THE RECOGNITION BY PENELOPE.
Penelope, far off in her chamber, has not heard the tumult, for the
doors between the men’s and women’s apartments had been carefully locked
by Eumæus, by his lord’s order. Even when the nurse rushes up to her
with the tidings that Ulysses himself has returned, and made this
terrible lustration of his household, she yet remains incredulous. The
riotous crew may have met their deserved fate, but the hand that has
slain them must be that of some deity, not of Ulysses. Yet she will go
down and look upon the corpses. There, leaning “by a pillar” in the
royal place--like King Joash at his coronation, or King Josiah when he
sware to the covenant--she beholds Ulysses. But he is still in his
beggar’s weed, and after twenty years of absence she is slow to
recognise him. Both Eurycleia and Telemachus break into anger at her
incredulity. The king himself is outwardly as little moved as ever. He
will give tokens of his identity hereafter. For the present there are
precautions to be taken. The slaughter of so many nobles of Ithaca will
scarce be taken lightly when it is heard in the island; it must not be
known abroad until he can try the temper of his subjects, and gather a
loyal host around him. All traces of the bloody scene which has just
been enacted must be carefully concealed; the house must ring with harp,
and song, and dance, that all who hear may think the queen has made her
choice at last, and is holding her wedding-feast to-day--as, in truth,
in a better sense she shall. Ulysses himself goes to the bath to wash
away the stains of slaughter. Thence he comes forth endued once more by
his guardian goddess with the “hyacinthine” locks and the grand presence
which he had worn in the court of Phæacia. He appeals now to his wife’s
memory, for she yet gives no sure sign of recognition:--
“Lady, the gods that in Olympus dwell
Have, beyond mortal women, given to thee
Heart as of flint, which none can soften well.
Lives not a wife who could endure, save thee,
Her lord to slight, who, roaming earth and sea,
Comes to his own land in the twentieth year.
Haste, Eurycleia, and go spread for me
Some couch, that I may sleep--but not with her.”
Penelope does recognise the form and features--it is indeed, to all
outward appearance, the Ulysses from whom she parted in tears twenty
years ago. But such appearances are deceitful; gods have been known, ere
now, to put on the form of men to gain the love of mortals. She will put
him to one certain test she wots of. “Give him his own bed,” she says to
the nurse; “go, bring it forth from what was our bridal chamber.” But
the couch of which she speaks is, as she and he both well know,
immovable. Its peculiar structure, as detailed in Homer’s verse, is by
no means easy to unravel. But it is formed in some cunning fashion out
of the stem of an olive-tree, rooted and growing, round which the hero
himself had built a bridal chamber. Move it?--“There lives no mortal,”
exclaims Ulysses, “who could stir it from its place.” Then, at last, all
Penelope’s long doubts are solved in happy certainty:--
“Then from her eyelids the quick tears did start,
And she ran to him from her place, and threw
Her arms about his neck, and a warm dew
Of kisses poured upon him, and thus spake:
‘Frown not, Odysseus; thou art wise and true!
But God gave sorrow, and hath grudged to make
Our path to old age sweet, nor willed us to partake
“‘Youth’s joys together. Yet forgive me this,
Nor hate me that when first I saw thy brow
I fell not on thy neck, and gave no kiss,
Nor wept in thy dear arms as I weep now.
For in my breast a bitter fear did bow
My soul, and I lived shuddering day by day,
Lest a strange man come hither, and avow
False things, and steal my spirit, and bewray
My love; such guile men scheme, to lead the pure astray.
* * * * *
“‘But now, since clearly thou unfoldest this,
The secret of our couch, which none hath read,
Save only thee and me and Actoris,
Whom my sire gave me, when I first was wed,
To guard the chamber of our bridal bed--
Now I believe against my own belief.’
She ending a desire of weeping bred
Within him, and in tears the noble chief
Clasped his true wife, exulting in their glorious grief.
“Sweet as to swimmers the dry land appears,
Whose bark Poseidon in the angry sea
Strikes with a tempest, and in pieces tears,
And a few swimmers from the white deep flee,
Crested with salt foam, and with tremulous knee
Spring to the shore exulting; even so
Sweet was her husband to Penelope,
Nor from his neck could she at all let go
Her white arms, nor forbid her thickening tears to flow.”
When they retire to rest, each has a long tale to tell. The personal
adventures of Ulysses alone (however careful he might have been to
abridge them in some particulars for his present auditor) would have
made up many an Arabian Night’s entertainment. There would surely have
been little time left for Penelope’s story, but that Minerva’s agency
lengthens the ordinary night--
“Nor from the rolling river of Ocean’s stream
Suffered the golden-thronèd Dawn to beam,
Or yoke the horses that bear light to men.”
Here, according to our modern notions of completeness, the Odyssey
should surely end. Accordingly some critics have surmised that the
twenty-fourth and last book is not Homer’s, but a later addition. But we
may very well suppose that the primitive taste for narrative in the
poet’s day was more simple and childlike; that an ancient Greek audience
would inquire, as our own children would, into all the details of the
sequel, and not be satisfied even with the comprehensive assertion that
“they lived happy ever afterwards.” We have therefore, in the text as it
has come down to us, a kind of supplement to the tale, which, as is the
case with the later scenes in some of Shakespeare’s tragedies, rather
weakens the force of the real catastrophe. An episode at the beginning
of this last book shows us again the regions of the dead, to which the
god Mercury is conducting the spirits of the dead suitors--pale ghosts
who follow him, gibbering and cowering with fear, into that “sunless
land.” The main purpose of the poet seems to be the opportunity once
more of introducing the shades of the great heroes, Achilles and
Agamemnon; the latter contrasting his own miserable and dishonoured end
with that of Achilles, blest above all mortals, dying in battle with all
the flower of Ilium and Greece around him, and leaving a name which is a
sound of glory over the whole earth. So also does he contrast, to
Penelope’s honour, her fidelity with the treachery of his own queen
Clytemnestra; giving voice to a prophecy which has been fulfilled almost
beyond even a poet’s aspirations:--
“O to her first one love how true was she!
Nought shall make dim the flower of her sweet fame
For ever, but the gods unceasingly
Shall to the earth’s inhabitants her name,
Wide on the wings of song, with endless praise proclaim.”
Ulysses himself has yet to visit and make himself known to his aged
father Laertes, who is still alive, but living in sad retirement on his
island-farm, solacing himself as well as he may with pruning and tending
his orchard-grounds. The recognition scene, in which the scar left by
the boar’s tusk is once more the touchstone, will seem tedious, as
savouring too much of repetition, to most readers of our day. But there
is one point which has a special and simple beauty of its own. When
Laertes seems yet incredulous as to his son’s identity, Ulysses reminds
him how, when he was yet a child, following his father about the
orchards, and begging with a child’s pertinacity, he had given him “for
his very own” a certain number of apple, fig, and pear trees and
vines--all which he can still remember and enumerate. The token is
irresistible, and the old man all but faints for joy.
An attempt at rebellion on the part of some of his Ithacan subjects, who
are enraged at his slaughter of their nobles, and which is headed by the
father of the dead Antinous, fails to revive the fading interest of the
tale. The ringleader falls by a spear cast by the trembling hand of
Laertes, and the malcontents submit, after a brief contest, to their
lawful chief.
A hint of future travel for the hero leaves his history in some degree
still incomplete. A penance had been imposed upon him by the seer
Tiresias, by which alone he could appease Neptune for the cruel injury
inflicted on his son, the giant Polyphemus. He must seek out some people
who had never seen the sea, and never eaten salt, and there offer
sacrifice to the god. Then, and only then, he might hope to reign for
the rest of his life in peace amongst his islanders. Of the fulfilment
of this pilgrimage the poet tells us nothing. Other legends represent
Ulysses as meeting his death at last from the hand of his own son
Telegonus (born of his amour with Circe), who had landed in the island
of Ithaca on a piratical enterprise. We may remark the coincidence--or
the imitation--in the later legend of the British Arthur, who is slain
in battle by his illegitimate son Mordred. The veil which even tradition
leaves hanging over the great wanderer’s fate is no inappropriate
conclusion to his story. A life of inaction, even in his old age, seems
hardly suited to the poetical conception of this hero of unrest. In the
fragmentary legends of the Middle Ages there is almost material for a
second Odyssey. There, the Greek voyager becomes the pioneer of Atlantic
discoverers--sailing still on into the unknown West in search of the
Earthly Paradise, founding new cities as he goes, and at last meeting
his death in Atlantic waters. The Italian poets--Tasso, Pulci, and
especially Dante--adopted the tradition. In the ‘Inferno’ of the latter,
the spirit of Ulysses thus discloses the last scenes of his career:--
“Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence
Of my old father, nor return of love,
That should have crowned Penelope with joy,
Could overcome in me the zeal I had
To explore the world, and search the ways of life,
Man’s evil and his virtue. Forth I sailed
Into the deep illimitable main,
With but one bark, and the small faithful band
That yet cleaved to me. As Iberia far,
Far as Marocco, either shore I saw,
And the Sardinian and each isle beside
Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age
Were I and my companions, when we came
To the strait pass, where Hercules ordained
The boundaries not to be o’erstepped by man.[43]
The walls of Seville to my right I left,
On the other hand already Ceuta past.
‘O brothers!’ I began, ‘who to the west
Through perils without number now have reached;
To this the short remaining watch, that yet
Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof
Of the unpeopled world, following the track
Of Phœbus. Call to mind from whence ye sprang:
Ye were not formed to live the life of brutes,
But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.’
With these few words I sharpened for the voyage
The mind of my associates, that I then
Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn
Our poop we turned, and for the witless flight
Made our oars wings,[44] still gaining on the left.
Each star of the other pole night now beheld,
And ours so low, that from the ocean floor
It rose not. Five times re-illumed, as oft
Vanished the light from underneath the moon,
Since the deep way we entered, when from far
Appeared a mountain dim, loftiest methought
Of all I e’er beheld. Joy seized us straight;
But soon to mourning changed. From the new land
A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side
Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirled her round
With all the waves; the fourth time lifted up
The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed:
And over us the booming billow closed.”
--Inferno, xxvi. (Cary’s transl.)
Thus also Mr Tennyson--drawing from Dante not less happily than he so
often does from Homer--makes his Ulysses resign the idle sceptre into
the hands of the home-keeping Telemachus, and tempt the seas once more
in quest of new adventures:--
“There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me,
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old:
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all, but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done.
* * * * *
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows: for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.”