to the going down of the sun they feasted, and
every man had his full share so that all were satisfied; but when the
sun set and it came on dark, they went to bed and enjoyed the boon of
sleep.

When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, the sons of
Autolycus went out with their hounds hunting, and Ulysses went too.
They climbed the wooded slopes of Parnassus and soon reached its breezy
upland valleys; but as the sun was beginning to beat upon the fields,
fresh-risen from the slow still currents of Oceanus, they came to a
mountain dell. The dogs were in front searching for the tracks of the
beast they were chasing, and after them came the sons of Autolycus,
among whom was Ulysses, close behind the dogs, and he had a long spear
in his hand. Here was the lair of a huge boar among some thick
brushwood, so dense that the wind and rain could not get through it,
nor could the sun’s rays pierce it, and the ground underneath lay thick
with fallen leaves. The boar heard the noise of the men’s feet, and the
hounds baying on every side as the huntsmen came up to him, so he
rushed from his lair, raised the bristles on his neck, and stood at bay
with fire flashing from his eyes. Ulysses was the first to raise his
spear and try to drive it into the brute, but the boar was too quick
for him, and charged him sideways, ripping him above the knee with a
gash that tore deep though it did not reach the bone. As for the boar,
Ulysses hit him on the right shoulder, and the point of the spear went
right through him, so that he fell groaning in the dust until the life
went out of him. The sons of Autolycus busied themselves with the
carcass of the boar, and bound Ulysses’ wound; then, after saying a
spell to stop the bleeding, they went home as fast as they could. But
when Autolycus and his sons had thoroughly healed Ulysses, they made
him some splendid presents, and sent him back to Ithaca with much
mutual good will. When he got back, his father and mother were rejoiced
to see him, and asked him all about it, and how he had hurt himself to
get the scar; so he told them how the boar had ripped him when he was
out hunting with Autolycus and his sons on Mt. Parnassus.

As soon as Euryclea had got the scarred limb in her hands and had well
hold of it, she recognised it and dropped the foot at once. The leg
fell into the bath, which rang out and was overturned, so that all the
water was spilt on the ground; Euryclea’s eyes between her joy and her
grief filled with tears, and she could not speak, but she caught
Ulysses by the beard and said, “My dear child, I am sure you must be
Ulysses himself, only I did not know you till I had actually touched
and handled you.”

As she spoke she looked towards Penelope, as though wanting to tell her
that her dear husband was in the house, but Penelope was unable to look
in that direction and observe what was going on, for Minerva had
diverted her attention; so Ulysses caught Euryclea by the throat with
his right hand and with his left drew her close to him, and said,
“Nurse, do you wish to be the ruin of me, you who nursed me at your own
breast, now that after twenty years of wandering I am at last come to
my own home again? Since it has been borne in upon you by heaven to
recognise me, hold your tongue, and do not say a word about it to any
one else in the house, for if you do I tell you—and it shall surely
be—that if heaven grants me to take the lives of these suitors, I will
not spare you, though you are my own nurse, when I am killing the other
women.”

“My child,” answered Euryclea, “what are you talking about? You know
very well that nothing can either bend or break me. I will hold my
tongue like a stone or a piece of iron; furthermore let me say, and lay
my saying to your heart, when heaven has delivered the suitors into
your hand, I will give you a list of the women in the house who have
been ill-behaved, and of those who are guiltless.”

And Ulysses answered, “Nurse, you ought not to speak in that way; I am
well able to form my own opinion about one and all of them; hold your
tongue and leave everything to heaven.”

As he said this Euryclea left the cloister to fetch some more water,
for the first had been all spilt; and when she had washed him and
anointed him with oil, Ulysses drew his seat nearer to the fire to warm
himself, and hid the scar under his rags. Then Penelope began talking
to him and said:

“Stranger, I should like to speak with you briefly about another
matter. It is indeed nearly bed time—for those, at least, who can sleep
in spite of sorrow. As for myself, heaven has given me a life of such
unmeasurable woe, that even by day when I am attending to my duties and
looking after the servants, I am still weeping and lamenting during the
whole time; then, when night comes, and we all of us go to bed, I lie
awake thinking, and my heart becomes a prey to the most incessant and
cruel tortures. As the dun nightingale, daughter of Pandareus, sings in
the early spring from her seat in shadiest covert hid, and with many a
plaintive trill pours out the tale how by mishap she killed her own
child Itylus, son of king Zethus, even so does my mind toss and turn in
its uncertainty whether I ought to stay with my son here, and safeguard
my substance, my bondsmen, and the greatness of my house, out of regard
to public opinion and the memory of my late husband, or whether it is
not now time for me to go with the best of these suitors who are wooing
me and making me such magnificent presents. As long as my son was still
young, and unable to understand, he would not hear of my leaving my
husband’s house, but now that he is full grown he begs and prays me to
do so, being incensed at the way in which the suitors are eating up his
property. Listen, then, to a dream that I have had and interpret it for
me if you can. I have twenty geese about the house that eat mash out of
a trough,155 and of which I am exceedingly fond. I dreamed that a great
eagle came swooping down from a mountain, and dug his curved beak into
the neck of each of them till he had killed them all. Presently he
soared off into the sky, and left them lying dead about the yard;
whereon I wept in my dream till all my maids gathered round me, so
piteously was I grieving because the eagle had killed my geese. Then he
came back again, and perching on a projecting rafter spoke to me with
human voice, and told me to leave off crying. ‘Be of good courage,’ he
said, ‘daughter of Icarius; this is no dream, but a vision of good omen
that shall surely come to pass. The geese are the suitors, and I am no
longer an eagle, but your own husband, who am come back to you, and who
will bring these suitors to a disgraceful end.’ On this I woke, and
when I looked out I saw my geese at the trough eating their mash as
usual.”

“This dream, Madam,” replied Ulysses, “can admit but of one
interpretation, for had not Ulysses himself told you how it shall be
fulfilled? The death of the suitors is portended, and not one single
one of them will escape.”

And Penelope answered, “Stranger, dreams are very curious and
unaccountable things, and they do not by any means invariably come
true. There are two gates through which these unsubstantial fancies
proceed; the one is of horn, and the other ivory. Those that come
through the gate of ivory are fatuous, but those from the gate of horn
mean something to those that see them. I do not think, however, that my
own dream came through the gate of horn, though I and my son should be
most thankful if it proves to have done so. Furthermore I say—and lay
my saying to your heart—the coming dawn will usher in the ill-omened
day that is to sever me from the house of Ulysses, for I am about to
hold a tournament of axes. My husband used to set up twelve axes in the
court, one in front of the other, like the stays upon which a ship is
built; he would then go back from them and shoot an arrow through the
whole twelve. I shall make the suitors try to do the same thing, and
whichever of them can string the bow most easily, and send his arrow
through all the twelve axes, him will I follow, and quit this house of
my lawful husband, so goodly and so abounding in wealth. But even so, I
doubt not that I shall remember it in my dreams.”

Then Ulysses answered, “Madam, wife of Ulysses, you need not defer your
tournament, for Ulysses will return ere ever they can string the bow,
handle it how they will, and send their arrows through the iron.”

To this Penelope said, “As long, sir, as you will sit here and talk to
me, I can have no desire to go to bed. Still, people cannot do
permanently without sleep, and heaven has appointed us dwellers on
earth a time for all things. I will therefore go upstairs and recline
upon that couch which I have never ceased to flood with my tears from
the day Ulysses set out for the city with a hateful name.”

She then went upstairs to her own room, not alone, but attended by her
maidens, and when there, she lamented her dear husband till Minerva
shed sweet sleep over her eyelids.