Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

_Amph._ Prophesy, sir, and tell us
Whether some god forewarned Telemachus,
Or if they gave him chase and could not catch him.

_Enter Antinous and his men._

_WOOERS._

Hail, Lord Antinous!

_Eur._ How went it with thee?

_ANTINOUS._

Where is the prince?

_Amph._ Why, where’s the prince? he saith.
Where is the prince?

_Eur._ How missed you him?

_Ant._ Curst luck!
All day our scouts kept up unbroken guard
Along the windy headlands, and at night
None slept ashore, but cruising to and fro,
We watched the narrow channels until dawn, 1040
Lying in wait to take him when he came.
And lo! he is here, hath run by into port,
And beached his ship upon the royal stade,
Before we knew it. Curst luck! Have ye seen him?

_Eur._ Nay, for he landed by the northern shore,
And sent his ship about: a god hath warned him.

_Ant._ God or no god, plant we before he comes
An ambush in the hills, and slay him there:
For once he reach the town alive, be sure
He is the huntsman then and we the game. 1050
Ay, he hath wit eno’ ere he come hither
To babble of our plot, and ’fore the folk
Will, with his pretty face and cunning tears
And speeches of his mother, stir them up
To rise against us. Look, sirs, while he lives
We can do nothing, but if we should kill him,
His lands and goods are ours: we may divide
The wealth and let who will possess the widow.
That is my counsel, lords: but if ye suffer
This baby to return, then this I say— 1060
Make we at once our gifts,—myself I count it
No satisfaction,—but that one of us
Should win at least the dame and such few chattels
As may go with her, is the only credit
We have to look for.

_Ctes._ What is that to us?

_Ant._ What say ye, lords?

_Amph._ Why, ’tis a pretty plan.
We came to woo the dame; but since ’tis clear
All cannot have her, in the general interest
Change we our purpose, saith he, kill the son,
And make division. Well! What say ye, lords? 1070

_Ctes._ Hark not to him: he hath a specialty.

_Amph._ Imbrue ye not your hands in innocent blood,
Nor touch Telemachus: for ’tis a thing
Abhorred of Zeus to meddle with a life
Of royal strain. There be the oracles;
Consult ye them: and if Telemachus
Must die and ’tis decreed, I shall be last
Of men to oppose it: otherwise I stand
Against Antinous, ay, sword to sword:
Whose insolence, I say, the gods already 1080
Have baulked and will not suffer.

_Eur._ Spoken well,
Amphinomus; yet hast thou shewn no way
To avoid the mischief that must fall on us,
If now Telemachus return alive.

_Enter from the gallery above, Penelope._

_Suitors._ The queen, the queen!

_PENELOPE._

Ye shameless men, and thou most shamed of all,
Antinous—nay, never think I know not
Because I hold aloof; or that I hear not
Because ye see me not. I know you all,
And none is there among you who more wrongs 1090
The hospitality ye all constrain,
Than that Antinous:—doth he remember
How once his sire Eupeithes to this house
Fled from the people, when they would have slain him
For joining in the Taphian piracies
’Gainst the Thesprotians, who were then our friends
And good allies as now; but my Ulysses
Took him, and by great favour won his life?
And now his son against our noble son
Plotteth to kill him: is all due regard 1100
For sacred ties ’twixt house and house so lost?
That ye too here, who sit in idleness
To waste the substance of my absent lord,
Hark to such insolent and bloody malice,
The while ye sue me for my hand? Pretence!
I say: ye are constant lovers, but ’tis wine
And meat ye love, and me ye only wrong.

_Eur._ And us thou wrongest, wise Penelope,
Deeming thy son hath not such friends among us,
As make his coming hither and his going 1110
And converse with us safe. If one had dared
To plot his death, this spear, that now is bright,
Were red to-day with blood: for me too, lady,
Hath good Ulysses in the days gone by
Set on his knee, and to my boyish lips
Tendered the wine-cup: wherefore is his son
Dear to my soul, and from no man that moves
Within my reach, need he fear death or harm.

_Ctes._ (_aside_). Hark to him now!

_Ant._ (_to Pen._). We all are bounden, lady,
To serve thy house; and I above the rest 1120
Have shewn my zeal, sailing my galley forth
To meet thy son with honour, and in safety
To escort him home.

_Pen._ Standing but late above
I overheard your council; look, I bid you
Depart, lest on a sudden ye encounter
Him whom ye willed to slay. The gods have brought him
In safety home: he will be here; so ye
Go to your lodges, nor to-morrow morn
Come as your wont, unless ye bring in hand
Each of you, for a pledge of truth and peace, 1130
Some gift of price. Strange suitors are ye, lying
Here at my charges, feasting day by day,
Nor ever make such offerings as a woman
Must look for where she is loved or wooed: begone.
My son hath passed the town. I have a message
He will be here. (_Voices without._) Ay, now, before ye go
He is come. I hear him.

_Enter Telemachus, spear in hand at back; the wooers throng round him as he presses forward._

_Eur._ Welcome, noble prince.

_Amph._ All hail, Telemachus!

_Ant._ The gods be praised.

_Chor._ Hail, noble offspring of a noble sire!—
Most gracious son of a most gracious lady!— 1140
Dear to our eyes as is the light of morn—
Welcome as softest rain to new-sown fields—

_Ctes._ (_aside_). Or like a frost in spring.

_TELEMACHUS._

My lords and friends,
I thank you all. (_To Pen._) See me returned, dear
mother.

_Pen._ Welcome, my son. I knew that thou wert come:
’Tis good. (_Aside to Telem._) I had now discharged
these lords: I pray thee
Rid us their company.

_Tel._ My friends, I fear
My entrance, just as ye were stood to go,
Delays your going: feel not such constraint,
Beseech you. We may look to meet again, 1150
If I mistake not.

_Ant._ (_aside to wooers_). See how haughtily
He bears himself.

_Ctes._ (_aside_). Yield not an inch: abide!

_Eur._ My lords, let all depart.

_Amph._ (_to Pen._). Lady, farewell,
To-morrow I will offer at thy feet
The best I have.

_All._ And I, and I.

_Pen._ Farewell.

_Tel._ Farewell, my lords.

_Ant._ Would I might stay to see the melting joy
Of this most happy meeting.

_Pen._ Go thy way.
If ever grace spake false, ’twas on thy tongue,
Falsest Antinous. 1160

_Suitors_ (_going_). Farewell, Farewell.

[_They are heard singing without._ To keep good peace we swear, etc.]

_Tel._ My dearest mother.

_Pen._ O, my noble son,
’Tis joy to kiss thee. Do I see thee safe?
But O, thou hast tarried long! And was it kind
To make thy journey hence without a word?
If thou couldst but have seen my pain, the day
I found thee gone, thy pity had surely made
Thy duty, and held thee back. But now to see thee,
And as thou earnest those rude men abashed,—
O, I was proud!

_Tel._ Thou canst not more rejoice
Than I.

_Pen._ I wonder not they were abashed; 1170
Thou hast a freer step, a manlier bearing:
I am much to blame keeping thee here at home,
Away from fellowship of noble spirits.
Whom hast thou seen?

_Tel._ Why that were long to tell.

_Pen._ I saw thy ship sail in, and then there came
Eumæus, saying how thou wert with him,
And wouldst not come: then came thy messenger,
That thou wert in the town, and on thy way.
How was it?

_Tel._ See, I am just escaped with life:
Spare questioning. First let the gods be served: 1180
Go bid thy maidens, ere the night close in,
Prepare a worthy sacrifice to Zeus;
Ay, such a sacrifice, as to this day
This house has never seen.

_Pen._ ’Tis very meet.
Yet why this urgence? there hath something passed
Thou keepest back. Is’t possible, my boy,
That in the southern courts some lady’s eyes
Have drawn thee to vow hecatombs?

_Tel._ Nay, mother.

_Pen._ I should be glad. What is it then hath changed thee?

_Tel._ How am I changed? 1190

_Pen._ Thou art aloof and strange.

_Tel._ It ever dulled my kinder spirits to view
These robbers in my father’s hall.

_Pen._ Alas!
What could I do, my son, and thou away?
Here is no change, nor ever any tidings.
I have neither power nor reason on my side:
I cannot say My lord is yet alive,
Wherefore depart, ye wrong me; nor as little
My lord is dead, I will requite your honour,
And choose the worthiest. O, where’er thou hast been,
If aught thou hast learned of any certainty, 1200
Speak now, whate’er it be, fear not to tell:
Tell of thy sire, my son, though ’tis his death!

_Tel._ Now heaven forbid that word.

_Pen._ Alas, Telemachus;
What is our hope? Or if thou know of any,
Why art thou reticent of it?

_Tel._ Hearken, mother:
If thou wilt hear me, I will tell my story,
As time allows, stripped of all circumstance.
First sailed I then to Pylos, where I found
Nestor, who lovingly my stay entreated,
And held me as his son, but, when he learned 1210
My quest, and nothing knew of my dear father,
Would have me go, and with a royal escort
Conveyed me to the court of Menelaus:
There I saw Argive Helen.—
But Menelaus, when I told my tale
Brake out in anger, and I think few words
Would draw him hither with his dukes to sweep
Our house of its dishonour; but in fine
Thus much he said, that still Ulysses lived,
But with the nymph Calypso in her isle 1220
By subtle sleights withheld; in whom it lay
That he was not returned, and might not yet;
But there abode. Then, since he knew no more,
I sped me home, and should have sped to death,
Had not divine Athenè sent a dream
To warn me of the ambush, with the wind
To bring me round the isle: wherefore I bid thee
Perform the sacrifice, lest for such favour
We seem ungrateful.

_Pen._ Didst thou never ask
Of Menelaus, how he came to know 1230
Thy father’s fate?

_Tel._ It was the wizard Proteus,
Whom strangely he entamed and all his art,
When he lay windbound in the isle of Pharos;
Who told him, for he held him fast for all
His magic shifts and slippery changefulness,
Becoming first a bearded lion, thereafter
A snake, a leopard, and a bristly boar;
And then as running water seemed he, or
A tall and flowering tree ...

_Pen._ My son, my son,
These are mere tales. When was this said to have been? 1240

_Tel._ ’Twas scarce two years.

_Pen._ Ah, and so long!

_Tel._ ’Tis tidings
Both sure and good, mother; and yet ’tis nought
To what remains. The thing I sought abroad
Has come to me at home: but if I tell thee,
Thou in thine inmost heart store it,—no word
Even to Eumæus, tho’ ’twas in his hut,
—Where as I crossed the isle I turned aside,—
I found an aged man, his beggar guest:
Whom, for Eumæus warned me he was full
Of tales of Troy, I held of no account 1250
When first he spoke, but soon I learnt he knew.
He was himself at Troy, and, as he saith,
Hath lately seen my father, who is free,
And bent on swift return.

_Pen._ Is this thy news?

_Tel._ Is’t not then news?

_Pen._ Nay, nay, thou art deceived.
An idle tale Eumæus would not hear:
A rogue he warned thee of, and not the first
That thus hath lied.

_Tel._ There hath been none like him.

_Pen._ Their tale is still the same, and spiced to match
Any credulity.

_Tel._ I would not have 1260
Thy mind less wary, nor bespeak thy credit.
To-morrow I will bring him here, and then,
He being our guest, thyself mayst question him.
And be thou not persuaded, I will look
No longer for my father’s wished return;
Nor after lend an ear to any man,
But hold him as our enemy, who saith
Ulysses lives.

_Pen._ In hoping and despairing
Thou art too quick, my son; and past occasions
Have taught thee nought. Come, tell me of thyself,
And of thy journey. Tell me too of Helen, 1271
Is she still beautiful? and doth she live
Forgiven of Menelaus and beloved?

_Tel._ In good time, mother, shalt thou hear all this,
And more. Consider now how best to prove
This beggar, when I bring him.

_Pen._ If need were
’Twere easy.—Yet, how should Eumæus err?
Hath he not means to sift the false from true?
Could such a guest as this thou deemest dwell
With him unknown?

_Tel._ Thou shalt thyself enquire. 1280
Weigh well what proof to use, but now no longer
Delay the sacrifice my safety calls. [_Going._

_Pen._ My son!

_Tel._ Adieu, I go into the town.

_Pen._ Why wilt thou go?

_Tel._ First I must make report
To good Noëmon of his ship returned;
Then to pay off my crew.

_Pen._ Ah, prithee son,
Have care: the robbers have a plot to kill thee:
They now may lie in wait. ’Tis early dusk.

_Tel._ I fear them not. 1289

_Pen._ Indeed I know their minds.

_Tel._ The goddess will withhold their impious hands.

_Pen._ What goddess trustest thou to aid thee so?

_Tel._ Why who but she that hath preserved my sire?

_Pen._ Alas! Then take Eumæus with thee, son.

_Tel._ I need him not. Farewell.

_Pen._ Then if thou goest,
Farewell. But do not tarry.

_Tel._ Bid prepare
My chamber; for at night I shall return. [_Exit._

_Pen._ The gods protect thee.—Would the gods, that made him
So handsome, loving, noble, brave, and good,
Had given him wisdom; for without that gift,
Grace bears no fruit. ’Tis plain to all, my son 1300
Hath not the truth of his advertisement:
He wears the semblance only, such as lures
And flatters the deceiver. If I am vexed,
’Tis with myself: I looked for better things
And suffer in rebuff. That Menelaus,
The delicate, self-seeking Menelaus,
Should leave his easeful home to avenge a friend,
And that friend dead: and then the wizard tales,
Calypso and Proteus, and whatever else,
And worst of all this ancient beggar-man, 1310
Who hath a tale better than all the tales!
Alas, alas! my son, thou wilt have need
Of much good care. ’Twas ill I did not send
Eumæus with him. Now till he return,
Patience—and when he is returned, again
Patience—’tis so: patience was made for me;
And one by one my deprecative days
Bring nought, but as they flee, still cry to-morrow.

ACT · IV

_The same: many wooers seated about the hall over remains of feast. In front of stage TELEMACHUS_ (L.), _EURYMACHUS_ (C.), _AMPHINOMUS and ANTINOUS_ (R.). _Phemius sitting near: at left of stage a table piled with gifts._

_EURYMACHUS._

Order thou as thou wilt; with mine own hand
Will I present my gift.

_ANTINOUS._

And so will I. 1320
Shall there be no distinction?

_TELEMACHUS._

Sirs, consider
How ye would make distinction. Ye are many,
And acquiescence in a preference
Of two or three were the self-forfeiture
By all the rest of further claim in suit.

_AMPHINOMUS._

Hark, ’tis well said, Eurymachus; and for one
I were content.

_Eur._ Why this is nought to me.
All cannot give; but we and such beside,
Whose title we acknowledge, may present
Our gifts in person: let the rest lay theirs 1330
Here on the table: nor will we admit
More than are present now within the hall:
All others with the henchmen may remain,
Where they sit feasting, in the outer court.

_Ant._ So be it, I say.

_Eur._ ’Twas on her own demand
We brought our gifts to-day: shall we not give them?

_Ant._ ’Tis fit there be reception. Here we wait
Since noon, and still she comes not. Will she come?

_Tel._ I am here, my lords, to tell you she will come.
Prepare to see her.

_Eur._ My place is first: ye two 1340
Will follow. For the rest, is’t left to me
To fix the order?

_Amph._ I would urge to abide
By what the prince desires.

_Tel._ Nay, nay, my lords.
I waive all word: the matter rests with you.
I say but this: since ’tis not possible
That each in person should present his gift,
My mother’s will is that ye lay them here
Upon the table. Yet if one or two
Command distinction, there is nought so far
Forbids exception.

_Eur._ Lords, then sit we down; 1350
Thence may we pass the word to whom we will.
And say that while we wait our lady’s coming,
Good Phemius sing. Prince, wilt thou sit by me?

_Tel._ Nay, I will take my seat where I was wont.

[_They sit down._

_Eur._ Serve us some wine.

_Tel._ Phemius, I’d have thy song
Tell of my father.

_Music._ (_All are seated._)

_Enter Eumæus with Ulysses disguised._

_EUMÆUS._

This way, old man, now art thou in the hall
Of good Ulysses.

_Eur._ Stay, stay, who come here
Breaking the music.

_Ant._ ’Tis the wretched swineherd.

_Eur._ Prince, bid him hence!

_Ant._ What ruffian brings he with him? 1360

_Amph._ Who is this ancient patch?

_Ant._ O miserable
Tatterdemalion!

_CTESIPPUS._

What a scurvy beggar!

_Eur._ Eumæus, I bid thee take thy plague away!

_A suitor._ Nor want we thee to-day, old swine-driver.

_Another._ When the meat fails, we’ll send.

_Ctes._ Rascally knave.

_Another._ Go fat thy pigs!

_Ctes._ The hog-tub stands without:
If thy old man be hungry, take him there.

_Another._ Ctesippus, force them forth.

_Ctes._ Begone, I say:
Or I will drive you quicker than ye came.

_Eur._ Eumæus, hear me: take thy man away. 1370

_Eum._ Nay, Lord Eurymachus, ’tis never thou
Canst say begone to any from this hall,
Nay, nor Antinous nor Ctesippus either:
But if to me ye say it, ye forget
How I stand here of right; nor is it like
I stir for you. As for your music-making,
Be still yourselves, and we can sit in peace,
And listen with you.

_Ant._ Ye to sit with us,
Insolent villain!

_Eur._ Whatsoe’er thy right,
This filthy beggar is beyond all reason. 1380
Who is he?

_Eum._ Lord Eurymachus, this man,
Mean as he is, hath here more privilege
Than thou. He comes by invitation hither;
He is the prince’s suppliant.

_Eur._ Now, Telemachus,
Thou art reproached in this.

_Eum._ Come to reproach,
I know a word.

_Ant._ Wag not thy beard at us,
Thou low-bred hind.

_Tel._ Indeed, Eurymachus,
I am not disgraced; for in my father’s hall
Was ever room and welcome for all such
As needed food and shelter: nay, and they 1390
Who most have need stand first; as doth this man.
As for my servant, he hath given an answer
To those that have reviled him.

_Amph._ If so be
This beggar is thy guest and suppliant,
His fitter place were still the outer court:
Invite him thither.

_Tel._ I have bid him here.
And here he shall remain. Fear not, good father,
Go sit thee by the hearth: and thou, Amphinomus,
Urge me not. I will have my way in this:
Were there no other reason than this one, 1400
That I will have my way. Take thou that stool,
Old man, and sit at ease: none here can touch thee.

_Ctes._ (_to Ul. aside_). Dare!

_Ant._ (_to Eur._). Shall we brook this?

_Eur._ Prince Telemachus,
Though thou be very son of great Ulysses,
Think not to overrule us thus with words.
Dispose thou mayst within fair reason’s bounds
Even as thou wilt: so much in courtesy
We grant, but not for fear; nor are our spirits
Of stuff to suffer what indignities
Thy haughty temper may prepare. In this 1410
We shall resist thee.

_Tel._ There be men in Ithaca
Call thee not king, Eurymachus; though here
Thou take so much on thee.

_Ant._ Ha! threat’st thou us?
Telemachus! what next? This is’t to have been
In Lacedæmon. Now may we, who ne’er
Have looked upon the godlike Menelaus,
Behold his mirror. Why, what game is this?
Think’st thou with strength and might upon our side
We bandy words? I say this ragged loon
Shall not have place with us: the sight of him 1420
Hath turned my stomach. If for any bond
Of blood or service thou set store by him,
Thou mayst do better for his skinny bones
Than stow them here. ’Twill not be many hours
That he shall trouble us.

_Tel._ Ay, so may be.
But wouldst thou kill him, Lord Antinous,
It had been better to have waylaid his ship,
Or set an ambush for him in the hills.

_Ant._ (_aside_). By heaven, I smart.

_Eur._ Peace, peace!

_Amph._ Hark, if the prince
Persist, we may not say him nay. Be seated. 1430
Maybe our lady’s voice may interpose:
Let us defer our grievance to the word
Of sage Penelope.

_Ant._ How shall I sit
In presence of such insult?

_Eur._ Sit thou down.

_Ant._ (_aside to Ul._). Man, as thou lovest life, fly
while thou mayst.

_ULYSSES_ (_to Ant._).

Kind sir, I am deaf.
_Ant._ I’ll make thee deafer yet.

_Tel._ Phemius, we listen. Sit thou there, old man.
Eumæus, take him meat and wine.

_Ul._ (_sitting at r. front_). I thank thee.

_Ctes._ Go further off, I pray; I’m not thy friend,
Thou hoary plague.

_Eur._ Silence, the music sounds. 1440

(_Eumæus bears food to Ulysses, who eats and drinks during Phemius’
ode._)

_PHEMIUS._

1.

Happy are the earth’s heirs:
Who, that his toilsome lot
And hard-won gain compares,
Admires and envies not?
At one time one, at another another best,
Come mortal pleasures, troubling sweet content;
But two above the rest
Are ever of worth,
Everywhere are praisèd and excellent,
To live and possess the earth: 1450
And my name—ranked desire ’mong graven things—
Would live with the island kings.

2.

Happy Telemachus then art thou,
Ithaca’s true-born lord:
Rejoice and welcome him now
Safe to his home restored.
Shout—O well is thee!
The gods in worship and joy, pray we,
—And high desert uplifts the prayer—
Grant thee here in plenty the good thou meritest,
Nor to fall in a like snare 1461
With him from whom thou inheritest,
Ulysses, Laertes’ son.

1_a._

Twenty are the years gone
Since in another’s strife,
To win a faithless wife
He vexed the true, his own.
For her new-married he left and his newborn boy,
His true-born prince to manhood now upgrown,
To fight at fateful Troy. 1470
In front of the strife
Fought he, and fell not there, nor lies entombed
By mighty Achilles’ side;
Nor yet returned he home, but wandering wide
To alien death was doomed.

2_a._

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.