Book XIX

But in the great hall divine Odysseus was left behind, with Athena plotting slaughter for the suitors. Straightway to Telemachus he spoke these winged words: “Telemachus, we must carry the weapons of war inside, all of them. And when the suitors miss them and begin to ask, you must beguile them with gentle words, saying: ‘I have moved them from the smoke, since they no longer look like the arms Odysseus left behind when he sailed for Troy, but are tarnished now, where the fire’s breath has touched them. And a god has put this greater fear into my heart— that you, inflamed with wine, might stir a quarrel among you, wound one another, and so bring shame upon the feast and your wooing. For iron itself draws a man to it.’”

So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his own dear father. He called forth the nurse Eurycleia and said to her: “Nurse, come now, and shut the women in their quarters while I store away my father’s handsome armor in the storeroom—weapons the smoke has dimmed, neglected in the hall since he departed. I was still a child back then. But now I wish to store them where the fire’s breath will not reach.”

Then his dear nurse Eurycleia said to him in turn: “If only, child, you would at last assume the wisdom to care for the house and guard all its possessions! But come, who then will go before you and carry a light? You would not let the serving women come forth, who could have lit your way.”

And the thoughtful Telemachus gave her an answer: “This stranger here. I will not suffer an idle man, who has touched my ration of grain, even one from a distant land.”

So he spoke, and her words, finding no wing, remained with her. She bolted the doors of the well-appointed women’s hall. Then the two of them sprang up, Odysseus and his glorious son, and carried inside the helmets and the boss-studded shields and the sharp-pointed spears. And striding before them Pallas Athena, holding a golden lamp, made a most beautiful light. Then Telemachus spoke suddenly to his father: “Oh, father, this is a great marvel I see with my own eyes! The walls of the hall, and the handsome crossbeams, the fir-wood rafters, and the pillars that reach so high, all shine before my eyes as if from a blazing fire. Surely one of the gods is within, one who holds the wide heavens.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered him and said: “Be silent. Keep this in your mind and do not ask. This is the way of the gods who hold Olympus. But you should go and lie down, and I will be left behind here, to provoke the serving women and your mother still further. Weeping, she will ask me about everything, one thing and another.”

So he spoke, and Telemachus went out through the great hall to his own chamber to lie down, by the light of blazing torches, where he always used to sleep when sweet slumber came upon him. There he lay down then and waited for the divine Dawn. But in the great hall divine Odysseus was left behind, with Athena plotting slaughter for the suitors.

Then from her chamber came the wise Penelope, like Artemis in grace, or golden Aphrodite. Beside the fire they placed the chair where she would always sit, a work of whorled ivory and silver, which the craftsman Icmalius had fashioned, with a footstool for her feet built into its frame, and a great fleece was draped upon it. There she then took her seat, the wise Penelope. And the white-armed serving women came from their hall. They cleared away the abundant food and the tables and the cups from which the overbearing men had drunk. They threw the embers from the braziers onto the floor, and upon them piled fresh wood in abundance, for light and for warmth. But Melantho rebuked Odysseus for a second time: “Stranger, will you still be a nuisance here all through the night, prowling about the house and spying on the women? Get out the door, you wretch, and be content with your dinner, or you will soon be driven out, struck with a burning brand.”

Then Odysseus of many counsels looked at her grimly and said: “You strange woman, why do you attack me with such an angry heart? Is it because I am grimy, and wear wretched clothes on my skin, and beg throughout the land? Necessity drives me to it. This is what beggars and wandering men are like. For I, too, once had a house among men, and I lived in wealth and prosperity, and often gave to a wanderer, whoever he might be and whatever his need when he came. I had countless slaves, and all the other things by which men live well and are called prosperous. But Zeus, son of Cronos, ruined me; for so, I think, he wished. So you, woman, be careful, lest you one day lose all the splendor in which you now excel among the serving women. Beware lest your mistress grow angry and harsh with you, or Odysseus return—for there is still a share of hope. But even if he has perished as you think, and will not return, by Apollo’s grace he has a son like himself, Telemachus. And no woman in this hall who acts disgracefully escapes his notice, for he is no longer a child.”

So he spoke, and the wise Penelope heard him. She rebuked her handmaid, and spoke a word and called her by name: “You are shameless, you bold and brazen bitch! You do not escape my notice, committing this great offense, which you will wipe clean with your own head. You knew everything well, for you heard it from my own lips that I intended to ask the stranger in my own halls about my husband, for I am weighed down with sorrow.”

Then she spoke a word to the housekeeper, Eurynome: “Eurynome, bring a stool for him, with a fleece upon it, so that the stranger may sit and tell his tale and listen to me as well. For I wish to question him myself.”

So she spoke, and the woman, moving quickly, brought and set down a well-polished stool, and threw a fleece upon it. There he then took his seat, the much-enduring, divine Odysseus. And among them the wise Penelope began to speak: “Stranger, I myself will be the first to question you. Who are you among men, and from where? Where is your city, and your parents?”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Oh, lady, no mortal on the boundless earth could find fault with you. For your fame indeed reaches the wide heavens, like that of some blameless king, who, god-fearing, rules over many and mighty men, upholding justice. And the black earth bears wheat and barley, the trees are heavy with fruit, the flocks give birth without fail, and the sea provides its fish, all from his good leadership, and the people prosper under him. Therefore, ask me now of other things here in your house, but do not ask of my lineage and my native land, lest you fill my heart with even more pains as I remember. I am a man of many sorrows. And it is not right for me to sit in another’s house weeping and wailing, since it is worse to grieve on and on without end. I fear one of your maids might resent it, or even you yourself, and say that my mind is heavy and swimming with wine.”

Then the wise Penelope answered him in turn: “Stranger, surely my excellence, my beauty and my form, the immortals destroyed, that time the Argives boarded their ships for Ilium, and with them went my husband, Odysseus. If only he would return and watch over this life of mine, my fame would be greater and more beautiful. But now I grieve, for a god has sent so many evils upon me. For all the nobles who hold power over the islands— Dulichium and Same and wooded Zacynthus— and all who dwell here on sunlit Ithaca itself, all these woo me against my will, and they wear my household down. And so I have no regard for strangers, nor for supplicants, nor for any of the heralds, who serve the public good. But I waste my heart away with longing for Odysseus. They are eager for marriage; but I weave my own deceits. First, a god breathed this scheme into my heart: I set up a great loom in my halls and began to weave a shroud, fine-threaded and vast. And at once I spoke to them: ‘Young men, my suitors, since divine Odysseus is dead, be patient, though you are eager for my hand, until I finish this robe—so my threads are not spun in vain— a burial shroud for the hero Laertes, for that time when the ruinous fate of long-suffering death shall take him. I fear some Achaean woman in the land might blame me, if he who won so much should lie without a winding-sheet.’ So I spoke, and their proud hearts were persuaded. Then by day I would weave at the great loom, but by night I would unravel it, with torches set beside me. For three years I deceived the Achaeans and they believed me. But when the fourth year came and the seasons turned, as the months waned and the many days were done, then, because of my handmaids, those shameless, careless bitches, they came upon me and caught me, and berated me with words. So I finished it, unwillingly, by force. And now I can neither escape this marriage nor find any other device. My parents urge me strongly to marry, and my son chafes as they devour his livelihood, for he understands. He is a man now, fully able to care for a household, and Zeus grants him glory. But even so, tell me of your lineage, from where you have come. For you were not born from an ancient oak, or from a stone.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Oh, honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, will you never cease asking about my origins? Very well, I will tell you. But you will give me over to sorrows even greater than those I have. For that is the way of it, when a man has been away from his own country for as long as I have now, wandering through many cities of men, suffering pains. But even so, I will tell you what you ask and inquire.

There is a land called Crete, in the middle of the wine-dark sea, a beautiful and fertile island, sea-girt. In it are men, countless, beyond number, and ninety cities. And one tongue is mixed with another; there are Achaeans, and great-hearted Eteocretans, and Cydonians, and Dorians, split into three tribes, and the divine Pelasgians. And among their cities is Cnossus, a great city, where Minos ruled for nine years, the intimate of great Zeus, the father of my father, great-souled Deucalion. Deucalion fathered me and Lord Idomeneus. But he went in the curved ships to Ilium with the sons of Atreus, while my famous name is Aethon, the younger born; he was the elder and the better man. It was there I saw Odysseus and gave him guest-gifts. For the force of the wind had brought him to Crete as well, driving him off course from Malea as he strove for Troy. He put in at Amnisus, where the cave of Eileithyia is, in a difficult harbor, and he barely escaped the gales. At once he went up to the city and asked for Idomeneus, for he said he was his beloved and honored guest-friend. But by then it was the tenth or eleventh dawn since he had gone with his curved ships to Ilium. So I brought him to my own house and entertained him well, treating him with loving care from the great abundance in my home. And to his other companions who followed with him, I gave barley meal from the public stores, and gathered glowing wine and oxen for sacrifice, so they might fill their hearts. There for twelve days the divine Achaeans remained, for a great North Wind penned them in and would not let them stand on their feet on land, stirred up by some harsh god. But on the thirteenth day the wind fell, and they put out to sea.”

He spoke, telling many lies that seemed like truths. And as she listened, her tears flowed, and her skin melted. As snow melts down on the high mountain peaks, snow the East Wind thaws after the West Wind has shed it, and as it melts the rivers swell and run in flood, so her lovely cheeks were melting as she shed her tears, weeping for her own husband, who was sitting there beside her. But Odysseus in his heart pitied his weeping wife, yet his eyes stood fast, as if they were horn or iron, unmoving in their lids; and by craft he concealed his tears. When she had taken her fill of tearful lamentation, she answered him again and spoke to him in words: “Now, stranger, I think I will put you to the test, to see if you truly entertained my husband there in your halls with his godlike companions, as you claim. Tell me what sort of clothes he wore upon his body, what he himself was like, and describe the companions who followed him.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Oh, lady, it is hard to say, after so long a time apart. For it is now the twentieth year since he went from there and departed from my native land. But I will tell you how he appears in my heart’s memory. Divine Odysseus wore a purple cloak of wool, double-folded. And on it was a brooch of gold, fashioned with twin sockets, and on its face was an intricate design: a hound in its forepaws held a dappled fawn, which writhed as the dog seized it. And all who saw it marveled how, though they were of gold, the dog was strangling the fawn, while it, struggling to escape, kicked with its feet. And I noted the tunic he wore on his skin, a gleaming one, like the sheer, dry skin of an onion; it was that soft, and it shone like the sun. Truly, many women gazed at him in wonder. But I will tell you something else, and you must take it to heart: I do not know if Odysseus wore these things from home, or if one of his companions gave them to him on the swift ship, or perhaps some other host, since Odysseus was dear to many men; for few of the Achaeans were his equal. And I myself gave him a bronze sword and a beautiful double-lined purple cloak and a fringed tunic, and I sent him off with all honor from my well-benched ship. And a herald followed him, a little older than himself. I will describe him to you, what he was like. He was round-shouldered, dark-skinned, with curly hair, and his name was Eurybates. Odysseus honored him above all his other companions, because their minds were in harmony.”

So he spoke, and he stirred in her an even greater longing for grief, as she recognized the tokens Odysseus had told her truly. When she had taken her fill of tearful lamentation, she then spoke to him and answered him with words: “Now indeed, stranger, though you were pitiful to me before, in my halls you shall be a friend and a man to be honored. For I myself gave him these clothes you describe, folding them from the chamber, and I put on the shining brooch to be an adornment for him. But I shall not welcome him again, returned to his home, to his own dear native land. And so it was by an evil fate that Odysseus on a hollow ship set forth to see that Evil Ilium, not to be named.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Oh, honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, do not mar your lovely skin any longer, nor melt your heart away weeping for your husband. Not that I blame you at all. For any woman weeps to lose her wedded husband, to whom she bore children in love, let alone Odysseus, who they say is like the gods. But cease your grieving, and take to heart my words, for I will speak to you truthfully and will hide nothing. I have heard of the return of Odysseus, that he is alive and near, in the rich land of the Thesprotian people. He is bringing with him many fine treasures, gathering them from the people. But he lost his trusty companions and his hollow ship on the wine-dark sea, as he came from the island of Thrinacia. For Zeus and Helios were angry with him, because his men killed the Sun’s cattle. They all perished in the surging sea, but a wave cast him up on the ship’s keel onto the shore, to the land of the Phaeacians, who are kin to the gods. They honored him in their hearts as if he were a god and gave him many gifts, and they themselves wished to send him home unharmed. And Odysseus would have been here long ago, but it seemed to his heart a more profitable thing to gather wealth by traveling over many lands. For Odysseus knows more of gainful ways than any mortal man, nor could any other mortal contend with him. So Pheidon, king of the Thesprotians, told me. And he swore an oath in my presence, pouring libations in his house, that a ship was launched and a crew was ready who would convey him to his own dear native land. But he sent me off first, for a ship of Thesprotian men happened to be going to wheat-rich Dulichium. And he showed me all the treasures Odysseus had gathered. They would have fed another man to the tenth generation, so great were the treasures of the king that lay in the palace. He said Odysseus had gone to Dodona, to hear the counsel of Zeus from the god’s high-crested oak tree, on how he should return to his dear native land after so long an absence, whether openly or in secret. So he is safe, as I tell you, and he will come very soon. He is near, and not for long will he be far from his friends and his country’s soil. And I will give you an oath on this. Let Zeus be my witness first, highest and best of gods, and the hearth of blameless Odysseus, which I have reached: truly, all these things will be accomplished as I say. Within this very turning of the year Odysseus will come here, as this moon wanes and the new one begins to rise.”

Then the wise Penelope said to him in turn: “If only, stranger, this word might be fulfilled! Then you would quickly know my friendship and many gifts from me, so that any man who met you would call you blessed. But this is how my heart foresees it, how it will be: Odysseus will not come home again, nor will you gain passage from here, since there are no masters in this house such as Odysseus was among men—if he ever was— to send off honored guests and to receive them. But come, my handmaids, wash the stranger’s feet, and make a bed for him, with bedding and cloaks and shining blankets, so that, kept warm and well, he may reach the golden-throned Dawn. And very early in the morning, bathe him and anoint him, so he may take his place beside Telemachus in the hall to share the meal. And it will be the worse for any of those men who vexes him with soul-destroying spite. He will accomplish nothing more here, no matter how terribly enraged he is. For how, stranger, would you learn if I in any way surpass other women in sense and careful counsel, if you were to dine in my halls unkempt and poorly clothed? For the lives of men are short. He who is cruel himself and knows cruel deeds, all mortals call down curses on him for the future while he lives, and when he is dead, all mock his memory. But he who is blameless himself and knows blameless deeds, his fame his guests carry far and wide to all mankind, and many call him a good man.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Oh, honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, truly, cloaks and shining blankets have been hateful to me since I first left behind the snow-capped mountains of Crete, sailing on a long-oared ship. I will lie down as I did before, through sleepless nights. For many a night I have lain on a wretched bed and waited for the divine and fair-throned Dawn. Nor do foot-baths for my feet give my heart any pleasure. And no woman shall touch my foot, of all those who are serving-women here in your house, unless there is some old woman, loyal and trustworthy, one who has suffered in her heart as much as I have. I would not begrudge it if such a one were to touch my feet.”

Then the wise Penelope said to him in turn: “Dear stranger, for no man so wise has ever come from distant lands to my house, more welcome than you, so thoughtful and discerning are all the words you speak. I have an old woman with prudent counsel in her heart, who nursed and raised that ill-fated man, taking him in her hands the day his mother bore him. She will wash your feet, though her strength is small. Come now, rise up, wise Eurycleia, and wash the feet of this man, who is of an age with your master. And perhaps Odysseus himself is now like this, with such hands and such feet, for mortals age quickly in hardship.”

So she spoke, and the old woman covered her face with her hands, shed hot tears, and spoke a word of lamentation: “Oh, I am helpless for you, my child! Surely Zeus hated you more than all other men, though you had a god-fearing heart. For no mortal ever burned so many rich thigh-pieces to Zeus who delights in thunder, nor such choice hecatombs, as you gave him, praying that you might reach a sleek old age and raise a glorious son. But now from you alone he has utterly taken away your day of return. Perhaps in this same way the women of some distant host mocked him, when he came to some famous house, just as all these bitches here are mocking you. It is to avoid their insults and their many shames that you do not let them wash you. But the daughter of Icarius, the wise Penelope, has bid me, and I am not unwilling. So I will wash your feet, both for Penelope’s own sake and for yours, because my heart within me is stirred with sorrows. But come now, understand the word I will say: many world-weary strangers have come here before, but I say I have never seen one so like another as you in body, in voice, and in your feet are like Odysseus.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Old woman, so say all who have seen us with their eyes, that we two are very much alike, as you yourself, with understanding, have remarked.”

So he spoke, and the old woman took up the gleaming basin she used for washing feet, and she poured in much cold water, and then added hot. But Odysseus sat by the hearth, and quickly turned himself toward the darkness, for he suddenly thought in his heart that, as she held him, she might notice his scar, and the truth would be revealed. And drawing near, she washed her master, and at once she knew the scar, where a boar with its white tusk had gored him long ago on Parnassus, when he went to visit Autolycus and his sons, his mother’s noble father, who surpassed all other men in oaths and thievery—a gift the god Hermes gave him, for he burned him pleasing thigh-pieces of lambs and kids, and the god was his willing companion. Autolycus, coming to the rich land of Ithaca, had found his daughter’s newborn child. And Eurycleia had laid the boy upon his loving knees as he was finishing his supper, and she spoke a word and called him by name: “Autolycus, you yourself must find a name to give your daughter’s dear child; he is one much prayed for.” And Autolycus answered her in turn and said: “My son-in-law and my daughter, give him the name I say. Since I have come here as one who has caused and suffered pain from many, both men and women, across the bounteous earth, let his name therefore be Odysseus, ‘the man of pain.’ And for my part, when he is a man and comes to the great house of his mother’s kin on Parnassus, where my possessions lie, I will give him from them and send him away rejoicing.” It was for these gifts that Odysseus had gone. And Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus welcomed him with their hands and with honeyed words. And Amphithea, his mother’s mother, embraced Odysseus and kissed his head and both his beautiful eyes. Autolycus called to his glorious sons to prepare a meal, and they heeded his urging. At once they led in a five-year-old bull, which they flayed and prepared, and dressed the whole carcass, then skillfully cut it up and pierced the pieces with spits, roasted them with care, and served out the portions. So for the whole day long, until the sun went down, they feasted, and no man’s heart lacked an equal share. But when the sun set and darkness came on, they lay down to rest and took the gift of sleep. And when the early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, they set out for the hunt, both the hounds and the men themselves, the sons of Autolycus. And with them went divine Odysseus. They climbed the steep and forest-clad mountain of Parnassus, and soon they reached its windy folds. The sun was just then striking the fields, rising from the deep and gentle-flowing stream of Ocean, when the beaters came to a wooded glen. Before them the hounds went, tracking the scent, and behind them followed the sons of Autolycus. And with them divine Odysseus went, close behind the dogs, brandishing his long-shadowed spear. There in a thick-set lair a great boar was lying. The wet force of the blowing winds could not pierce it, nor could the shining sun strike it with his rays, nor could the rain pass through it, so thick it was, and a deep layer of fallen leaves was within. The sound of the feet of men and dogs came to the boar as they advanced, driving him on. And from his thicket he charged them, his neck bristling high, his eyes flashing fire, and he stood at bay close to them. Odysseus was the first to rush in, holding his long spear high in his powerful hand, eager to strike. But the boar was too quick and charged him, striking above the knee, and with a sideways rush of its tusk tore a long gash in the flesh, but did not reach the bone. Odysseus, with a good aim, struck him on the right shoulder, and the point of the shining spear went straight through. He fell in the dust with a shriek, and his spirit flew from him. The dear sons of Autolycus busied themselves with the carcass, and the wound of the blameless, godlike Odysseus they bound up skillfully, and with a charm they staunched the black blood, and soon they came to the house of their dear father. And Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus, having healed him well and given him glorious gifts, sent him away quickly, rejoicing, to his own dear native land of Ithaca. There his father and his lady mother rejoiced at his return and asked him about everything, how he got the scar. And he told them the story well, how a boar with its white tusk had gashed him while he was hunting, when he went to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus.

This scar the old woman, taking it in the palms of her hands, recognized as she felt it, and she let his foot drop. His leg fell in the basin, and the bronze rang out, and it tipped to one side, and the water spilled on the ground. Joy and grief seized her heart at once; her two eyes filled with tears, and her rich voice was checked. She touched Odysseus’s chin and spoke to him: “You are truly Odysseus, dear child, and I did not know you before, not until I had touched my master all over.”

She spoke, and glanced with her eyes toward Penelope, wanting to show her that her own dear husband was within. But Penelope could not meet her gaze or understand, for Athena had turned her thoughts aside. But Odysseus, reaching with his right hand, seized the old woman by the throat, and with his other hand drew her closer to him and said: “Nurse, why do you want to destroy me? You yourself nursed me at your own breast. And now, after many painful trials, I have come in the twentieth year to my native land. But since you have found me out, and a god put it in your heart, be silent, lest anyone else in the halls should learn of it. For I will tell you this, and it will surely be fulfilled: if a god subdues the noble suitors under me, I will not spare even you, though you are my nurse, when I kill the other serving women in my halls.”

Then the wise Eurycleia said to him in turn: “My child, what a word has escaped the barrier of your teeth! You know how my spirit is steadfast and unyielding. I will hold fast, like solid stone or iron. And I will tell you something else, and you must take it to heart: if a god subdues the noble suitors under you, then I will list for you the women in the halls, those who dishonor you and those who are without blame.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Nurse, why should you speak of them? There is no need for you to. I myself will mark them well and know each one. But keep your story to yourself, and leave the rest to the gods.”

So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to fetch more water for his feet, for the first had all been spilled. When she had washed him and anointed him richly with oil, Odysseus drew his stool once more closer to the fire to warm himself, and he covered the scar with his rags. And among them the wise Penelope began to speak: “Stranger, I will question you myself, for just a little longer. For soon the hour for sweet sleep will come, for anyone whom sweet sleep takes, even one who is grieving. But a god has given me sorrow beyond measure. By day I find my pleasure in weeping and lamenting, as I look to my own work and that of my maids in the house. But when night comes, and sleep takes all others, I lie on my bed, and sharp cares, thick-crowding around my heavy heart, provoke my grieving. As when the daughter of Pandareus, the pale-green nightingale, sings beautifully when the spring is newly come, perched in the dense foliage of the trees, and pours out her many-toned, echoing voice, lamenting her dear child Itylus, whom once with bronze she killed in her folly, the son of King Zethus, so my own heart is torn, and sways this way and that: should I stay here beside my son and keep all things safe, my property, my serving women, and my great high-roofed house, respecting my husband’s bed and the people’s voice, or should I go now with whichever of the Achaeans is best, who woos me in the halls, offering countless bridal gifts? While my son was still a child and light of mind, he would not let me marry and leave my husband’s house. But now that he is grown and has reached the measure of manhood, he himself prays that I will go back from the hall, angered by the wealth the Achaeans are devouring. But come, interpret this dream for me, and listen. I have twenty geese in my house that eat wheat from the water, and I delight in watching them. But a great eagle with a crooked beak came from the mountain and broke all their necks and killed them. They lay strewn in a heap in the halls, while he soared into the bright air. And I wept and cried out, even in my dream, and the fair-haired Achaean women gathered around me as I grieved pitifully that the eagle had killed my geese. But he came back and perched on a jutting roof-beam, and with a mortal voice he checked my tears and said: ‘Take heart, daughter of far-famed Icarius. This is no dream, but a true vision, which will be fulfilled. The geese are the suitors, and I, who was the eagle, have now returned as your husband, and I will bring a shameful doom to all the suitors.’ So he spoke, and then my honey-sweet sleep released me. And peering about, I saw the geese in the hall, eating their wheat from the trough, just where they were before.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Oh, lady, it is not possible to interpret this dream by turning it another way, since Odysseus himself has told you how he will fulfill it. For the suitors, destruction is revealed, for all of them. Not one will escape death and the fates.”

Then the wise Penelope said to him in turn: “Stranger, dreams are truly baffling, their words beyond our grasp, and not all things they show to mortals come to pass. For there are twin gates for the fleeting dreams of men: one is fashioned out of horn, the other out of ivory. Those dreams that stream through the gate of sawn ivory, they beguile us, bearing words that come to nothing. But those that come forth through the gate of polished horn, these bring true things to pass, for the mortal who has seen them. But I do not think my own strange dream came from there; truly it would be welcome to me and my son if it did. And I will tell you something else, and you must take it to heart. This coming dawn will be a day of evil name, which will take me from the house of Odysseus. For now I will set up a contest, with the axes, those ones he used to set up in his halls in a row, like ship-timbers, twelve in all. And standing far off, he would shoot an arrow through them. Now I will propose this contest to the suitors. Whoever can most easily string the bow in his hands and shoot an arrow through all twelve axes, with him I will go, leaving this house behind, this house of my marriage, so very beautiful, full of all livelihood, which I think I will remember forever, even in my dreams.”

And Odysseus of many counsels answered her and said: “Oh, honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, do not put off this contest in your halls any longer. For Odysseus of many counsels will be here before these men, handling that well-polished bow, can string the cord and shoot an arrow through the iron.”

Then the wise Penelope said to him in turn: “If you were willing, stranger, to sit beside me in the halls and bring me delight, sleep would not be poured upon my eyelids. But it is not possible for mortals to be without sleep forever, for the immortals have set a portion for each thing for mortals upon the grain-giving earth. But I will indeed go up to my chamber and lie down on my bed, which has been made a place of sorrow for me, always wet with my tears, since Odysseus went to see that Evil Ilium, not to be named. There I will lie down. But you may lie down here in the house, either spreading a bed on the floor, or they can make one for you.”

So speaking, she went up to her shining upper chamber, not alone, for with her went her other handmaids. And going up to her chamber with her serving women, she then wept for Odysseus, her own dear husband, until gray-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids.