Weep for him, ye that around his board
Sit in the bright fire-shine:
No more shall Ithaca’s lord
Stretch his hand to the wine.
Sing a mournful strain! 1480
Alas, he counteth not loss nor gain;
His wife is wooed, and he makes no sign;
Thralls go here and there, but another beckoneth.
For the dead hath no desire,
He knoweth nothing, nor reckoneth;
He is cold, and feels not the fire.
[_He plays sad music in silence._
_Enter suddenly Penelope_ (_with some six maids attendant_).
_Ul._ (_aside_). I see the beacon of my life undimmed.
_PENELOPE._
Hush ye these mournful strains!—’tis music’s skill
To comfort and wean sorrow’s heart away
With beautiful distractions from its woe: 1490
Not to be plunged therein, and chafe remembrance
With added echoes. Oh, I have wept enough.
Would you my life should faster waste in grief,
That ye must widen more its aching channels
With melancholy dirges? These are fit
For souls at ease; ay, such as ye, my lords,
Who feel no thorns prick you, may love to drink
The soft compunctious mimicries of woe.
But me with all your pleasures still ye vex,
In mine own house, forgetful of my wounds. 1500
—And thou, whom servest thou, Phemius, that thy mistress
Thou disobeyest?
_Ul._ (_aside_). Spoke like a goddess.
_Tel._ ’Twas at my command.
Forgive me, mother.
_Pen._ Thou wert used, I think,
To know me better, son.
_Tel._ If thou art come
To take the presents which thy wooers bring,
See where they lie.
_Ul._ (_aside_). Now what to say?
_Pen._ My lords, the prince hath shewn me
These gifts: they are well my due, and some amends
For your continual spending, which to grudge 1510
Were unbecoming, were this house my own.
_Ul._ (_aside_). That is well said: now may she fairly spoil them.
_Pen._ But since I keep it for its absent lord ...
_Ul._ (_aside_). Good.
_Eur._ Oh, lady, he is dead.
_Pen._ How know’st thou so?
_Ul._ (_aside_). Well asked.
_Amph._ Sagest Penelope, thou triflest still.
The time is fled when hope might yet imagine
Thy husband lived: so long to have sent no word
Is surest tidings: if Ulysses lived 1520
He would be here.
_Ul._ (_aside_). True, sir.
_Amph._ Thy needful patience
Have all admired: perpetual widowhood
The gods and we forbid. To make an end
Of all that thou mislikest in our suit,
Is but the boon we crave: choose one of us,
Whoe’er it be—to-day.
_Pen._ Would all of ye
Assent to this?
_Ant._ Ay, wherefore sit we here?
_Pen._ Indeed, my lords, ye best know why ye came.
_Eur._ Worshipful lady, if but all the Achæans
Who speak thy name could now behold and hear thee,
Then not this house, nay, nor this island’s round,
Would hold thy thronging wooers, by so far 1532
Outshinest thou all women of the earth
In beauty and in wisdom.
_Pen._ Still too wise
To fall to flattery; but my grace and favour
The gods destroyed that day the Argives sailed
’Gainst Ilion, and bore hence with them my lord:
But should he come to rule again his house,
Fairer than ever then my fame would be
For all this grief and the thick thrusts of fate. 1540
But he, in farewell ere he left his home,
Took my right hand in his, and said to me,
_Dear wife, we must not think the Achæan army
Will all, as they set forth, return from Troy,
In numbers and in bravery safe and sound:
Our foes are warriors skilled in spear and bow,
And horsemen good, say they, such as most quickly
Are wont in equal fight to turn the day;
Wherefore I know not what may be my hap:
But, come the worst, thou here must guard the house,
And aye to sire and mother both be kind_ 1551
_As now, or more, since I shall be away.
And should I not return to thee, abide
Until thou seest our babe upgrown and bearded,
When marry whom thou wilt and quit the house._
’Twas thus he spake, and thus ’tis come about:
And not far off that night of hateful marriage
Confronts me now; for Zeus hath killed my hope.
But ye add pain and anger to my grief,
Who come not in the manner of our sires 1560
To woo, when every man that wooed a lady
Of substance, rank, and worth, vied with his equals
In gifts of flocks and herds, and banqueted
All the bride’s household, offering of his own;
Not wasting as do ye the house ye seek,
And without recompense.
_Ant._ See then our gifts.
_Pen._ Ay, true: to where your late amendment lies.
Let us o’erlook these offerings, ere my maids
Bear them away.
_Eur._ But first, O queen,
Take at my hands the gift I bring, 1570
This yellow-glistening chain,—whereof
The amber beads may tell my love,
The mesh of golden work between,
The homage of my wealth may show,—
Worthy of any neck but thine:
No lover, mortal nor divine,
Who made so fair an offering,
But might with pride his gift bestow;
Tho’ not to thee Eurymachus.
Yet ’tis the best and richest thing 1580
Of countless jewels rich and fine,
Stored in his house; and wouldst thou make
The rest thine own, he for love’s sake
Were not ashamed in giving thus.
_Pen._ My thanks: ’tis brave and sweet attire.
Long hath thy wealth been known to me,
And grateful would thy marriage be
Both to my brethren and my sire.
What have we here?
_Ant._ Lady, my gift.
This ample robe my servants bear, 1590
White as the snow’s fresh-wandered drift,
Light as the air and beautiful,
Is woven of the softest wool
Our curly highland chilvers wear;
Fresh from the loom: and on the robe
Twelve golden brooches, globe to globe,
With fretted clasps of Syrian art,
Which, brought by war to Egypt’s mart,
From thence—with many gawds beside,
Now mine—my grandsire took, when he, 1600
Crossing in ship the Libyan sea,
Sailed up the mighty river wide;
But these for beauty stood alone.
_Pen._ I thank thee. This I’ll not deny
For some misdeeds may well atone.
Who cometh next?
_Amph._ Lady, ’tis I:
And give my homage one kind word,
I shall not scorn to come but third.
My offering is this veil.
_Pen._ O wondrous work and rare! 1610
’Tis like the golden mail
Of Hera’s braided hair,
Which every step sets hovering,
Her brow discovering.
_Amph._ So ’tis most fit for thee,
Rarest Penelope.
_Pen._ Or such methinks love’s queen
Across her forehead tieth,
Whene’er along the green
Of river-banks she hieth, 1620
To cheer with sweet embraces
Her sister graces.
_Amph._ Therefore most fit for thee,
Queenly Penelope.
_Pen._ Oh, ’tis most fine: I thank thee. Is’t thy meaning
That I should wear the veil?
_Amph._ ’Twould deck thee well.
_Ul._ (_aside_). Here is some favour shewn.
_Pen._ My gracious thanks.
_A suitor._ See now my gift, O queen. 1630
_Ul._ (_aside to Amph._). Sir, I would speak with thee.
_Amph._ Nay, man; be silent.—
_Pen._ Ah, ’tis Peisander, what brings he?
_The suitor._ Lady, if ever thou didst see
Three dewdrops gathered full within
Some unawakened lily’s cup,
Each swollen to fall, or e’er begin
The stalks to dress themselves aright:
For yet the sun, that hasteth up,
Pricks not their delicate stems,
Nor spreads the crimson petals bright: 1640
That were an image of the gems
Which in this casket lie, a pair
Fit for thine ears to wear.
_Pen._ I thank thee, good Peisander; set it down
Here with the rest.
_Ul._ (_aside to Amph._). Sir, I would speak with thee.
_Amph._ (_to Ul._). Nay, stand aloof.—
_Pen._ Ye do me honour, lords;
Yet must reception end. I will take all,
And note the givers. Now my constant grief
Is strangely awakened. (_To maids._) Gather up the gifts.
_Ul._ (_aside to Amph._). Sir! speak with me. 1650
_Amph._ (_to Ul._). What wouldst thou?
_Ant._ See, the rogue
Begins to beg.
_Eur._ Lady, ere yet thou go,
Grant me thine ear. There is come into the hall
A beggar, who for mere propriety [_Ul. sits._
We would were housed without. The prince, thy son,
Against our general comfort bids him here.
Let thy kind favour spare us this annoyance.
_Pen._ That is he?
_Eur._ Ay.
_Ant._ Lo! by the fire he sits.
_Pen._ (_aside_). How strange a man. (_To Tel._) Is this
thy guest, my son?
_Tel._ ’Tis he I spoke of.
_Pen._ (_to Tel._). Surely the complaint
Hath a fair ground. To save offence ’twere best
Dismiss him with some gift—I leave, my lords,
This matter where it lies: My son rules here. 1662
Farewell. Keep peace amongst you.
(_To maids._) Bear off the gifts. [_Exit._
_All._ Farewell, fairest Penelope.
_Eur._ Ere now we sit again,
I ask the prince once more if he persist
To vex our party with this beggar’s presence.
_Tel._ Press me not, lords, ye know my will: and how
In night and darkness should I turn away
A houseless guest? Nay, but for you ’tis time 1670
Ye sought your lodges.
_Ant._ (_to Eum._). Thou presumptuous swineherd,
Why drovest thou this nuisance to the town?
Had we not tramps and scamps eno’, starved beggars
And needy scavengers, haunting the place,
Ravening thy master’s substance, that thou now
Must fetch in this one too?
_Eum._ Antinous,
Thou speak’st not fair, lord tho’ thou be; that here
Set at another’s board wouldst judge and grudge
The spending of thy host. I know that thou
Art like the world, who bid unto their tables 1680
But such as can repay them well in kind,
Or by some service or amusement made;
And none will ever ask a beggar-man
To help him eat. Thou too wast always hard
Above all here to all, and most to me.
But I care not, while my dear gracious mistress
Dwells with the prince, my master.
_Tel._ (_aside to Eum._). Hush, Eumæus;
Truth is the hardest taunt to bear.
_Ant._ Thou hind!
Answerest thou me?
_Tel._ I laugh, Antinous,
To have thee play the master in this house. 1690
Bid me dismiss my guest? The gods forfend!
Thee rather bid I help to entertain him.
Lo! thou hast feasted well: give off thy plate
Thy leavings to this beggar. Go, old man,—
These lords can of their surplus well afford
To furnish thee a supper,—go, I charge thee,
And take what each may give.
_Ant._ By Zeus in heaven,
Thou bear’st me hard. If all but give as I,
He shall not make the round.
_Ul._ (_coming to Ant._). Sir, give me somewhat.
Thou comest, I warrant, of no common stock, 1700
But of some great house: thou’rt featured like a king:
Thou wilt not stint thy hand: and, treat me well,
It lies in chance I yet may make return.
For I too once had my own house, and lived
In state, nor e’er turned any from my doors,
Whoever he might be, whate’er his need.
I had my slaves and thralls, and all in plenty,
That rich men have; but Zeus made nought of all:
For his will surely ’twas, who sent me forth
With wandering pirates, sailing up the river 1710
Of Egypt, a long voyage—and to my ruin:
For tarrying there, my crews in mutiny
Brake from me, and doing bloody violence
Unto the people of the king, were slain,
And I enslaved. But of the king’s good pleasure,
With whom I lacked not favour, I was sent
In time to Cyprus ...
_Ant._ Plague thee and thy lies!
Stand off, back from my table; lest thou come
To a bitter Egypt, and a mournful Cyprus.
Begone, I say.
_Ul._ Lo! now I see thou lackest 1720
Wisdom unto thy beauty. Of thine own
Thou wouldst not give away a pinch of salt,
Since thou withholdest here what costs thee nothing.
_Ant._ Then take what I would give thee ere thou go. [_Strikes him._
_Ul._ Ha! wilt thou strike me!—Why, and even a blow
Thou giv’st not well.
_Amph._ Shame, shame!
_Eur._ Enough, Antinous.
_Eum._ To strike a man so old, thy fellow-guest!
Come back, good father, to thy seat.
_Ul._ Now, hear me,
Ye wooers of the queen, for I will speak.
Many hard blows in honourable fight 1730
I have borne, and held them nought; but to be smitten
For being an-hungered, tho’ the hurt be small
’Tis huge in wrong; and as there is a god
To avenge the poor, I say this ill-bred lord
Shall never live to see his marriage day.
_Eum._ And so say I.
_Ant._ Now for thy paltry curse
Think thyself lucky I bid not my men
Hale thee without, and flay thee with their whips.
_Some wooers_ (_murmuring_). How will Antinous woo
our queen,
Having his hand accursed with shame?— 1740
Doth he forget the gods have been
In such disguise?—How Zeus once came
Thus to Lycaon’s feast unbid:—
Or how in Celeus’ house, ’tis said,
Demeter at Eleusis hid?—
And were he but a man, ’tis dread
To smite in wrath the hoary head.
_Amph._ Father, I bring thee meat. May happiness
Ere long be thine, for what thou sufferest now.
_Ul._ (_reseated at front, to Amph._). I thank thee,
lord Amphinomus, and since 1750
I see thee like thy father, wise and good,
Old Nisus of Dulichium, I will say
What thrice thou hast refused to hear: Attend.
Of all that moves and breathes upon the earth,
Nóthing is found more únstáble than man.
Awhile his spirit within him is gay, his limbs
Light, and he saith, No ill shall overtake me.
Then evil comes: and lo! he beareth it
Patiently, in its turn as God provides.
So I too once looked to be ever happy, 1760
And gave the rein to wantonness, and now—
Thou seest me ... Wherefore, say I, let no man
Be lawless, but in quiet and reserve
Possess whatever good the gods have sent.
And this I witness ’gainst the deeds I see,
These wooers, full of mischief, making waste,
And doing such dishonour to a lady,
Whose lord not long will tarry: nay, I tell thee 1768
He is very near,—ay, near. May thy good genius
Withdraw thee soon, lest thou shouldst meet his wrath
When he returns: for not without blood-spilling
Will they be sundered, these infatuate wooers
And he, when he comes stepping thro’ his house.
_Eur._ What saith this ancient seer, that makes thy brow
To cloud?
_Ul._ (_aside to Amph._) Fly hence to-night.
_Amph._ Ill hath been done him:
Shew him more kindness.
_Eur._ Why, methinks I see
A fine celestial glory on his crown,
So brightly gleams the torchlight on it: nay,
And never a hair at all. (_To Ul._) Old man, ’tis true
Thou’rt out at elbows; wilt thou earn a living, 1780
I’ll take thee on. If thou canst gather stones
Or trench, I’ll find thee wages and good food,
Ay, and a coat and shoes: but well I know
Thou’rt practised but in sloth, or if thou bend
Thy body, ’tis in louting thro’ the land
To beg thy bellyful.
_Ul._ Now, lord Eurymachus,
I would that there might be a trial of labour
’Twixt us in springtide, when the days grow long,
In the deep grass; and I would have my scythe,
And thou another, striking blow for blow, 1790
Fasting from dawn till dark: Or give us each
A plow, and for a team four sturdy oxen,
Frammard and toward to break up between us
A stubble of thirty acres; thou shouldst see
If I could veer out straight: Or would, I say,
That Zeus would send us war,—I care not whence,—
To-day;—then set a helmet on my brows,
And give me in either hand a spear and shield;
Thou shouldst not taunt me with my belly then.
Now art thou merely insolent and rough, 1800
Because thy fellows are so few and feeble:
And if Ulysses came and faced thee here,
Those doors, wide as they are, would seem too small
And narrow for thee, in thy haste to fly.
_Eur._ Try thou their width then.
[_Throws a stool and hits Ctesippus._
_Ctes._ Gods, my head!
_Amph._ By me, old man.
_Ctes._ (_to Eur._). Now curse thee for a fool.
Take it back, thus: (_throws_) and mend thy aim.
_Eur._ Ctesippus!
_Tel._ My lords, my lords!
_Eur._ Thy pardon, good Ctesippus!
_Ctes._ In time: thou’st broke my head.
_Ant._ By heaven, this beggar
Grows to be some one: let us drive him forth. 1810
_Amph._ Peace, peace!
_Ant._ See where he stands.
_Eur._ (_to Amph._). Wilt thou protect him?
_Tel._ Lords, are ye mad? The god disturbs your wits.
Else what ye have drunk declares ’tis time ye part.
_Ant._ Then list to me. Let us begone, but first
Rouse we the game: start we this beggar hence,
And hunt him at the spear-point thro’ the town.
With me for sport!
_Some wooers._ Hie there, hie! Tally ho!
_Eum._ Not if I die for it.
_Amph._ Fools! Give o’er.
_Tel._ Now, lords,
What keeps you back?
_Re-enter suddenly Penelope with maids._
_Pen._ Shame, shame! what vile and drunken brawl is this, 1820
That reaching to my chamber, brings me down
At mid of night in fear lest in your revels
Ye stain my floors with blood? Ah, now ye are shamed.
How rose this sudden uproar ’mongst you, lords?
Honour ye not my son, that in his presence,
The morrow of his return, ye are broken forth
In more disordered noise than e’er before?
If ye respect not him, me ye respect:
Who answers for you?
_Ant._ That impertinent swineherd ...
_Eur._ The wretch I spake of ...
_Ctes._ Nay, Eurymachus, 1830
’Twas thou as much.
_Pen._ Speak one for all.
_Eur._ O lady,
Thy son hath fetched a beggar in to mock us.
_Pen._ Telemachus, what is it?
_Tel._ Of this riot
The whole occasion lies but with these lords;
Who have raised their hands to strike their fellow-guest,
And as thou cam’st were risen to drive him forth.
_Pen._ I know not, sirs, what sort of man this is,
That so hath stirred your wrath: but be ye sure
That shelter offered here is shelter given.
Yet at your instance I will take upon me 1840
To make enquiry, and will give your wishes
All fair allowance, as my older guests.
Meanwhile depart: ye have feasted long: depart:
’Tis time indeed: I bid you all good-night.
_Eur._ The queen has spoken, lords; depart at once.
_Ant._ The villain will escape us yet.
_Ctes._ He shall not,
If he go forth to-night.
_Ant._ And if he stay,
To-morrow I will serve him.
_Tel._ Lords, depart!
_Ant._ Fare thee well, prince; I shall return at morn.
_Wooers._ Good-night, rarest Penelope.— 1850
Fair queen of Ithaca, good-night.— [_Going._
_Eur._ Until to-morrow, fairest queen, adieu. [_Exit._
_Pen._ (_to Eum._). Eumæus, hither; who is this old man?
_Eum._ Why ’tis a strange old man, and full of lies:
Yet ’tis an honest and a wise old man.
_Pen._ How full of lies and honest?
_Eum._ Gracious madam,
I have looked on many men, and by their gait
And voice and eyes are honest men well known;
And this old man is such: but when he speaks
Such floods of words run o’er his aged lips, 1860
Ay, and such tales,—and ever when he draws
To make conclusion, ’tis the same old fable,
That he hath seen the master, that the master
Will soon return:—therefore I say he lies.
_Pen._ Hath he been with us long?
_Eum._ ’Twas yestermorn
He came.
_Pen._ Enough. Thou mayst go home. Good-night.
_Eum._ Good-night, my lady. [_Exit._
_Pen._ O my son, my son;
I think that years and use, which perfect others,
Serve but to blunt thy reason: as a child
Thou hadst a shrewder wit, and quick enough; 1870
But now, when any man to look on thee
Would say that thou wert some one, thy behaviour
Would blast his praise.
_Tel._ Tell me what ill I have done.
_Pen._ What thou hast done? My heart was full of hope;
I looked for thy return as happiness,
How hast thou dashed it. I had well forgot
The empty tales thou broughtest me for tidings,
Nor marked the fault, seeing thy zeal in love
Outrun thy judgment: but when thou hast invited
Thy man to be our guest, and canst not then 1880
Protect him: this is shame.
_Tel._ Mother, I think
To do a wrong is shame: to suffer wrong
Asks not for pardon.
_Pen._ Ay, but what to do?
Thy guest hath been insulted: hast thou power
To punish that? and of the two reproaches,
To suffer it again, or to dismiss,
As must be, him to whom thou offeredst shelter,
I know not which is worse.
_Tel._ Wilt thou dismiss
The herald of such hope?
_Pen._ Eumæus saith
His tales are lies.
_Tel._ Speak with him but thyself: 1890
Make proof thyself: if thou be not persuaded,
He shall not bide the night. Nay, if he lies,
Let him go starve. See, I will bring thee to him.
_Pen._ If so thou wilt. (_To maids._) Maidens,
begone. [_Exeunt maids._
_Tel._ Old man,
The words which thou hast told me, now make good
Unto my honoured mother. [_Exit._
_Pen._ Thou strange old man, whose thin and sorry rags
Speak thee no friend of heaven; whose many years
Find thee a wanderer in a foreign land;
Who art thou, I will ask, and with what tale 1900
Winning my son, thou comest to the house
Of good Ulysses, and to me his wife
Pretendest tidings of my long-lost lord?
_Ul._ O lady, there is none in all the world
Would blame the word thou sayest, so fair thy fame:
Nay, for thy spirit is gentle: yet ask me not
Thus of myself, for I have seen much woe:
And tears might flood my face; till thou perchance
Shouldst think my temper soft, or drowned in wine.
_Pen._ Whate’er my fame, stranger, it lacketh much
In losing of my lord; if he were here 1911
Then I were proud. But ’tis of him we speak.
Tell me then whence thou art, and what thou knowest.
_Ul._ If tell I must: there is a beauteous isle,
Which men call Crete, washed by the Libyan sea:
Ninety fair cities hath it, and the men
Who dwell there are of various race, Achæans,
Cydonians, Dorians, and Pelasgians,
Beside the native Cretan. There is Gnossus,
Where Minos dwelt, and took his law from Zeus:
He was my grandsire, and Deucalion 1921
His son, my father, had another son
Idomeneus, elder and better gifted
Than I, who am callèd Æthon. Now it happed,
That when not many days, Idomeneus
Had sailed away for Troy, thy lord Ulysses,
Bound thither too, was driven aside to Crete,
And sheltered at Amnisos; and when thence
He sent up heralds to the king, as one
Whose welcome was assured, it fell to me 1930
To play awhile my elder brother’s part,
And entertain him and his men. Twelve days
He stayed, for even so long the mad North wind
Abated not, but with such fury blew
That far from putting out, they scarce could keep
Their feet on land: but on the thirteenth day
It fell, and let them forth to sail for Troy.
_Pen._ Friend then, if so thou art, that courtesy
Thus royal shewedst to my lord, forgive
My thought to prove thee, if indeed these things 1940
Were as thou sayest. When thou sawest my lord,
How was he clad, and what lords followed him?
_Ul._ Lady, ’tis hard with such a time between
To say—’tis twenty years; and yet, methinks,
My memory shows him to me, as he was.
Thy lord Ulysses wore a purple robe
Of double woof, and on the golden brooch,
Which two pins held, was wrought a rare device;
A hound that had o’ertaken a hunted fawn,
Stood on’t and gazed: and none who saw the work
But marvelled, so was nature done to life. 1951
The linen too about his neck was bright,
And fine in tissue as the silvery coat,
Which the lithe snake among the withered grass
Leaves off unrent. Ay, and his squire I see,
A man round-shouldered, tanned, and curly-haired,
Eurybates, that was his name; and him
Ulysses loved and honoured ’bove the rest.
_Pen._ Now, stranger, for the shame, which thou hast found 1959
Within my halls, shalt thou find love and honour.
The garments which thou sawest are the garments
I gave to him myself: the golden brooch
Of rare device I chose to be his jewel,
On that accursed day when he set forth
For evil Ilion, never to be named.
_Ul._ O honoured wife of great Laertes’ son,
Waste not thy soul in weeping for thy lord!
_Pen._ Hath sorrow taught thee, friend, that tears are vain?
_Ul._ Love’s tokens were not given to man for nought.
_Pen._ Blamest thou then a woman, if she weep
Her lord’s decease? 1971
_Ul._ Nay, many dames that mourn
Their lords fordone at Troy, lament unblamed.
_Pen._ Then why say’st thou to me, weep not; who knowest
My loss so well, knewest so well my lord?
_Ul._ Since thy lord lives, therefore I say weep not.
_Pen._ I knew that thou wouldst say Ulysses lives.
_Ul._ ’Tis to no purpose then I bring thee joy?
_Pen._ Many have falsely brought this hope before.
_Ul._ And yet unwittingly they spake the truth.
Ulysses lives.
_Pen._ Prince Æthon, if so thou be, 1980
I came to hear thy tale, ’twas well begun:
Shew proof as fair for what thou goest to tell.
_Ul._ Lady, indeed Ulysses lives, and now
He is in Thesprotia, as I lately heard,
And gathers gifts and treasures as he comes:
The which I saw, a kingly wealth, enough
To dower his children’s children o’er and o’er.
His brave companions all were gone, but he
From untold perils was come out unscathed.
_Pen._ Where learnedst thou this? 1990
_Ul._ Being in Thesprotia
Not many days ago, the good king Pheidon
Told me these things, and shewed me too a ship
For voyage stored, wherein he said Ulysses
Should shortly sail; and with him I had come,
But that a vessel there discharging corn,
Left for Dulichium, and gave me passage.
_Pen._ Thou saw’st him not?
_Ul._ True, lady, I saw him not;
He had travelled to Dodona, to consult
The oracle.
_Pen._ Nay, and alas thou hast seen him
Scarce later than have I.
_Ul._ May Zeus himself 2000
Be witness first, and then this kindly house
Of good Ulysses, whither I am come,
He shall return to thee ere this moon change.
_Pen._ I thank thee, sir; and wish right well thy word
Might be accomplished: I would so reward thee,
That all who looked on thee should call thee blessed.
But in my heart I know ’twill not be so;
Nor shew’st thou proof.
_Ul._ What of my oath?
_Pen._ Indeed
I doubt not thy good will, nor thy good faith;
But nought can come of it; and much I fear 2010
That thou wilt scarce win escort from this house,
So are its masters changed.
_Ul._ Mean as I am,
I fear not them thou hintest; nor in thy house
Will they dare hurt me. I will here remain,
Until Ulysses comes.
_Pen._ O, thou knowest little.
Now is the end. I’ll tell thee. When at first
These princes came to woo me against my will,
I put them off with guile; and some good spirit
Prompting my heart, I set up in the hall
A loom, and rolled upon the beam a warp 2020
Ample and long, and said _My lordly wooers,
Abide, nor press my marriage till this cloth
Be made, for I would weave the threads I span.
’Tis old Laertes’ shroud, against the day
Which is not far, when death must take him hence.
For since my lord is dead, I would not leave
His house, without this honour paid his sire._
And stealing thus their courteous consent,
I used by day to weave, but every night
Would silently creep down, and by the loom 2030
Setting the torches, soon unravelling all,
Undid the work of the day. Thus for three years
I wove and prospered, and the web stood still:
But in the fourth, by blabbing of my maidens
Was all discovered, and since then I have known
Reproach, nor now can longer ’scape. My friends
And parents urge me, and my son himself,
Who once was with me, begs me leave the house,
Ere his good father’s wealth be all consumed.
_Ul._ Well done of thee! Fear not. Ulysses cometh
To slay these robbers like a flock of sheep. 2041
_Pen._ Against conviction, friend, thy words are pleasant:
None yet hath thus talked with me; and ere I go
To sleep or weep upon my lonely couch,
I’ll tell thee of a dream I lately dreamed,
Much of thy meaning. There were twenty geese,
Which in the courtyard I had watched with pleasure,
Raising their bills above their well-filled trough.
Now in my dream a furious eagle flew 2049
Down from the hills, and with his crooked beak
Brake all their necks, and killed them, and they lay
Strewn in the yard; but he flew off to heaven.
Then cried I out, as in my sleep it seemed,
Aloud, and all my maidens came about me,
And mourned with me my geese the eagle had killed.
But he returned, and perching on the wall,
Spake in man’s voice to me and said,
_Fear not, O daughter of Icarius,
No dream thou sawest, but a vision true.
The geese are all thy wooers, and the eagle_ 2060
_That was, am now thy husband safe returned,
Who will slay all those men as thou hast seen._
Thus spake he, and I awaked; and looking forth
I saw my geese all standing by the trough,
Eating the wheaten meal as heretofore.
_Ul._ Now blessed be the gods, who thus will visit
In sleep the attentive spirits of them they love.
_Pen._ Two gates there are in heaven of shadowy dreams,
One pair of ivory wrought, and one of horn: 2069
And dreams that through the ivory come to men
Are cheating, and show things that shall not be;
But such as through the polished horn fly down
Are true in issue to their glad beholders:
But thence came not my strange dream as I fear,
Welcome as ’twere to me and to my son.
_Ul._ The dream was true; the interpretation true.
If yet thou doubt, me too a goddess sent
To warn thee of the thing, which thou, alas,
For weariness of hope and long misgiving,
Art slow to hear. 2080
_Pen._ What is man’s hope, good friend?
Is’t not a beggar in the land of doubt,
Seeking as thou shelter and fire and food
From day to day? and, while she finds a little,
She travels on, comforting life’s affections
With scraps and crumbs fall’n from the dish of joy.
’Tis thus hope lives, patient and pleasureless:
But time will come when hope must die; she feels
The gathering cold and creeping touch of death,
And hath no thought but how to pass in peace.
Even such my hope, agèd and white as thou, 2090
And near her term. Persist not! Rudely to arouse her
But hastens her sure end. Like in spent ashes
Which fuel chokes, what little fire remains
Burns best unmended.
_Ul._ Thou wouldst wrong the gods,
Who show such care for thee.
_Pen._ Friend, what to do?
To-morrow I had purposed—ah, evil morn!—
To end disorder, and to do a thing
Should part me from this house. I had bethought me
Of good Ulysses’ bow, to bring it forth,
And make therewith a contest to the wooers; 2100
That if among them there was one could string it,
And shoot an arrow thro’ the axes’ heads
Set up in line as he was used to set them,
That that man I would marry,—and with him
Quit my dear home for ever. Now thou say’st
Ulysses comes, give me thy counsel, friend,
If I should do this thing or wait awhile.
_Ul._ Lady, some god hath put it in thine heart:
Set thou the axes up: Bring forth the bow:
Here is there none can bend it; and maybe 2110
That he, while they but strive with that same bow
Shall work thee full revenge for all their wrongs.
_Pen._ Bid’st thou me so?
_Ul._ Fear not! To-morrow morn
Bring forth the bow, the axes, and the arrows.
_Pen._ And shall I marry him who shooteth true?
_Ul._ Thou shalt find here no archer like thy lord.
_Pen._ Then will the bow be offered them in vain?
_Ul._ More than in vain for them, but not for thee.
_Pen._ Be it so. Yet would I that pure Artemis
Might give me an easy death in sleep this night,
Even now; that I no more in sorrow of heart 2121
Should waste my life, longing for my dear lord’s
Manifold excellence.
_Ul._ Thy constant love
Is witness that he lives. A rootless flower
Blooms not so long. Be sure that he will come.
_Pen._ Friend, all thy words console me: wert thou willing
I could sit here by thee, nor wish for sleep.
But ’tis full time I leave. I go to send
One to strew bedding for thee.—
_Ul._ Beseech thee, lady,
I’ll lay me on this fleece and take my rest. 2130
A beggar such as I needeth no more.
_Pen._ The god of sleep visit thee soon. Farewell.
_Ul._ Lady, good-night.
[_Exit Penelope. The firelight is failing._
Now could I weep, and from the springs of pity
Forgive some wrong. Yet in the goddess’ hest,
Away my softness! Surely in these things
Is her hand seen. My bow! ay, from that bow
The arrows were not wont to fly in vain.
But now to find my son, my trust in him
Hath grown with this day’s doings. 2140
_Enter in the gallery above Maids whispering and tittering._
_MAIDS._
See there he sits—
Hush! hush!
He talketh to the fire—
’Cause of his wandering wits.—
He! he! he! he!
What makes he here?—
He hath come over sea
With old tales of the sire.—
Why who would lend him ear?
He! he! 2150
How could the prince give heed?—
How can our lady trust
This object of disgust?—
Or how hath she agreed
To take him here among
The wooers as her guest?
Half crazed too, I’ll be bound—
He! he! he! he!
And treat him like the rest,
So noble all and young? 2160
Hush! hush!
His old bones creak!
Hush! hush!
He looks, he turns around,
He sees us, he will speak.
Hush!
_Ul._ Ye miserable women, accurst of fate,
Unknowing on the eve of doom ye are come
To anger justice. Go! your wanton lovers
Are gone; ye never shall concern them more. 2170
Nor none of them, nor ye that mock old men
Shall know what ’tis to have grey hairs. Begone!
For when Ulysses cometh, as men hang
Bunches of grapes upon a string to dry,
So shall he set you dangling in the court
By your white necks. Fly to your chambers! Fly!
Ulysses comes.
_Maids._ Ah, ah, ah! Mercy on us! [_Exeunt._
_Ul._ Now first to find my son. If I dare call.
[_Goes to_ L.
Softly—Telemachus!—Telemachus!
_Tel._ (_enters_ L.). Father. 2180
_Ul._ Speak softly, son, lest any hear.
The goddess guides us well. The plot is laid:
’Tis but to tell it thee. I have won thy mother
To confidence, tho’ yet she knows me not.
To-morrow morn will she bring forth my bow,
And make therewith a contest for the wooers,
Pledging to marry him who strings the bow,
And shoots an arrow through the axes’ heads.
Now thou must set them up, as I will shew thee,
In the outer court; that they who come to shoot
May stand where we are standing—as I was wont,—
Sending the arrows thro’ the open doorway. 2191
But when ’tis seen that none can string the bow,
Then I shall take it, and be that our sign.
With the first shaft I loose a foe will fall,
And war begins; and when I speak my name,
Thou and Eumæus join me; for the rest,
Soon will they fly for safety to the court:
But let its outer gate be barred; then we
Here at the doorway can at leisure aim,
Nor fear not any numbers. Learn thy part: 2200
To bar the gate of the court on the outer side,
To close the postern, and set up the axes.
And have good care their heads sit loose upon them,
Nor bound unto the shafts; else might they serve
For arms against us. As for other weapons
They bear not many: those that here be hung
Upon the walls, must we take down and hide.
Which, if thou help me now, may soon be done.
First let me put this blazing log aside,
Lest light betray us.
_Tel._ Father, how shall we see 2210
To move the arms?
_Ul._ Now had the goddess made me
As blind as old, I should not need to grope
In my own house: and all, I have marked it well,
Hang where I hung them there: each spear and shield
I know the touch and weight of.
_Tel._ None hath dared
To change a thing.
_Ul._ Lift off that shield.
_Tel._ I have it.
_Ul._ And that and these. Have care, son, lest the bronze
Ring and betray us.
_Tel._ Now the helmet, father.
_Ul._ Reach me those spears above,
_Tel._ What is that light,
That dances so and plays about the beams? 2220
_Ul._ Now mayst thou see the goddess aiding us.
_Tel._ It shimmers like the moonlight on the sea.
_Ul._ ’Tis the same fierce ethereal flame of heaven,
Which makes the lightning; but the wise Athenè
Hath tamed it for her common servicings.
Stay not to look on’t; ’tis to aid our work.
_Tel._ ’Tis certain we shall prosper.
_Ul._ Take thou those,
I these. Follow me up the stair. Step slow
And soft. Let nothing in thy burden shift.
Come thou.
_Tel._ I follow.
_Ul._ Stealthily, my son, 2230
Soon shall we set them out of reach.
[_Going up the stairs._