I
In a high, level spot, commanding a view of the sea, stands the house
of Odysseus, the mightiest prince in Ithaca. It is a spacious
building, two storeys high, constructed entirely of wood, and
surrounded on all sides by a strong wooden fence. Within the
enclosure, and in front of the house, is a wide courtyard, containing
the stables, and other offices of the household.
A proud maiden was Penelope, when Odysseus wedded her in her youthful
bloom, and made her the mistress of his fair dwelling and his rich
domain. One happy year they lived together, and a son was born to
them, whom they named Telemachus. Then war arose between Greece and
Asia, and Odysseus was summoned to join the train of chieftains who
followed Agamemnon to win back Helen, his brother's wife. Ten years
the war lasted; then Troy was taken, and those who had survived the
struggle returned to their homes. Among these was Odysseus, who set
sail with joyful heart, hoping, before many days were passed, to take
up anew the thread of domestic happiness which had been so rudely
broken. But since that hour he has vanished from sight, and for ten
long years from the fall of Troy the house has been mourning its
absent lord.
During the last three years a new trouble has been present, to fill
the cup of Penelope's sorrow to the brim. A host of suitors, drawn
from the most powerful families in Ithaca and the neighbouring
islands, have beset the house of Odysseus, desiring to wed his wife
and possess her wealth. All her friends urge her to make choice of a
husband from that clamorous band; for no one now believes that there
is any hope left of Odysseus' return. Only Penelope still clings to
the belief that he is yet living, and will one day come home. So for
three years she has put them off by a cunning trick. She began to
weave a shroud for her father-in-law, Laertes, promising that, as soon
as the garment was finished, she would wed one of the suitors. Then
all day long she wove that choice web; and every night she undid the
work of the day, unravelling the threads which she had woven. So for
three years she beguiled the suitors, but at last she was betrayed by
her handmaids, and the fraud was discovered. The princes upbraided her
loudly for her deceit, and became more importunate than ever. The
substance of Odysseus was wasting away; for day after day the wooers
came thronging to the house, a hundred strong, and feasted at the
expense of its absent master, and drank up his wine.
No hope seems left to the heartbroken, faithful wife. Even her son has
grown impatient at the waste of his goods, and urges her to make the
hard choice, and the hateful hour is at hand which will part her for
ever from the scene of her brief wedded joy.
[Illustration: Penelope]