Chapter II: Part 2

It is significant that the character of Achilles is developed in conflict with the war-god, Ares; while Odysseus is whelmed in a ‘sea of troubles,’ literally heaped upon him by Poseidon. Struggling constantly against the rage of the elements, Odysseus becomes alert and cautious, patient and painstaking and resourceful: a great constructive energy, as contrasted with the destroying fury of Achilles. The poet’s epithet for Odysseus is ‘subtle’ as that for Achilles had been ‘swift’; and the emphasis is always laid upon his qualities of brain and nerve. He is not a very imposing figure, and has little physical beauty. When his friends would praise him, it is gifts of mind rather than of body to which they refer. He is ‘the just one’ who does no injury ‘as is the way of princes’; the kindly ruler, who is ‘like a father’ to help his people; the faithful husband who can flatter and cajole his goddess-gaoler, in desperate anxiety to be home with his dear wife; the loyal comrade who will risk the enchantments of Circe rather than forsake his men without an effort; the gracious master whose servants ‘mourn and pine’ because of his long absence. And all the way through the poem, in passages which are too numerous to quote, there is a running tribute to his wisdom. Zeus himself, with other gods and goddesses; kings and queens; nymphs, naiads and enchantresses; swineherds and domestic servants; soldiers and sailors; strangers and homefolk; friends and enemies, all add their word to the eulogium of his wit.

Now Penelope, who is the perfect mate for such a man as this, is for that very reason contrasted with Helen as strongly as her husband is contrasted with the hero of the _Iliad_. It is not merely that her personality is totally unlike Helen’s, although that is true. The contrast is rooted in something deeper—in the whole conception of the poet, the manner of life out of which the poem came, the theme of which it treats. In the _Iliad_ we are quite literally moving amongst demi-gods. Helen, reputed daughter of Tyndareus, is really the child of Zeus; and Achilles has the nereid Thetis for his mother. Something of their divine origin clings to them, making them awful and magnificent. In all that they do and are they are greater than mere human folk. They move majestically, and they are not to be approached too nearly, or judged by the common standard, or compared with the ordinary race of men. Troy itself, to which their names cling, was a city built by gods.

But Odysseus and Penelope are frankly mortal; and in that one fact they approach nearer to us by many degrees. They are no longer colossal figures hovering, as it were, about the base of Mt. Olympus, and driven this way and that in the surge of Olympian quarrels. They are a man and woman, with their feet firmly planted upon the earth, and their affections rooted there too. They claim no kinship with the gods: they take no part in Olympian warfare: they have no care for the issues which are called great. Their story, reduced to its elements, is of the simplest kind: the call of dear home ties upon the man, the fidelity and prudence of the woman. And in this ‘touch of common things,’ Penelope becomes a much more real figure than Helen.

Of course that is not to say that Penelope is ‘real’ in the technical sense of the word. She is in fact almost as much a creature of romance as Helen is. But she appears before us as a living woman with human hopes and joys and sorrows; with human virtues too, and certain very human weaknesses. We can never regard the heroine of the _Iliad_ just in this way. If we could, and if we dared to lift the veil which the poet always interposes between us and the character of Helen, it would stand revealed slight and trembling in its amiability: fatally soft, with no vein of essential strength. Now it is that essential strength which characterizes Penelope. The wooers realized it; and Antinous made it the chief point of his defence:

_Athena has bestowed on her
Wisdom of mind and excellence of skill_

_In beautiful devices manifold
Beyond all others, such as is not told
Even of those famous in the former time,
Achaean women lovely-tressed of old,_

_Tyro, Alcmena, and Mycene crowned—
Even among these the equal was not found
In wise devices of Penelope._[7]

There is a significant silence about Penelope’s beauty; and she has not eternal youth as Helen has. But when we have seen her eyes light upon her boy Telemachus, and the radiance of her face as the strange old beggarman told her about her husband, we shall waive the question of æsthetics. We shall be prepared to maintain Penelope’s beauty against all-comers; and we shall not be much concerned that the poet rather avoids the subject. For he would not dream of a soul which did not know that sweetness and dignity and a gentle heart, grief endured patiently and love unswerving, would make for themselves a worthy habitation. Beside Helen’s exquisite fairness, Penelope would seem a little faded; and her sweet gravity would be almost a reproach. She cannot compare for one moment with Calypso, as Odysseus had to confess when the goddess blamed him for his homesickness:

“_Goddess and mistress, be not wroth with me
Herein: for very well myself I know
That, set beside you, wise Penelope_

“_Were far less stately and less fair to view,
Being but mortal woman, nor like you
Ageless and deathless: but even so,
I long and yearn to see my home anew._“[7]

The keynote of the _Odyssey_ is struck here; and here too we may find a hint of all that Penelope means. The thought of home is to dominate the poem, as something so dear and sacred that innumerable toils are suffered and infinite perils undergone to win back to it. And this shining ideal of home is to be incarnate in Penelope. She is to represent in her own person all that sweetens and comforts life: all the domestic virtues which establish and perpetuate it. Thus, beside Helen as the ideal of beauty—of physical perfection—Penelope stands as the ideal of mental and moral worth.

* * * * *

Telemachus, whom Odysseus had left at home as a baby twenty years before, had been sent by Athena to seek his father. The goddess had appeared to him as he sat in his father’s hall in Ithaca, lowering upon those unbidden guests who were his mother’s suitors. She had asked what the unseemly revel might mean; and he had told of the long absence of his father.

“_Ah but the spirits of storm to a death inglorious swept him, Vanished, unseen and unheard of; and nothing but mourning and anguish Me he bequeathed! Nor now do I sorrow and make lamentation Only for him; for the gods send other and grievous afflictions. All of the chief of the men who as princes rule in the islands.... All come wooing my mother and wasting the wealth of the homestead. She dares neither reject their hateful proposals of marriage, Nor can she end it; and thus do the men, consuming, devouring, Ruin my home...._”[8]

The goddess counselled immediate action—to go and seek Odysseus; and while the minstrel sang to the carousing suitors, Telemachus inwardly resolved that he would set sail as soon as might be for Pylos and Sparta, whither Athena directed him for tidings of his father. But he knew that he must act quietly; and above all, that his purpose must be kept a secret from his mother. She would certainly prevent his going, did she know, fearing to lose son as well as husband.

Meantime, as he pondered the matter, Penelope was listening from her lofty bower to the minstrel’s song in the hall below. He sang of the return of the heroes from Troy; and the words reawakened in her the old pain of longing for her husband. At last she could not bear to hear it any longer:

_Straightway leaving her room by the high-built stair she descended; Neither alone did she go; two maidens followed behind her. So when at last she had come to the suitors, that fairest of women Stood by the post of the door of the massively builded apartment, Holding in front of her cheeks soft folds of her glistering head-dress. There as she stood, with a trusty attendant on this and on that side, Suddenly bursting in tears to the godlike bard she addressed her: “Phemius, ... ... desist, I beseech, from the strain thou art singing, Pitiful story, that ever the heart in the depths of my bosom Woundeth....”_[8]

She is a touching figure, as she ventures out among the revellers and begs the old man to change the theme of his lay. But Telemachus was not in the mood to see the pathos of the scene. The charge that Athena had laid on him had suddenly given him his manhood; and in the new sense of responsibility, he spoke a little harshly to his mother, bidding her go back to her loom and housewifery.

_Full of amazement she turned her to go to the women’s apartment,
Hiding the masterful words of her son deep down in her bosom.
So to her upper apartment ascending with maiden attendants
Here she lamented Odysseus her well-loved husband, till gently
Slumber was poured on her lids by the grey-eyed goddess Athene._[8]

While his mother slept, Telemachus lay awake in his own inner room revolving plans whereby to carry out the command of Athena. He determined first to confront the suitors publicly, before a formal assembly of the Ithacans, and charge them with their insolence and riotous greed. So, with the first light of morning, he summoned the people to a meeting in the market-place, and called upon the wooers to cease their persecution of his mother and quit his house. Antinous, answering haughtily for them all, invented a coward’s excuses for their conduct. Penelope was to blame, he said, for she would not decide between them; but constantly put them off with various cunning devices. With one pretext alone—that of weaving a shroud for Icarius—she had kept them in suspense for many months.

_Thus then all of the day at the spacious loom she was weaving; During the night she unravelled the web with the torches beside her. Three long years with her secret device she befooled the Achaeans; Till, when the fourth year came, and as season was followed by season, Then at the last (since one of her women, who knew it, had told us), While at the loom her magnificent web she unravelled, we caught her. Thus was she forced, though sorely unwilling, to finish her labour._[8]

Therefore, declared Antinous, because Penelope had deceived them in this manner, they would not depart until she had chosen a husband from among them. Telemachus might spare his protests; indeed, he would be better advised to coerce his mother, since they were determined to remain in his house and devour his substance, until Penelope should yield. But Telemachus was a child no longer, and could not be threatened with impunity. And to their base suggestion that he should favour them against his mother, he gave a spirited reply. Nothing should induce him to give Penelope in marriage against her will:

“_Such word I will not utter. But for you,
If you take shame at all this wrong you do,
Quit these my halls...._

“_But if you deem it worthier still to sit,
As now, devouring one man’s livelihood
And rendering no recompense for it,_

“_Waste on: but to the deathless gods will I
Make my appeal, if haply Zeus on high
Repayment of your deeds exact from you.
So in this house you unavenged shall die._“[7]

The assembly broke up; and Telemachus hastily fitted out a ship and sailed to seek Odysseus, all unknown to Penelope. The suitors continued their carousals day after day, rioting and making merry, in feigned contempt of Telemachus and his quest. But when after a time he did not return, they grew uneasy. They had jeered at his threats of vengeance, deeming him an untried boy; but who knew what might happen now, since he had sailed with a crew of the stoutest fellows in the island? Might he not return with help and drive them out? Antinous took counsel with his friends, and determined on a murderous plan. They would man a ship, sail after Telemachus, and lie in wait for his return, between the islands of Ithaca and Samé; and that should be the last cruise that Telemachus should make.

Meanwhile Penelope, busy with her household duties, believed her son to be away with the flocks. She stayed within the women’s rooms; and except for the clamour of the wooers, or the occasional song of the minstrel, nothing came to her ears. But now Medon the herald heard of the plot which was afoot against his young master, and came to warn her of it. She greeted him with a bitter question. Had he come to order her maids to spread the banquet for the suitors? Would that they might never feast again! Had they not shame to deal so unjustly with her absent husband—he who had always dealt justly with them, who had never in word or deed done injury to any? But Medon had a harder thing yet to say; and as gently as might be, he told her of the going of Telemachus and of the suitors’ plot to slay him.

_Thus did he speak, and with knees and with heart all quaking she stood there. Speechless long she remained, struck mute, while gathering teardrops Flooded her eyes, and the flow of her clear-voiced utterance failed, Till at the last she recovered her speech and addressed him in answer: “Wherefore, herald, I pray, is my son departed? He nowise Needed to mount on a ship—on a swift-paced vessel that sailors Ride as a horse and traverse the watery waste of the ocean. Wills he that even his name no longer remain in remembrance?”_[8]

Penelope is overwhelmed with grief, and Medon’s explanation of her son’s errand does not soothe her. She believes that he is lost to her for ever, like his father; and when the herald has left her, she throws herself down upon the floor of her room, wailing:

“_... sorrow hath Zeus the Olympian sent me Passing the sorrows of all the friends and the mates of my childhood. Erstwhile lost I a husband—my lord with the heart of a lion.... Now is my dearly belovèd, my son, swept hence by the storm-blasts, Vanished from hearing and home.... Had I but known he was making him ready to fare on a journey, Verily either at home he had stay’d, though bent on departure, Else he had left me behind him dead in the halls of his homestead._“[8]

She casts about in her mind as to how she may save her son; and it seems to her best to send a trusty messenger to the father of Odysseus, for help and counsel. But the old nurse Euryclea gives good advice. She confesses that she had known of the departure of Telemachus; but he had sworn her with a great oath not to reveal it. It is of no use to mourn about it; and since they can do nothing to bring him back, the better way is to go and supplicate their guardian goddess, Athena, the Maid of Zeus, for his safety. For her part, she believes that Telemachus will not be forsaken in his need. Penelope wisely takes the advice of the old nurse. She bathes, puts on clean raiment, and taking in her hand an offering of barley-flour, she ascends to her own chamber and makes supplication to Athena:

“_Hearken to my prayer this hour,_

“_Thou who hast thunder-bearing Zeus for Sire,
Maiden whose might no labour can out-tire!
If ever subtle-souled Odysseus here
Within these halls consumed upon the fire_

“_Fat thigh-pieces of ox or sheep to thee,
Remember it this day for good to me,
And save my son, and from us thrust away
The suitors in their evil surquedry._”

_Calling aloud so spake she, and her call
The goddess heard._[7]

PENELOPE

_Patten Wilson_
]

Even while Penelope prayed, Athena was busy on her behalf; and was bringing home to her both husband and son. Odysseus she had convoyed safely to Ithaca, and was now leading him in disguise to the swineherd’s cottage. And to Telemachus she had shown a way to escape the murderous suitors, and was bringing him swiftly to the father whom he had never seen. Of their meeting, and of their cunning plan for vengeance on the suitors, it would take too long to tell. But in the morning, Penelope was gladdened by the return of her son; and a little later, a poor old beggar (no other than Odysseus himself) came among the suitors as they sat in the hall. They glowered upon him angrily, and proud Antinous set the vagabond Irus to fight him, for their sport. But the old beggar had unexpected strength, and Irus was defeated. Whereon the suitors began to bait Odysseus with jeers and taunts; and one hurled a stool at him. At this impious deed, the guests were horrified; and Penelope, hearing of it where she sat among her women, longed to make amends to the old man for the cruel act. She descended into the great hall, and spoke reprovingly to Telemachus for allowing one who had sought the shelter of their home to be treated so basely.

“_What thing is this that hath befallen us
Within our halls that once were prosperous,
That you have suffered one who is your guest
To be despitefully entreated thus?_“[7]

But Telemachus hugged his secret knowledge of the beggar’s identity, and kept silence, while Penelope returned to her bower. The hall was cleared at last, and then he and his father laid their plans for the slaying of the suitors on the following day. The noisy crew had all gone to rest; and when Odysseus and his son had agreed upon a plan of action, Telemachus followed them, leaving his father alone in the great hall. It was a moment for which Penelope had been waiting; and she came down from her room again, to question the beggar of his wanderings. There was no light in the hall but that of the fire; and she ordered a cushioned chair to be brought near, so that the old man might sit while she talked with him.

“_Firstly of all, O stranger, I wish thee to answer a question: Whence and what mortal thou beest? Tell too of thy city and parents._“[8]

Cunning Odysseus evaded her question. She might ask him anything but that, he said; for it gave him too much sorrow to think of his country and his race. Penelope was only too willing to be turned aside, burning as she was to ask for news of Odysseus. So she told the old man of her husband, and of his sailing for Troy, and of how she was pining for his return.

“_O that he came once more, and had care of my life as aforetime!
So were fairer my fame, and my lot more happy; for alway
Now I am sad—such woes hath a deity sent to assail me....
Wherefore little I care for my guests, or if beggars entreat me,
Little for heralds I care, who work for the weal of the people;
Wasted away is my heart as I yearn for Odysseus...._“[8]

She told him about the wooers, and the device of the shroud, which gained her three years’ respite. But a treacherous servant had betrayed her, and she had been compelled to finish her task.

“_Now can I neither escape from a marriage, nor yet am I able Further device to discover; and urgently also my parents Bid me to marry; and vexed is my son as they waste his possessions._“[8]

But having related so much of her own story, she asked again for the old man’s name and race; and above all, would not he say whether he had seen or heard aught of her husband? Odysseus needed all his subtlety now, as he invented a tale of Crete and the great city of Cnossos, and Minos the king who was his ancestor; and how on one occasion her husband had indeed taken shelter with him there.

_Thus in the likeness of truth he related a tissue of falsehood. Meantime, weeping she listened, her cheeks all flooded with teardrops, Like as the snow when it melteth away from the heights of the mountains, Thawed by the breath of the Eurus—the snow that the Zephyr hath sprinkled._

_... And Odysseus, Touched to the heart by the grief of his wife, felt tender compassion; Yet did his eyes keep fixed, as of horn they had been or of iron, Motionless under the lids. Tears came, but he skilfully hid them._[8]

There was one thing more which Odysseus must do before he could reveal himself; and meantime he could only comfort Penelope by assuring her that her husband still lived and was even now on his way home to her. She shook her head sadly: that was too good to believe: the kind old man was only trying to comfort her. But it was time for him to go to bed; and because he disliked the giddy young serving-maids, Penelope called up the old nurse Euryclea, and bade her wash the beggar’s feet with as much care as if he were her master returned at last. That he was indeed her master the nurse divined the instant that her fingers touched an old scar upon his foot. But Odysseus hastily whispered her to say nothing of what she had discovered; and soon the palace was asleep, with the old beggar stretched upon sheepskins in the forecourt.

At dawn next morning Odysseus awoke, and prayed to Zeus to help him in the great deed that he was to do that day. Soon the suitors were astir, and the usual preparations were begun for the banquet. Penelope herself came down from her room, to watch what would happen. For, as she had told the beggar the night before, she could not withhold her decision any longer. This day she must choose between the suitors. And because they were all alike hateful to her she would decide the question by a test: she would consent to take for her husband that man who could shoot with Odysseus’ bow.

“_I now the suitors to that feat will call
Of axes, that he used to set in hall
Twelve in a row, like ship-stays, and far back
Standing would shoot an arrow through them all._

“_Now therefore to the suitors I will shew
This feat; and whoso in his hands the bow
Shall bend most easily, and down the line
Of the twelve axes make the arrow go,_

“_Him will I follow, putting far from me
This house of my espousals, fair to see
And full of substance, that I think in dreams
I shall remember through the days to be._“[7]

She went up into the high Treasure-chamber, and sorrowfully took down the great bow that a friend in Sparta had given to Odysseus long ago. She carried it forth among the suitors; and Telemachus, who was eager for the contest which he knew would end for them in a shameful death, swiftly set up the twelve axes in a row, through which they were to shoot. Odysseus leaned silently against the door-post, still in his beggar’s disguise; whilst one after another of the suitors tried to bend the bow. But one after another miserably failed to bend it, although a great fire was lit and a cake of lard was brought to make the bow supple. At last, in rage and despair, they had to abandon the attempt; and then Odysseus humbly asked if he might be allowed to try. This was a pre-arranged signal between father and son; and in the instant outcry that arose at the old man’s presumption, Penelope and her maids were led away. Then Odysseus, with his son and two faithful serving-men who were in the secret, made a bold attack upon the suitors. They were greatly outnumbered, but their plans had been laid warily, and Athena was on their side. Through a grim struggle they prevailed at last, and did not cease until vengeance was complete and every evil suitor had been slain. But Penelope, although she heard the horrible din in the hall below, had no idea of its cause. It was probably, she thought, another of the frequent brawls between these tumultuous wooers. She was still completely ignorant of Odysseus’s return; and when the old nurse came running to her with the joyful news, she believed her to be mad. She had looked so long and so despairingly for this event that now it had come she was utterly incredulous. Even when she heard all the ghastly story of the slaying of the suitors, and came into the hall where her husband stood awaiting her, she could not realize that it was he.

_Then from her room she descended, and deeply she pondered in spirit Whether to hold her aloof from her lord and to test him with questions Or to approach and embrace him and kiss him on hands and on forehead. So, when at length she had entered the hall and had stept from the door-stone, Fronting Odysseus she seated herself, in the light of a brazier, Close to the opposite wall; and with eyes cast down he was sitting Nigh to a pillar that rose to the roof; and he waited expectant, Hoping his beautiful wife would speak when she saw him before her. Long while silent she sat, with her spirit amazed and bewildered._[8]

Telemachus could not comprehend the reason for his mother’s silence, and broke into impulsive chiding. He could not see that the very steadfastness of her nature would not allow her to be lightly convinced.

_Then answer made Penelope the wise:
“My child, the soul is dizzy with surprise
Within me; no word can I speak to him,
Nor question him nor look him in the eyes._

_“But if he comes indeed, and this is he,
We shall know one another certainly.
For we have tokens that from all men else
Are hidden, and none know but only we.”_[7]

Truly, it is Greek meeting Greek, in this encounter between the wit of Penelope and that of the man she dare not hope is really her husband. Odysseus grows angry at last, and that gives the victory to his wife. For when he orders that a bed shall be made for him apart, she says cunningly to the maid:

“_Now, Eurycleia, lay the goodly bed
Without the chamber firmly-stablished
That his own hands made: take it out from thence,
You and the women, and upon it spread_

_The broidered blankets, that he soft may lie,
And rugs and fleeces._“[7]

Now Odysseus had built the bed himself, literally round the trunk of a standing tree; and by this token she is trying him. In his answer she perceives that he truly is her husband, for none but he could know how wonderfully their bed was built.

“_Verily, wife, this word thou hast spoken is grievously cruel. Who hath removed it—the bed that I built? ‘Twere difficult truly E’en for a man right skilful, unless some deity helped him. ... Great is the secret Touching that fine-wrought bed—for I made it myself and in private. Once was a long-leaved olive that stood inside the enclosure, Thriving and grown to the full; and its stem was as thick as a pillar. Round it I built me a chamber and laboured until it was finished._“[8]

Odysseus is indignant at the suggestion that his wonderful handiwork has been destroyed; but Penelope does not mind about his anger, for she is convinced at last that he is indeed her husband.

_Then as he spake were loosened her knees and the heart in her bosom, Since to herself she confessed that the token was sure that he gave her. Bursting in tears, straightway to Odysseus she ran and embraced him, Casting her arms on his neck and kissing his head and exclaiming: “Gaze not upon me in anger, Odysseus! In all thou hast shown thee Wisest of men—and thou knowst that the gods have sent us affliction, Jealous to see us abiding in happiness one with the other.... Ever and ever again hath my heart in the depths of my bosom Shuddered with fear lest any with tales might haply deceive me.... Now ... I believe! for thou giv’st me a token unerring—the secret Touching the bed.... Yea, I believe! thou hast conquered my heart, however unloving!”_[8]

Odysseus’s anger quickly melts as he clasps his sweet wife in his arms; and so we may leave Penelope in her happiness. Homer has one word more to say about her, however. It occurs, with apparent naïveté, almost like a curious little afterthought, in the last book of the poem. But there is really exquisite art in it. The souls of the suitors have gone wailing on their way to the World of the Dead; and there they meet the great Greek heroes who died at Troy. There too, they meet the haughty spirit of King Agamemnon, murdered by his wife on his return to Mycenæ. To him the suitors tell their tale of the faithful wife of Odysseus, and their ignominious end. And then from Agamemnon’s lips, bitterly contrasting his wife with Penelope, falls what is perhaps the noblest and most impressive tribute to her:

“_O fortunate Laertes’ son,
Odysseus many-counselled, who a wife
So virtuous and so excellent have won!_

“_How rightly minded from of old was she,
Icarius’ child, unblamed Penelope!
How well remembered she her wedded lord
Odysseus! Therefore undecayed shall be_

“_Her fame for worth, among mankind so long
Shall the immortals make a lovely song
Of chaste Penelope._“[7]

-----

Footnote 7:

From Professor J. W. Mackail’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (John
Murray).

Footnote 8:

From Mr H. B. Cotterill’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (Harrap & Co.).

_Homer: Circe_

Penelope is not the only woman in the _Odyssey_, although she is far the most prominent. Round her are grouped three other woman-figures—Calypso, Circe, and Nausicaa; and although two of them are goddesses rather than women, they seem none the less deliberately chosen, with the sweet youthfulness of Nausicaa, to enhance the dignity of Penelope.

They come into the story as incidents in the adventures of Odysseus, as he is driven from point to point on his weary voyage homeward. Calypso and Circe, dwelling each in a lonely island of the sea, lure him and hold him from Penelope against his will. But it is of no avail to change his purpose. They have many charms, and they can sing sweetly to ease the heart from pain. They live a dainty and a joyous life, which he may share if he will; and which he does share for a time. They are more beautiful than Penelope; they have strange lore, and a knowledge of enchantments; they have, too, eternal youth and kinship with the immortals. But when all is said, they cannot compare with the dear human soul who is waiting for Odysseus in Ithaca; and this contrast the poet makes us clearly see, in the way in which Odysseus always turns with longing to the thought of Penelope.

So it is, too, with Nausicaa. This fresh young daughter of King Alcinous, just a fair mortal girl, might be Penelope’s very self, when twenty years before Odysseus had taken away Icarius’s child to be his wife. One would think that there must be something quite irresistible about her to the toil worn man just escaped from death. She is so brave and helpful; and so prudent too, as she tells him a little wistfully that he must not enter the city in her company. Yet, though we feel that Odysseus cannot but admire this spirited young creature, she does but serve to remind him of one in whom similar beauty and wisdom have grown to maturity.

Thus we have another comparison from which Penelope gains; and thus all three of these other women of the _Odyssey_ serve to throw the heroine into stronger relief. The poet accomplishes this very cunningly. He does not bring them into direct contact with Penelope: they are never, so to speak, on the stage together. That would be too severe a contrast—one from which Penelope would suffer, as well as they. But at distant times and places, each is brought separately into the circle of Penelope’s life, by rivalry for the love of her husband. So they stand in the poem, not only as a graceful setting to the figure of the heroine; but they occupy in relation to Odysseus the same position which the suitors occupy in relation to Penelope. There is a perfect balance of the poem here, and one can only marvel at the art which built it so. For the suitors serve on the one hand to show Penelope’s fidelity; and on the other hand, by their arrogance and brutality, they make a complete foil to the just and subtle Odysseus. Penelope cannot cope with them; she knows them too well to dare the effect of a downright refusal; and she sets her wits to work to keep them at bay, while she longs and prays for her husband’s return. In conflict with them, her loyalty shines; and there are developed all her many merits as queen and housewife and mother. But in the conflict we get at the same time, through their sensuality and impiousness, a sense of the absolute contrast with Odysseus.

The three minor women of the _Odyssey_ serve a similar double purpose. They stand to the hero as the suitors stand to Penelope. If Odysseus’s loyalty to his wife does not come perfectly scathless through the ordeal—if we cannot hold him entirely blameless for the year spent with Circe—the test does nevertheless reveal his essential constancy. That is indeed the poet’s purpose; as well as to give a bright and graceful touch to an exciting story of adventure. But he had also another purpose, which we have already seen—to make of these rivals of Penelope a charming setting, in which she should shine with added lustre.

We hear all about Circe when Odysseus is telling the story of his adventures to King Alcinous. He relates how he had sailed a second time from Aeolia, sadly and wearily, because of the folly of his men. For they had been well within sight of their beloved Ithaca, and Odysseus, worn out with his long vigil at the main-sheet, had dropped asleep. It was an evil opportunity for the curious crew, who were burning to know what was contained in the great skin sack that their commander had stored below so carefully. Within a trice the Bag of the Winds was cut, letting loose on them havoc and destruction.

They fared back to King Aeolus, and humbly begged his help once more. But he would not a second time labour to imprison the winds for men on whom the gods had obviously laid a curse of foolishness; and they had to sail away unfriended. For six days they rowed hard against adverse weather; and on the seventh their evil fortune lured them to the land of the Laestrygonians. Not one of the ships that entered the harbour ever came out again. Only Odysseus and his own men, who lay outside awaiting them, were saved from the hands of that cruel race.

_Thence we sailed onward, joyful to have fled
With life, but for our fellows perished
Grieving at heart: then came we to the isle
Aeaea, where abode a goddess dread,
Circe, of mortal speech and tresses fair._[9]

Such was the coming of Odysseus to the land of Circe; and of all the strange and terrible things that had yet befallen him, the strangest and most terrible he was to receive at her hands. At first all went well. The ship ran smoothly into a fair haven: they landed in safety, and for two days and nights they rested on the shore, Odysseus himself shooting them venison for their food. In all this time no human creature had been seen; but Odysseus in his explorations had seen one sign of habitation—a curl of smoke rising from an oaken coppice. That gave at least some hope of succour; but when he called his men to search the wood with him, he found that their courage had been completely broken. Their sufferings from the savage Cyclops and the Laestrygonians had taught them to fear the unknown rather than to hope from it; and none would volunteer for the expedition. So a council was called, lots were cast, and those on whom the lots fell went off most unwillingly, led by Eurylochus.

The island lay low upon the sea, with only one hill-peak; and when they climbed the hill the circling waters could be seen stretching away to the horizon’s edge, without another glimpse of land. It would seem that they were utterly cut off: that there was no possible succour anywhere but in the mysterious valley below them; and the knowledge spurred them to seek out the dweller in the wood, and so perhaps find help and counsel.

In a wide and shallow valley, where the oaks had been cleared away and the sun streamed hotly upon a southern slope, they came upon the house of Circe, daughter of the sun. No human figure could be seen:

_But beasts alone,
Hill-wolves and lions, over whom the witch
With evil drugs had her enchantment thrown._[9]

Even these creatures made no sound to break the silence that was like a menace, while the sailors stopped awe-struck at the sight. The great house, with its many halls and shining marble pillars, fascinated their sight; and the strange beasts which leapt and fawned around them seemed to invite them to enter. But while they stood in doubt, dreading to advance and yet withheld from flight by some impalpable, resistless power, the sound of a sweet voice rose upon the air. Softly at first it floated out to them, in trembling notes; and they stole forward, drawn by the exquisite melody, until they stood upon the very threshold of Circe’s house.

_And now upon the fair-tressed Goddess’ floor
They stood, and from the porches through the door
Heard Circe singing sweetly, as within
She wrought, the deathless high-built loom before._

_... They called aloud and cried.
Then issuing forth she straight threw open wide
The shining doors and called them; and they all
Went in their folly trooping at her side._[9]

Circe, with a lurking smile of malice on her lips, came forward to welcome them. She was very lovely, with the youthful, changeless beauty of the immortals; but though Homer does not tell us so, we know that there was sensuality in the curving fullness of her mouth and a cruel gleam in the eyes over which the white lids drooped. With sweet words and fluttering movements of her soft hands, she brought them in and bade them sit; and busied herself, with swift and stealthy eagerness, to mix and pour a luscious drink of Pramnian wine and honey. But before she gave the cup into their hands, she furtively dropped into it one of her secret baneful drugs; and as they greedily drank, their human shape was instantly transformed to that of swine.

One of the crew, however, had not entered; and when his comrades did not return, he ran back to the ship to tell of what had happened. Odysseus, suspecting some evil, slung on his sword, seized his bow, and sped away to Circe’s house. But suddenly in his path stood the god Hermes, Messenger of Zeus, in the likeness of a handsome youth. The god held up an arresting hand.

“_Ah, whither do you go
Across the wolds, O man unfortunate,
Alone amid a land you do not know?_

“_Your fellows here in Circe’s palace pine,
Close-barred and prisoned in the shape of swine;
And come you hither to release them? Nay,
Yourself you shall not save, as I divine._“[9]

Then Hermes foretold all that should befall Odysseus in Circe’s house, thinking to deter him. But when he would persist in the attempt to save his men, the god gave Odysseus a plant that should be an antidote to Circe’s poison.

_Thereafter to far-off Olympus he
Passed from the island set with many a tree,
But I to Circe’s house; and as I went
Many a thing my heart revolved in me._

_Then by the fair-tressed Goddess’ portals nigh
I stood and called her, and she heard my cry,
And issuing forth at once flung open wide
The glittering doors and called me in: and I_

_Followed as one who goes his doom to meet:
Forthwith she led me in, and on a seat
Fair, carven, silver-studded, set me down
And laid a footstool underneath my feet._[9]

Below her courtesy an evil intent was lurking, as Odysseus knew too well; and presently she served to him the same poisoned drink with which she had bewitched his men. But the plant of moly that Hermes had given him made him proof against her drugs. The wine failed of its effect, and Circe, angrily taking her wand, smote Odysseus with it, crying: “Begone now to the sty and couch among your band.”

_So said she: but the sharp sword from my thigh
I drew, and leapt at Circe suddenly
As purposing to slay her; and she shrieked
Aloud, and under it ran in anigh,_

_And caught my knees, and winged words anew
She uttered: “Who and whence of men are you?
Where is the city of your ancestry?
I marvel greatly how this cup I brew_

_“You drink, and yet its sorcery have withstood:
For unbewitched has none of mortal brood
Drunk of it yet or let it pass his lips;
But your breast holds against bewitchment good._

_“Wandering Odysseus truly you must be,
Who in his swift black ship across the sea
Ever the golden-wanded Shining One
Said should from Troy returning visit me.”_[9]

CIRCE

_Patten Wilson_
]

Her mischievous purpose faded on the instant, and she became full of fawning admiration and wonder. Her malice was changed; but something even more dangerous took its place. She began with sweet words to smooth away Odysseus’s anger, fondling him and begging him to remain with her and be her husband. But Odysseus remembered the warning of the god, and at first he would not yield. He was sullen and suspicious, and would not answer her gently until she had sworn to release his men.

_Thereat immediately
Out through the palace, rod in hand, went she,
And opened the sty-doors and drave them out
Resembling swine of nine years old to see._

_Thereafter all in front of her stood they,
While she passed down along their whole array,
Smearing another drug on each of them;
And off their limbs the bristles fell away,_

_That the first baleful drug from Circe’s store
Had made to grow upon them; and once more
Men they became, and younger were to see
And taller far and goodlier than before._[9]

Then the ship was hauled into a cave, and their companions were induced to come up to Circe’s house, where they all joined in feasting and merriment. Cautious Eurylochus tried to dissuade them; but Odysseus would give no heed to his warning; and there followed a long interval of riotous pleasure over which Circe and the river-nymphs who were her handmaidens presided as queens. The days went by uncounted in luxurious ease; and if, in rare moments, Odysseus had an uneasy flash of memory, Circe’s caressing voice would flatter and soothe him into complacence again, persuading him to stay yet a little longer.

“_Myself I know
What sorrows you have suffered in the deep
Wherein the fishes travel to and fro;_

“_And likewise what the hands of hostile men
Of scathe on land have dealt you. Sojourn then
Here with me, eating food and drinking wine
Till the hearts rise within your breasts again_

“_As when at first you from your home were lorn,
Rough Ithaca: but feeble now and worn
With long hard wanderings are you, and your hearts
Forget all gladness; for you much have borne._“[9]

So she would cajole them, and so the blandishments of Circe proved far more effectual than her drugs. For a whole year the thought of home and friends was driven away, while jollity filled out the indolent hours. But satiety came at last, and memory began to reawaken. With rough home-truths, the sailors broke the spell that Circe had cast upon their commander. They called him out from her odorous, shadowy halls; and under the clear sunlight that suddenly made Circe hateful, they reproached him with his dalliance, and bade him flee at once if he would save his soul alive. There was no withstanding them; and indeed Odysseus had no wish to do so.

When evening came, he claimed from Circe the fulfilment of her promise to send them safely back.... He would be sad at leaving her, he said, since the time had passed so pleasantly in her sunny island; but now his men are beginning to complain and he himself (though that he did not tell her) had suddenly grown weary and remorseful. It all seemed very simple: and he had not much misgiving. Circe had only to speak the word, that they might have safe convoy, and return to Ithaca. Surely the gods must have laughed in irony at the man who thought to part from Circe so lightly, knowing as they did the whole cost of that parting for him. Circe was not to be cast off and forgotten, as a mere incident of Odysseus’s adventures. Her reply was proud, and of ominous import. Since they wished to go, she would not detain them; but let Odysseus summon all his courage:

“_Not against your will
You and your fellows longer shall abide
Within my house; but you must first fulfil_

“_Another journey yet, the house to see
Of Hades and renowned Persephone._“[9]

The awful words fell horribly on Odysseus’s ear. So they might not then simply hoist sail and away, gaily bound for Ithaca? Instead, there was yet to make the bitterest voyage that even Odysseus had made—a dark and awesome journey to the nether world, there to see and hold converse with the dead prophet, Tiresias.

_So spake she; but my heart was rent in me,
And sitting on the bed I bitterly
Wept, and no longer did my soul desire
To live, or yet the light of day to see._[9]

But so it was decreed, and since all his grief and horror could not alter it, he begged of Circe at least to tell him how he might find his way to the dread World of the Dead, and how he might return in safety from it. Circe smiled inscrutably. She knew that the passage there is all too easily won.

“_Take no concern, for pilot need you none._

“_Hoist but your mast and spread the sails of white,
And sitting let the North wind’s breath aright
Bear her: but when on shipboard you have crossed
The Ocean-river, there will come in sight_

“_The tangled groves of Queen Persephone,
A low shore set with the tall poplar tree
And willow that untimely sheds her fruit;
There run your ship abeach out of the sea,_

“_Beside the Ocean-stream’s deep-eddying flow,
And to the mouldering house of Hades go
Afoot._“[9]

She told him all that he must do there; how he must pass right through the crowding shadowy forms, and where two loud-thundering rivers meet he must dig a trench and pour out a drink-offering before the dead. But he must not let them partake of it, and must keep them at bay with drawn sword till the prophet Tiresias should appear and prophesy to him of his return.

_So spake she, and Dawn straightway rose and shone
Gold-throned; and in my shirt and cloak anon
I clad me, and the nymph herself a great
White mantle, thin and beautiful, put on;_

_And round her loins a golden girdle fair
She drew, and cast a kerchief on her hair;
But I throughout the house to everyman
Went with soft words, and bade my crew prepare._[9]

The crew set cheerily to work, but they did not know all yet; and when Odysseus told them of the dreadful voyage they had now to make at the bidding of the goddess, they were filled with despair. Perhaps Circe too was ruthful at heart; and one act of grace at least she did them. For when all was ready to launch the ship, they found that an unseen hand had placed beside it the animals that they would need for sacrifices in the World of the Dead:

_But when at last the margent of the sea
And the swift ship we reached in misery,
While from our eyes the heavy tear-drops ran,
Circe, before us gone invisibly,_

_By the black ship a ram and a black ewe
Had tethered, lightly passing by our crew.
For mortal eyes a god against his will
Hither and thither going may not view._[9]

Circe did not say farewell, because she knew that they would meet again. For the first spirit to greet Odysseus when he reached the dark Underworld was the restless ghost of Elpenor, one of his own crew. In the hurry of their departure, Elpenor had fallen from a gallery and had been killed. His untended body still lay in Circe’s house, and the poor ghost could not rest until it was buried. So when the dreadful journey to the dead was accomplished, Odysseus sailed back to Aeaea to perform the funeral rites.

_Thus all the rites we ordered as was due:
But Circe well of our returning knew
From the Dark House, and very speedily
Arrayed herself and down anigh us drew._[9]

She made Odysseus tell her all that had befallen him, and all that he had seen in the House of Hades; and then she gave him directions for his homeward voyage. He was to beware of the Syrens, and of Scylla and Charybdis; but above all he must prevent his men from doing injury to the sacred Oxen of the Sun.

“_But if you harm them, I foretell herein
Destruction to your ship and all your crew;
And though yourself to Ithaca may win,_

“_Late and unhappy shall your coming be,
And all your crew shall perish._“[9]

Her black prophecy was fulfilled to the uttermost; and indeed Circe seems destined always to be a baleful augurer to Odysseus. Yet she herself is quite untouched by these mortal woes. When the ship was manned she came down to the sea to speed them away; and our last glimpse of her is as she stands upon the shore, her garments and the tendrils of her hair lightly fluttering, and her lovely body drawn to its height as she raises white arms and cries to the winds to follow them.

_They got them in and took their seats again,_

_And sitting at the benches in array,
Smote with their oars upon the water grey;
Until the fair-tressed goddess terrible,
Circe of mortal voice, to speed our way,_

_Behind the blue-prowed ship sent forth anon
A following wind, a good companion._[9]

-----

Footnote 9:

From Professor J. W. Mackail’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (John
Murray).

_Homer: Calypso_

Calypso is a statelier figure than Circe, although they have much in common. Looking casually at the two characters, we are inclined to wonder why Homer should have given them so many points of resemblance. Both are immortals—Circe a daughter of the sun, and Calypso a daughter of Atlas. Both are skilled in sorcery; both live on islands set far away amidst the sea; both are ‘fair-tressed’ and beautiful and have sweet singing voices; both love Odysseus and desire him for a husband.

But our first thought is corrected the instant we look at the two goddesses a little more closely. In fact, the likeness between them only helps us to realize the art which has given to each of them a distinct individuality. We shall find that Calypso is gentler and more dignified; a sweeter and more gracious creature than Circe. There is nothing sinister or malign about her; and if she loves Odysseus, and strives to keep him at her side, it is that she may make him immortal, like herself. She has no evil intent toward him; and when the messenger of Zeus bids her to release him, she sets herself the task of helping him away. Odysseus has not now to pay a gruesome penalty for willing bondage, as when he left Circe in Aeaea; but wins his way by Calypso’s aid to the friendly land of Phæacia.